'Ah! there's good news, monsieur,' said she; 'I learnt something, and

no mistake, when I went on my errands this morning! I knew very well

that those anarchists who insulted the Brothers yesterday were liars.'

Then she recounted all the tittle-tattle of the shops, all the gossip

she had picked up on the foot-pavements whilst going from door to

door. Amid the oppressive horror, the disturbing mystery that had

weighed upon the town for four and twenty hours, the wildest fancies

had been gradually germinating. It seemed as if some poisonous

vegetation had sprung up during the night. At first there were only

the vaguest suppositions; then explanations, suggested chancewise,

became certainties, and doubtful coincidences were transformed into

irrefutable proofs. And a point to be remarked was that all these

stealthy developments, originating nobody knew how or where, but

spreading hour by hour, and diffusing doubt and uneasiness, turned in

favour of the Brothers and against Simon.

'It is quite certain, you know, monsieur,' said Pélagie, 'that the

schoolmaster cared very little for his nephew. He ill-treated him;

he was seen doing so by people who will say it. Besides, he was

vexed at not having him in his school. He was in no end of a passion

when the lad took his first Communion; he shook his fist at him and

blasphemed.... And, at all events, it is very extraordinary that the

little angel should have been killed only a little while after he had

left the Holy Table, and when God was still within him.'

A pang came to Marc's heart; he listened to the servant with

stupefaction. 'What do you mean?' he at last exclaimed. 'Are people

accusing Simon of having killed his nephew?'

'Well, some don't scruple to think it. That story of going to enjoy

himself at Beaumont, then missing the train at half-past ten, and

coming back on foot seems a strange one. He reached home at twenty

minutes to twelve, he says. But nobody saw him, and he may very well

have returned by train an hour earlier, at the very moment when the

crime was committed. And when it was over he only had to blow out the

candle, and leave the window wide open in order to make people suppose

that the murderer had come from outside. At about a quarter to eleven

Mademoiselle Rouzaire, the schoolmistress, distinctly heard a sound

of footsteps in the school, moans and calls too, and the opening and

shutting of doors----'

'Mademoiselle Rouzaire!' cried Marc. 'Why, she did not say a word of

that in her first evidence. I was present!'

'Excuse me, monsieur, but at the butcher's just now Mademoiselle

Rouzaire was telling it to everybody, and I heard her.'

The young man, quite aghast, allowed the servant to continue:

'Monsieur Mignot, the assistant-master, also says that he was greatly

surprised at the head-master's sound sleep in the morning. And, indeed,

it is extraordinary that one should have to go and awaken a man on

the day when a murder is committed in his house. It seems too that he

wasn't the least bit touched; he merely trembled like a leaf, when he

saw the little body.'

Marc again wished to protest; but Pélagie, in a stubborn, malicious

way, went on: 'Besides, it was surely he, for a copy-slip which came

from his class was found in the child's mouth. Only the master could

have had that slip in his pocket--is that not so? It is said that it

was even signed by him. At the greengrocer's too I heard a lady say

that the police officials had found a number of similar slips in his

cupboard.'

This time Marc retorted by stating the facts, speaking of the illegible

initials on the slip, which Simon declared had never been in his hands;

though, as it was of a pattern in common use, one might have found it

in any school. However, when Pélagie declared that overwhelming proofs

had been discovered that very morning during the search made by the

officials in Simon's rooms, the young man began to feel exceedingly

disturbed, and ceased to protest, for he realised that in the frightful

confusion which was spreading through people's minds all arguments

would be futile.

'You see, monsieur,' Pélagie continued, 'one can expect anything when

one has to deal with a Jew. As the milkman said to me just now, those

folk have no real family ties, no real country; they carry on dealings

with the devil, they pillage people, and kill just for the pleasure of

doing evil. And you may say what you like, you won't prevent people

from believing that that Jew needed a child's life for some dirty

business with the devil, and cunningly waited till his nephew had taken

his first Communion in order that he might pollute and murder him while

he was stainless and full of perfume from the presence of the Host.'

It was the charge of ritual murder reappearing, that haunting charge

transmitted through the ages and reviving at each catastrophe,

relentlessly pursuing those hateful Jews who poisoned wells and

butchered little children.

