They heard offers, stated their prices with a dry air and impassive face, or perhaps, suddenly deciding on some proposed reduction, shouted to the customer who was slowly going away: “All right, Maître Anthime, I’ll give it to you for that.”
Then little by little the square was deserted, and the Angelus ringing at noon, those who lived too far away went to the different inns.
At Jourdain’s the great room was full of people eating, as the big yard was full of vehicles of all kinds, carts, gigs, wagons, nondescript carts, yellow with dirt, mended and patched, raising their shafts to the sky like two arms, or perhaps with their shafts in the ground and their backs in the air.
Very near the diners seated at the table, the immense fireplace, filled with bright flames, cast a lively heat on the backs of the row on the right. Three spits were turning on which were chickens, pigeons, and legs of mutton; and an appetizing odour of roast meat and gravy dripping over the nicely browned skin rose from the hearth, increased the jovialness, and made everybody’s mouth water.
All the aristocracy of the plough ate there, at Maître Jourdain’s, tavern keeper and horse dealer, a clever fellow who had money.
The dishes were passed and emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Everyone told his affairs, his purchases, and sales. They discussed the crops. The weather was favourable for the green things but rather damp for the wheat.
Suddenly the drum began to beat in the yard, before the Kouse. Everybody rose, except a few indifferent persons, and ran to the door, or to the windows, their mouths still full and napkins in their hands.
After the public crier had ceased his drum-beating, he called out in a jerky voice, speaking his phrases irregularly:
“It is hereby made known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and in general to all persons present at the market, that there was lost this morning, on the road to Benzeville, between nine and ten o’clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francs and some business papers. The finder is requested to return same to the mayor’s office or to Maître Fortuné Houlbrèque of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward.”
Then the man went away. The heavy roll of the drum and the crier’s voice were again heard at a distance.
Then they began to talk of this event discussing the chances that Maître Houlbrèque had of finding or not finding his pocketbook.
And the meal concluded. They were finishing their coffee when the chief of the gendarmes appeared upon the threshold.
He inquired:
“Is Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, here?”
Maître Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table, replied:
“Here I am.”
And the officer resumed:
“Maître Hauchecorne, will you have the goodness to accompany me to the mayor’s office? The mayor would like to talk to you.”
The peasant, surprised and disturbed, swallowed at a draught his tiny glass of brandy, rose, and, even more bent than in the morning, for the first steps after each rest were specially difficult, set out, repeating: “Here I am, here I am.”
The mayor was awaiting him, seated on an armchair. He was the notary of the vicinity, a stout, serious man, with pompous phrases.
“Maître Hauchecorne,” said he, “you were seen this morning picking up, on the road to Benzeville, the pocketbook lost by Maître Houlbrèque, of Manneville.”
The countryman, looked at the mayor in astonishment, already terrified, by this suspicion resting on him without his knowing why.
“Me? Me? I picked up the pocketbook?”
“Yes, you, yourself.”
“On my word of honour, I never heard of it.”
“But you were seen.”
“I was seen, me? Who says he saw me?”
“Monsieur Malandain, the harness-maker.”
The old man remembered, understood, and flushed with anger.
“Ah, he saw me, the clodhopper, he saw me pick up this string, here, Mr. Mayor.” And rummaging in his pocket he drew out the little piece of string.
But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head.
“You will not make me believe, Maître Hauchecorne, that Monsieur Malandain, who is a man we can believe, mistook this cord for a pocketbook.”
The peasant, furious, lifted his hand, spat at one side to attest his honour, repeating:
“It is nevertheless the truth of the good God, the sacred truth, Mr. Mayor. I repeat it on my soul and my salvation.”
The mayor resumed:
“After picking up the object, you stood like a stilt, looking a long while in the mud to see if any piece of money had fallen out.”
The old chap choked with indignation and fear.
“How anyone can tell—how anyone can tell—such lies to take away an honest man’s reputation! How can anyone—”
There was no use in his protesting, nobody believed him. He was confronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintained his affirmation. They abused each other for an hour. At his own request, Maître Hauchecorne was searched, nothing was found on him.
Finally the mayor, very much perplexed, discharged him with the warning that he would consult the public prosecutor and ask for further orders.
The news had spread. As he left the mayor’s office, the old man was surrounded and questioned with a serious or bantering curiosity, in which there was no indignation. He began to tell the story of the string. No one believed him. They laughed at him.
He went along, stopping his friends, beginning endlessly his statement and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out, to prove that he had nothing.
They said:
“Old rascal, get out!”
And he grew angry, becoming exasperated, hot, and distressed at not being believed, not knowing what to do and always repeating himself.
Night came. He must depart. He started on his way with three neighbours to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the bit of string; and all along the road he spoke of his adventure.
In the evening he took a turn in the village of Bréauté, in order to tell it to everybody. He only met with incredulity.
It made him ill
