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Some led a cow or a calf by a cord, and their wives, walking behindthe animal, whipped its haunches with a leafy branch to hasten itsprogress. They carried large baskets on their arms from which, insome cases, chickens and, in others, ducks thrust out their heads.And they walked with a quicker, livelier step than their husbands.Their spare straight figures were wrapped in a scanty little shawlpinned over their flat bosoms, and their heads were enveloped in awhite cloth glued to the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Then a wagon passed at the jerky trot of a nag, shaking strangely,two men seated side by side and a woman in the bottom of thevehicle, the latter holding onto the sides to lessen the hardjolts.

In the public square of Goderville there was a crowd, a throng ofhuman beings and animals mixed together. The horns of the cattle,the tall hats, with long nap, of the rich peasant and the headgearof the peasant women rose above the surface of the assembly. Andthe clamorous, shrill, screaming voices made a continuous andsavage din which sometimes was dominated by the robust lungs ofsome countryman's laugh or the long lowing of a cow tied to thewall of a house.

All that smacked of the stable, the dairy and the dirt heap, hayand sweat, giving forth that unpleasant odor, human and animal,peculiar to the people of the field.

Maître Hauchecome of Breaute had just arrived at Goderville, and hewas directing his steps toward the public square when he perceivedupon the ground a little piece of string. Maître Hauchecome,economical like a true Norman, thought that everything useful oughtto be picked up, and he bent painfully, for he suffered fromrheumatism. He took the bit of thin cord from the ground and beganto roll it carefully when he noticed Maître Malandain, the harnessmaker, on the threshold of his door, looking at him. They hadheretofore had business together on the subject of a halter, andthey were on bad terms, both being good haters. Maître Hauchecomewas seized with a sort of shame to be seen thus by his enemy,picking a bit of a head. two arms and string out of the dirt. Heconcealed his "find" quickly under his blouse, then in histrousers' pocket; then he pretended to be still looking on theground for something which he did not find, and he went toward themarket, his head forward, bent double by his pains.

He was soon lost in the noisy and slowly moving crowd which wasbusy with interminable bargainings. The peasants milked, went andcame, perplexed, always in fear of being cheated, not daring todecide, watching the vender's eye, ever trying to find the trick inthe man and the flaw in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, hadtaken out the poultry which lay upon the ground, tied together bythe feet, with terrified eyes and scarlet crests.

They heard offers, stated their prices with a dry air and impassiveface, or perhaps, suddenly deciding on some proposed reduction,shouted to the customer who was slowly going away: "All right,Maître Authirne, I'll give it to you for that."

Then lime by lime the square was deserted, and the Angelus ringingat noon, those who had stayed too long scattered to their shops.

At Jourdain's the great room was full of people eating, as the bigcourt was full of vehicles of all kinds, carts, gigs, wagons,dumpcarts, yellow with dirt, mended and patched, raising theirshafts to the sky like two arms or perhaps with their shafts in theground and their backs in the air.

Just opposite the diners seated at the table the immense fireplace,filled with bright flames, cast a lively heat on the backs of therow on the right. Three spits were turning on which were chickens,pigeons and legs of mutton, and an appetizing odor of roast beefand gravy dripping over the nicely browned skin rose from thehearth, increased the jovialness and made everybody's mouth water.

All the aristocracy of the plow ate there at Maître Jourdain's,tavern keeper and horse dealer, a rascal who had money.

The dishes were passed and emptied, as were the jugs of yellowcider. Everyone told his affairs, his purchases and sales. Theydiscussed the crops. The weather was favorable for the green thingsbut not for the wheat.

Suddenly the drum beat in the court before the house. Everybodyrose, except a few indifferent persons, and ran to the door or tothe windows, their mouths still full and napkins in their hands.

After the public crier had ceased his drumbeating he called out ina jerky voice, speaking his phrases irregularly:

"It is hereby made known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and ingeneral to all persons present at the market, that there was lostthis morning on the road to Benzeville, between nine and teno'clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francsand some business papers. The finder is requested to return samewith all haste to the mayor's office or to Maître FortuneHoulbreque of Manneville; there will be twenty francs reward."

Then the man went away. The heavy roll of the drum and the crier'svoice were again heard at a distance.

Then they began to talk of this event, discussing the chances thatMaître Houlbreque had of finding or not finding his pocketbook.

And the meal concluded. They were finishing their coffee when achief of the gendarmes appeared upon the threshold.

He inquired:

"Is Maître Hauchecome of Breaute here?"

Maître Hauchecome, seated at the other end of the table, replied:

"Here I am."

And the officer resumed:

"Maître Hauchecome, will you have the goodness to accompany me tothe mayor's office? The mayor would like to talk to you."

The peasant, surprised and disturbed, swallowed at a draught histiny glass of brandy, rose and, even more bent than in the morning,for the first steps after each rest were specially difficult, setout, repeating: "Here I am, here I am."