On two occasions Geneviève, who suffered when she saw how Marc was

quivering, had felt desirous of interrupting and joining in his

protests. But she had restrained herself from fear of irritating her

grandmother, who was evidently well pleased with the servant's gossip,

for she nodded approval of it. In fact, Madame Duparque regarded it

as a victory; and, disdaining to lecture her son-in-law, whom she

deemed already vanquished, she contented herself with saying to the

ever-silent Madame Berthereau: 'It is just like that dead child who

was found many years ago in the porch of St. Maxence. A woman in the

service of some Jews narrowly escaped being sentenced in their place,

for only a Jew could have been the murderer. When one frequents such

folk one is always exposed to the wrath of God.'

Marc preferred to make no rejoinder; and almost immediately afterwards

he went out. But his perturbation was extreme, and a doubt came to him.

Could Simon really be guilty? The suspicion attacked him like some evil

fever contracted in a pernicious spot; and he felt a need of reflecting

and recovering his equilibrium before he called upon his colleague.

So he went off along the deserted road to Valmarie, picturing, as he

walked, all the incidents of the previous day, and weighing men and

things. No, no! Simon could not be reasonably suspected. Certainties

presented themselves on all sides. First of all, such a horrible crime

on his part was utterly illogical, impossible. He was assuredly healthy

in body and mind, he had no physiological flaws, his gentle gaiety

denoted the regularity of his life. And he had a wife of resplendent

beauty whom he adored, beside whom he lived in loving ecstasy, grateful

to her for the handsome children who had sprung from their affection

and had become their living love and worship. How was it possible to

imagine that such a man had yielded to a fit of abominable madness

a few moments before rejoining his well-loved spouse and his little

children slumbering in their cots? Again, how simple and truthful on

the previous day had been the accents of that man who was exposed to

the scrutiny of so many enemies, who loved his calling to the point of

heroism, who made the best of his poverty without ever uttering a word

of complaint!

The account he had given of his evening had been very clear, his wife

had confirmed his statements respecting the time of his return, none

of the information that he had furnished seemed open to doubt. And

if some obscure points remained, if that crumpled copy-slip found

with a number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ constituted an enigma as yet

unravelled, reason at least indicated that the culprit must be sought

elsewhere; for Simon's nature and life, the very conditions in which he

lived, showed that he could have had nothing to do with the crime. On

that point Marc experienced a feeling of certainty, based on reason, on

truth itself, which remains unshakable when once it is established by

observation and the deductions that facts supply.

Thus the young man's conviction was formed; there were certain

ascertained facts to which he would bring everything else back, and,

although every error and falsehood might be launched, he would brush

all assertions aside if they did not agree with such truths as were

already known and demonstrated.

Serene once more, relieved of the burden of his doubts, Marc returned

to Maillebois, passing the railway station at the moment when some

passengers were alighting from a train which had just arrived. Among

those who emerged from the station he perceived the Elementary

Education Inspector of the _arrondissement_, handsome Mauraisin,

as he was called, a very dark, foppish little man of thirty-eight,

whose thin lips and whose chin were hidden by a carefully kept

moustache and beard, while glasses screened his eager eyes. Formerly

a professor at the Beaumont Training College, Mauraisin belonged to

that new generation, the _Arrivistes_, who are ever on the lookout

for advancement, and who always place themselves on the stronger

side. He, it was said, had coveted the directorship of the Training

College, which had fallen to Salvan, whom he pursued with covert

hatred, but very prudently, for he was aware of Salvan's great

credit with Le Barazer, the Academy Inspector,[3] on whom he himself

depended. Besides, in presence of the equality of the forces which

were contending for supremacy in his _arrondissement_, Mauraisin, in

spite of his personal preferences for the clericals, the priests, and

monks, whom he regarded as 'devilish clever,' had been skilful enough

to refrain from declaring himself too openly. Thus, when Marc perceived

the Elementary Inspector, it was allowable for him to fancy that Le

Barazer, with whose good nature he was acquainted, had despatched his

subordinate to the assistance of Simon in the terrible catastrophe

which threatened to sweep the schoolmaster of Maillebois and his school

away.

[Footnote 3: In matters of education the French territory is

apportioned among a number of 'Academies,' such as those of Paris,

Caen, Rennes, Bordeaux, Dijon, &c., which are each governed by

Rectors, and which, combined, constitute the University of France,

of which the Minister of Public Instruction for the time being is

the grand-master. The Rectors communicate with him; under them, in

each territorial department within their jurisdiction, they have an

'Inspecteur d'Académie,' who is provided with a general secretary,

and who in turn has under him several subordinate inspectors called

'Inspecteurs de l'Instruction primaire.' There is one of these for each

_arrondissement_ into which the departments are divided.--_Trans._]

The young man therefore hastened his steps, desirous of paying his

respects to the Inspector, but all at once an unexpected incident

restrained him. A cassock had emerged from a neighbouring street, and

he recognised in its wearer Father Crabot, the Rector of the Jesuit

College of Valmarie. A tall, finely-built man, without a white hair

at five and forty, Father Crabot had a broad and regular face, with

a somewhat large nose, amiable eyes, and thick, caressing lips. The

only failing with which he was reproached was a tendency to become a

fashionable cleric as a result of the many aristocratic connections

which he was always eager to form. But those connections simply

increased the sphere of his power, and some people said, with good

reason, that he was the secret master of the department, and that the

victory of the Church, which was assuredly approaching, depended solely

on him.

