daughters, Martin’s children, leaned against the door, one of them holding the youngest child, and stared eagerly at him. The two mites sitting among the cinders in the fireplace stopped playing with the black pot, as though to join in gaping at the stranger.
Lévesque sat down and asked him:
“Then you’ve come from far?”
“From Cette.”
“On foot, like that?”
“Yes. When you’ve no money, you must.”
“Where are you going?”
“I was going here.”
“Know anyone in these parts?”
“Maybe.”
They were silent. He ate slowly, although ravenous, and took a sip of cider between each mouthful of bread. His face was worn and wrinkled, full of hollows, and he had the air of a man who has suffered greatly.
Lévesque asked him abruptly:
“What’s your name?”
He answered without raising his head:
“My name is Martin.”
A strange shudder ran through the mother. She made a step forward as though to get a closer view of the vagabond, and remained standing in front of him, her arms hanging down and her mouth open. No one spoke another word. At last Lévesque said:
“Are you from these parts?”
“Yes, I’m from these parts.”
And as he at last raised his head, his eyes met the woman’s and remained gazing at them; it was as though their glances were riveted together.
Suddenly she said in an altered voice, low and trembling:
“Is it you, husband?”
“Yes, it’s me,” he said slowly.
He did not move, but continued to munch his bread.
Lévesque, surprised rather than excited, stammered:
“It’s you, Martin?”
“Yes, it’s me,” said the other simply.
“Where have you come from?” asked the second husband.
He told his story:
“From the coast of Africa. We foundered on a reef. Three of us got away, Picard, Vatinel, and me.
“Then we were caught by savages, who kept us twelve years. Picard and Vatinel are dead. An English traveller rescued me and brought me back to Cette. And here I am.”
Madame Martin had begun to cry, hiding her face in her apron.
“What are we to do now?” said Lévesque.
“Is it you that’s her husband?” asked Martin.
“Yes, it’s me,” replied Lévesque.
They looked at one another and were silent.
Then Martin turned to the circle of children round him and, nodding towards the two girls, asked:
“Are they mine?”
“Yes, they’re yours,” said Lévesque.
He did not get up; he did not kiss them. He only said:
“God, they’re big!”
“What are we to do?” repeated Lévesque.
Martin, perplexed, had no idea. Finally he made up his mind:
“I’ll do as you wish. I don’t want to wrong you. But it’s annoying when I think of the house. I’ve two children, you’ve three; let’s each keep our own. As for the mother, is she yours, or shall I have her? I agree to whatever you like, but as for the house, that’s mine, for my father left it me, I was born in it, and the lawyer’s got the papers about it.”
Madame Martin was still crying, stifling her short gasps in the blue canvas of her apron. The two tall girls had drawn nearer and were looking uneasily at their father.
He had finished eating, and said in his turn:
“What are we to do?”
Lévesque had an idea:
“We must get the rector. He’ll decide.”
Martin rose, and as he went towards his wife she flung herself upon his breast, sobbing:
“It’s you, husband! Martin, my poor Martin, it’s you!”
She held him in her arms, suddenly stirred by a breath of the past, by an anguished rush of memories that reminded her of her youth and of her first kisses.
Martin, much affected, kissed her bonnet. The two children by the fireplace both began to cry when they heard their mother cry, and the youngest of all, in the arms of the younger Martin daughter, howled in a shrill voice like a fife out of tune.
Lévesque stood up and waited.
“Come on,” he said. “We must get it put straight.”
Martin let go of his wife and, as he was looking at his two daughters, their mother said:
“You might kiss your da.”
They came up together, dry-eyed, surprised, a little frightened. He kissed them one after another, on both cheeks, with a loud, smacking kiss. The baby, seeing the stranger draw near, screamed so violently that it nearly fell into convulsions.
Then the two men went out together.
As they passed the Café du Commerce, Lévesque asked:
“How about a little drink?”
“Yes, I could do with some,” declared Martin. They went in and sat down in the room, which was still empty. Lévesque shouted:
“Hey, there, Chicot, two double brandies, and the best! It’s Martin, he’s come back; Martin, you know, my wife’s man; Martin of the Two Sisters, that was lost.”
The barman came up, three glasses in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other, a red-faced, podgy, potbellied man. In a calm voice he asked:
“Ah! Here you are, then, are you, Martin?”
Martin answered:
“Yes, here I am.”
The Tomb
On the seventeenth of July, eighteen hundred and eighty-three, at half past two o’clock in the morning, the caretaker of Béziers cemetery, who lived in a little house at the end of the burying ground, was awakened by the yelping of his dog, which was locked in the kitchen.
He immediately went downstairs, and saw that the animal was scenting something under the door and barking furiously, as though some tramp had been prowling about the house. Vincent, the caretaker, took up his gun and went out cautiously.
His dog ran off in the direction of General Bonnet’s Avenue and stopped short in front of Madam Tomoiseau’s monument.
The caretaker, advancing cautiously, soon noticed a dim light in the direction of Malenvers Avenue. He slipped in amongst the tombstones and witnessed a most horrible deed of desecration.
A young man had disinterred the corpse of a young woman, buried the day before, and he was dragging it out of the grave.
A small dark lantern, placed on a pile of earth, lit up this hideous scene.
Vincent, the caretaker, pounced upon the criminal, felled him to the ground, bound his hands and took him to the police station.
He was a young, lawyer from the city, rich and well thought of. His name
