original short stories-8- 第24部分

The　countryman　looked　at　the　mayor　in　amazement　frightened　already　at
this　suspicion　which　rested　on　him；　he　knew　not　why。

〃II　picked　up　that　pocketbook？〃

〃Yes；　YOU。〃

〃I　swear　I　don't　even　know　anything　about　it。〃

〃You　were　seen。〃

〃I　was　seenI？　　Who　saw　me？〃

〃M。　Malandain；　the　harness…maker。〃

Then　the　old　man　remembered；　understood；　and；　reddening　with　anger；　said：

〃Ah！　he　saw　me；　did　he；　the　rascal？　　He　saw　me　picking　up　this　string
here；　M'sieu　le　Maire。〃

And　fumbling　at　the　bottom　of　his　pocket；　he　pulled　out　of　it　the　little
end　of　string。

But　the　mayor　incredulously　shook　his　head：

〃You　will　not　make　me　believe；　Maitre　Hauchecorne；　that　M。　Malandain；　who
is　a　man　whose　word　can　be　relied　on；　has　mistaken　this　string　for　a
pocketbook。〃

The　peasant；　furious；　raised　his　hand　and　spat　on　the　ground　beside　him
as　if　to　attest　his　good　faith；　repeating：

〃For　all　that；　it　is　God's　truth；　M'sieu　le　Maire。　　There！　　On　my　soul's
salvation；　I　repeat　it。〃

The　mayor　continued：

〃After　you　picked　up　the　object　in　question；　you　even　looked　about　for
some　time　in　the　mud　to　see　if　a　piece　of　money　had　not　dropped　out　of
it。〃

The　good　man　was　choking　with　indignation　and　fear。

〃How　can　they　tellhow　can　they　tell　such　lies　as　that　to　slander　an
honest　man！　　How　can　they？〃

His　protestations　were　in　vain；　he　was　not　believed。

He　was　confronted　with　M。　Malandain；　who　repeated　and　sustained　his
testimony。　　They　railed　at　one　another　for　an　hour。　　At　his　own　request
Maitre　Hauchecorne　was　searched。　　Nothing　was　found　on　him。

At　last　the　mayor；　much　perplexed；　sent　him　away；　warning　him　that　he
would　inform　the　public　prosecutor　and　ask　for　orders。

The　news　had　spread。　　When　he　left　the　mayor's　office　the　old　man　was
surrounded；　interrogated　with　a　curiosity　which　was　serious　or　mocking；
as　the　case　might　be；　but　into　which　no　indignation　entered。　　And　he
began　to　tell　the　story　of　the　string。　　They　did　not　believe　him。　　They
laughed。

He　passed　on；　buttonholed　by　every　one；　himself　buttonholing　his
acquaintances；　beginning　over　and　over　again　his　tale　and　his
protestations；　showing　his　pockets　turned　inside　out　to　prove　that　he　had
nothing　in　them。

They　said　to　him：

〃You　old　rogue！〃

He　grew　more　and　more　angry；　feverish；　in　despair　at　not　being　believed；
and　kept　on　telling　his　story。

The　night　came。　　It　was　time　to　go　home。　　He　left　with　three　of　his
neighbors；　to　whom　he　pointed　out　the　place　where　he　had　picked　up　the
string；　and　all　the　way　he　talked　of　his　adventure。

That　evening　he　made　the　round　of　the　village　of　Breaute　for　the　purpose
of　telling　every　one。　　He　met　only　unbelievers。

He　brooded　over　it　all　night　long。

The　next　day；　about　one　in　the　afternoon；　Marius　Paumelle；　a　farm　hand　of
Maitre　Breton；　the　market　gardener　at　Ymauville；　returned　the　pocketbook
and　its　contents　to　Maitre　Holbreque；　of　Manneville。

This　man　said；　indeed；　that　he　had　found　it　on　the　road；　but　not　knowing
how　to　read；　he　had　carried　it　home　and　given　it　to　his　master。

The　news　spread　to　the　environs。　　Maitre　Hauchecorne　was　informed。　　He
started　off　at　once　and　began　to　relate　his　story　with　the　denoument。　　He
was　triumphant。