Marc felt surprised and disquieted on seeing the Jesuit at Maillebois

at that hour. Had he quitted Valmarie very early in the morning then?

What urgent business, what pressing visits had brought him there?

Whence had he come, whither was he going, distributing bows and smiles

as he passed through the streets full of the fever born by rumour and

tittle-tattle? And all at once Marc saw Father Crabot stop at the sight

of Mauraisin and offer the latter his hand with charming cordiality.

Their conversation was not a long one; it consisted, no doubt, of

the usual commonplaces, but they seemed to be on excellent terms, as

if indeed they discreetly understood each other. When the Elementary

Inspector quitted the Jesuit, he drew his little figure erect,

evidently feeling very proud of that handshake, which had inspired him

with an opinion, a resolution, which perhaps he had hitherto hesitated

to form. But Father Crabot, going his way, also caught sight of Marc,

and recognising him, from having seen him at Madame Duparque's, where

he occasionally condescended to call, made a great show of doffing his

hat by way of salutation. The young man, who stood on the kerb of the

footway, was compelled to respond by a similar act of politeness, and

then watched the Jesuit as the latter, filling the streets with the

sweep of his cassock, betook himself through Maillebois, which felt

very honoured, flattered, and subjugated by his presence.

Marc, for his part, slowly resumed his walk towards the school. The

current of his thoughts had changed, he was growing gloomy again, as

if he were returning to some contaminated spot where slow poison had

diffused hostility. The houses did not seem to be the same as on the

previous day; and, in particular, the faces of the people appeared

to have changed. Thus, when he reached Simon's rooms, he was quite

surprised to find his friend quietly sorting some papers in the midst

of his family. Rachel was seated near the window, the two children were

playing in a corner, and if it had not been for the sadness of the

parents one would have thought that nothing unusual had occurred in the

house.

Simon, however, stepped forward and pressed Marc's hands with keen

emotion, like one who felt how friendly and bravely sympathetic was the

visit. The perquisition early that morning was at once spoken of.

'Have the police been here?' Marc inquired.

'Yes, it was quite natural they should come: I expected it. Of course

they found nothing, and went off with empty hands.'

Marc restrained a gesture of astonishment. What had Pélagie told him?

Why had people spread rumours of crushing proofs, of the discovery

among other things of copy-slips identical with the one found in the

room of the crime? Were lies being told then?

'And you see,' Simon continued, 'I am setting my papers in order, for

they mixed them up. What a frightful affair, my friend! We no longer

know if we exist.'

Then he mentioned that the post-mortem examination of Zéphirin's

remains was to take place that very day. Indeed, they were then

expecting the medical officer of the Public Prosecution service. But

doubtless it would only be possible to bury the body on the morrow.

'For my part,' Simon added, 'as you will well understand, I seem to be

living in a nightmare. I ask myself if such a catastrophe is possible.

I have been thinking of nothing else since yesterday morning; I am

always beginning the same story afresh, my return on foot, so late but

in great quietude, my arrival at the house which was fast asleep, and

then that frightful awakening in the morning.'

These remarks gave Marc an opportunity to ask a few questions. 'Did you

meet nobody on the road?' he inquired. 'Did nobody see you arrive here

at the hour you named?'

'Why, no! I met nobody, and I think nobody saw me come in. At that late

hour nobody is about in Maillebois.'

Silence fell. Then Marc resumed: 'But as you did not take the train

back you did not use your return ticket. Have you still got it?'

'My return ticket? No! I was so furious when I saw the half-past ten

o'clock train going off without me, that I threw the ticket away, in

the station yard, directly I decided to return on foot.'

Silence fell again, and Simon gazed fixedly at his friend, saying: 'Why

do you put these questions to me?'

Marc affectionately grasped his hands once more, and retained them for

a moment in his own, whilst resolving to warn him of impending danger,

indeed to tell him everything. 'I regret,' he said, 'that nobody saw

you, and I regret still more that you did not keep your return ticket.