The mayor was awaiting him, seated on an armchair. He was thenotary of the vicinity, a stout, serious man with pompous phrases.

"Maître Hauchecome," said he, "you were seen this morning to pickup, on the road to Benzeville, the pocketbook lost by MaîtreHoulbreque of Manneville."

The countryman, astounded, looked at the mayor, already terrifiedby this suspicion resting on him without his knowing why.

"Me? Me? Me pick up the pocketbook?"

"Yes, you yourself."

"Word of honor, 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,M'sieu the Mayor." And rummaging in his pocket, he drew out thelittle piece of string.

But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head.

"You will not make me believe, Maître Hauchecome, that MonsieurMalandain, who is a man worthy of credence, mistook this cord fora pocketbook."

The peasant, furious, lifted his hand, spat at one side to attesthis honor, repeating:

"It is nevertheless the truth of the good God, the sacred truth,M'sieu the 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 longwhile in the mud to see if any piece of money had fallen out."

The good old man choked with indignation and fear.

"How anyone can tell--how anyone can tell--such lies to take awayan honest man's reputation! How can anyone---"

There was no use in his protesting; nobody believed him. He wascon.

fronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintained hisaffirmation. They abused each other for an hour. At his own requestMaître Hauchecome was searched; nothing was found on him.

Finally the mayor, very much perplexed, discharged him with thewarning that he would consult the public prosecutor and ask forfurther orders.

The news had spread. As he left the mayor's office the old man wassun rounded and questioned with a serious or bantering curiosity inwhich there was no indignation. He began to tell the story of thestring. No one believed him. They laughed at him.

He went along, stopping his friends, beginning endlessly hisstatement and his protestations, showing his pockets turned insideout 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 repeatinghimself.

Night came. He must depart. He started on his way with threeneighbors to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked upthe bit of string, and all along the road he spoke of hisadventure.

In the evening he took a turn in the village of Breaute in order totell it to everybody. He only met with incredulity.

It made him ill at night.

The next day about one o'clock in the afternoon Marius Paumelle, ahired man in the employ of Maître Breton, husbandman at Ymanville,returned the pocketbook and its contents to Maître Houlbreque ofManneville.

This man claimed to have found the object in the road, but notknowing how to read, he had carried it to the house and given it tohis employer.

The news spread through the neighborhood. Maître Hauchecome wasinformed of it. He immediately went the circuit and began torecount his story completed by the happy climax. He was in triumph.

"What grieved me so much was not the thing itself as the lying.There is nothing so shameful as to be placed under a cloud onaccount of a lie."

He talked of his adventure all day long; he told it on the highwayto people who were passing by, in the wineshop to people who weredrinking there and to persons coming out of church the followingSunday. He stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was calmnow, and yet something disturbed him without his knowing exactlywhat it was. People had the air of joking while they listened. Theydid not seem convinced. He seemed to feel that remarks were beingmade behind his back.

On Tuesday of the next week he went to the market at Goderville,urged solely by the necessity he felt of discussing the case.

Malandain, standing at his door, began to laugh on seeing him pass.Why?

He approached a farmer from Crequetot who did not let him finishand, giving him a thump in the stomach, said to his face:

"You big rascal."

Then he turned his back on him.

Maître Hauchecome was confused; why was he called a big rascal?

When he was seated at the table in Jourdain's tavern he commencedto explain "the affair."

A horse dealer from Monvilliers called to him:

"Come, come, old sharper, that's an old trick; I know all aboutyour piece of string!"

Hauchecome stammered:

"But since the pocketbook was found."

But the other man replied:

"Shut up, papa, there is one that finds and there is one thatreports. At any rate you are mixed with it."

The peasant stood choking. He understood. They accused him ofhaving had the pocketbook returned by a confederate, by anaccomplice.

He tried to protest. All the table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner and went away in the midst of jeers.

He went home ashamed and indignant, choking with anger andconfusion, the more dejected that he was capable, with his Normancunning, of doing what they had accused him of and ever boasting ofit as of a good turn. His innocence to him, in a confused way, wasimpossible to prove, as his sharpness was known. And he wasstricken to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

Then he began to recount the adventures again, prolonging hishistory every day, adding each time new reasons, more energeticprotestations, more solemn oaths which he imagined and prepared inhis hours of solitude, his whole mind given up to the story of thestring. He was believed so much the less as his defense was morecomplicated and his arguing more subtile.

"Those are lying excuses," they said behind his back.

He felt it, consumed his heart over it and wore himself out withuseless efforts. He wasted away before their very eyes.

The wags now made him tell about the string to amuse them, as theymake a soldier who has been on a campaign tell about his battles.His mind, touched to the depth, began to weaken.

Toward the end of December he took to his bed.

He died in the first days of January, and in the delirium of hisdeath struggles he kept claiming his innocence, reiterating:

"A piece of string, a piece of string--look--here it is, M'sieu theMayor."