〃What　grieved　me；〃　said　he；　〃was　not　the　thing　itself；　do　you　understand；
but　it　was　being　accused　of　lying。　　Nothing　does　you　so　much　harm　as
being　in　disgrace　for　lying。〃

All　day　he　talked　of　his　adventure。　　He　told　it　on　the　roads　to　the
people　who　passed；　at　the　cabaret　to　the　people　who　drank　and　next　Sunday
when　they　came　out　of　church。　　He　even　stopped　strangers　to　tell　them
about　it。　　He　was　easy　now；　and　yet　something　worried　him　without　his
knowing　exactly　what　it　was。　　People　had　a　joking　manner　while　they
listened。　　They　did　not　seem　convinced。　　He　seemed　to　feel　their　remarks
behind　his　back。

On　Tuesday　of　the　following　week　he　went　to　market　at　Goderville；
prompted　solely　by　the　need　of　telling　his　story。

Malandain；　standing　on　his　doorstep；　began　to　laugh　as　he　saw　him　pass。
Why？

He　accosted　a　farmer　of　Criquetot；　who　did　not　let　hire　finish；　and
giving　him　a　punch　in　the　pit　of　the　stomach　cried　in　his　face：　〃Oh；　you
great　rogue！〃　　Then　he　turned　his　heel　upon　him。

Maitre　Hauchecorne　remained　speechless　and　grew　more　and　more　uneasy。
Why　had　they　called　him　〃great　rogue〃？

When　seated　at　table　in　Jourdain's　tavern　he　began　again　to　explain　the
whole　affair。

A　horse　dealer　of　Montivilliers　shouted　at　him：

〃Get　out；　get　out；　you　old　scamp！　　I　know　all　about　your　old　string。〃

Hauchecorne　stammered：

〃But　since　they　found　it　again；　the　pocketbook！〃

But　the　other　continued：

〃Hold　your　tongue；　daddy；　there's　one　who　finds　it　and　there's　another
who　returns　it。　　And　no　one　the　wiser。〃

The　farmer　was　speechless。　　He　understood　at　last。　　They　accused　him　of
having　had　the　pocketbook　brought　back　by　an　accomplice；　by　a
confederate。

He　tried　to　protest。　　The　whole　table　began　to　laugh。

He　could　not　finish　his　dinner；　and　went　away　amid　a　chorus　of　jeers。

He　went　home　indignant；　choking　with　rage；　with　confusion；　the　more　cast
down　since　with　his　Norman　craftiness　he　was；　perhaps；　capable　of　having
done　what　they　accused　him　of　and　even　of　boasting　of　it　as　a　good　trick。
He　was　dimly　conscious　that　it　was　impossible　to　prove　his　innocence；　his
craftiness　being　so　well　known。　　He　felt　himself　struck　to　the　heart　by
the　injustice　of　the　suspicion。

He　began　anew　to　tell　his　tale；　lengthening　his　recital　every　day；　each
day　adding　new　proofs；　more　energetic　declarations　and　more　sacred　oaths；
which　he　thought　of；　which　he　prepared　in　his　hours　of　solitude；　for　his
mind　was　entirely　occupied　with　the　story　of　the　string。　　The　more　he
denied　it；　the　more　artful　his　arguments；　the　less　he　was　believed。

〃Those　are　liars　proofs；〃　they　said　behind　his　back。

He　felt　this。　　It　preyed　upon　him　and　he　exhausted　himself　in　useless
efforts。

He　was　visibly　wasting　away。

Jokers　would　make　him　tell　the　story　of　〃the　piece　of　string〃　to　amuse
them；　just　as　you　make　a　soldier　who　has　been　on　a　campaign　tell　his
story　of　the　battle。　　His　mind　kept　growing　weaker　and　about　the　end　of
December　he　took　to　his　bed。

He　passed　away　early　in　January；　and；　in　the　ravings　of　death　agony；　he
protested　his　innocence；　repeating：

〃A　little　bit　of　stringa　little　bit　of　string。　　See；　here　it　is；　M'sieu
le　Maire。〃







End