There are so many fools and malicious folks about! It is being reported

that this morning the police found overwhelming proofs here, copies of

the writing-slip, initialled in the same way as the one which formed

part of the gag. Mignot, it seems, is astonished that he should have

found you so sound asleep yesterday morning; and Mademoiselle Rouzaire

now remembers that about a quarter to eleven o'clock on the night of

the crime, she heard voices and footsteps, as if somebody were entering

the house.'

Very pale but very calm, Simon smiled and shrugged his shoulders:

'Ah! that's it, is it? They are suspecting me. Well, I now understand

the expressions I have seen on the faces of the folk who have been

passing the school since early this morning! Mignot, who is a good

fellow at heart, will of course say as everybody else says, for fear of

compromising himself with a Jew like me. As for Mademoiselle Rouzaire,

she will sacrifice me ten times over, if her confessor has suggested it

to her, and if she finds a chance of advancement or merely additional

consideration in such a fine deed. Ah! they are suspecting me, are

they? and the whole pack of clerical hounds has been let loose!'

He almost laughed as he spoke. But Rachel, whose customary indolence

seemed to have been increased by her deep grief, had now suddenly

risen, her beautiful countenance all aglow with dolorous revolt.

'You, you! They suspect you of such ignominy!' she exclaimed; 'you who

were so kind and gentle when you came home, and clasped me in your

arms, and spoke such loving words to me! They must be mad! Is it not

sufficient that I should speak the truth, tell of your return, and of

the night we spent together?'

Then she flung herself upon his neck, weeping and relapsing into the

weakness of an adored and caressed woman. Pressing her to his heart her

husband strove to reassure and calm her.

'Don't be distressed, my darling! Those stories are idiotic, they stand

on nothing. I am quite at ease; the authorities may turn everything

here upside down; they may search all my past life, they will find no

guilt in it. I have only to speak the truth, and, do you know, nothing

can stand against the truth; it is the great, the eternal victor.'

Then, turning to his friend, he added: 'Is it not so, my good Marc? is

one not invincible when one has truth on one's side?'

If Marc had not been convinced already of Simon's innocence his last

doubts would have fled amid the emotion of that scene. Yielding to an

impulse of his heart he embraced both husband and wife, as if giving

himself to them entirely, in order to help them in the grave crisis

which he foresaw. Desirous as he was of taking immediate action, he

again spoke of the copy-slip, for he felt that it was the one important

piece of evidence on which the elucidation of the whole affair must

be reared. But how puzzling was that crumpled, bitten slip of paper,

soiled by saliva, with its initialling or its blot half effaced, and

with one of its corners carried away, no doubt, by the victim's teeth!

The very words 'Love one another,' lithographed in a fine English

round-hand, seemed fraught with a terrible irony. Whence had that

slip come? Who had brought it to that room--the boy or his murderer?

And how could one ascertain the truth when the Mesdames Milhomme, the

neighbouring stationers, sold such slips almost daily?

Simon, for his part, could only repeat that he had never had that

particular one in his school. 'All my boys would say so. That copy

never entered the school, never passed under their eyes.'

Marc regarded this as valuable information. 'Then they could testify

to that effect!' he exclaimed. 'As it is being falsely rumoured that

the police found similar copies in your rooms, one must re-establish

the truth immediately,--call on your pupils at their homes, and demand

their evidence before anybody tries to tamper with their memory. Give

me the names of a few of them; I will take the matter in hand, and

carry it through this afternoon.'

Simon, strong in the consciousness of his innocence, at first refused

to do so. But eventually, among his pupils' parents, he named Bongard,

a farmer on the road to La Désirade, Masson Doloir, a workman living

in the Rue Plaisir, and Savin, a clerk in the Rue Fauche. Those three

would suffice unless Marc should also like to call on the Mesdames

Milhomme. Thus everything was settled, and Marc went off to lunch,

promising that he would return in the evening to acquaint Simon with

the result of his inquiries.

Once outside on the square, however, he again caught sight of handsome

Mauraisin. This time the Elementary Inspector was deep in conference

with Mademoiselle Rouzaire. He was usually most punctilious and

prudent with the schoolmistresses, in consequence of his narrow escape

from trouble, a few years previously, in connection with a young

assistant-teacher who had shrieked like a little booby when he had

simply wished to kiss her. Malicious people said that Mademoiselle

Rouzaire did not shriek, although she was so ugly, and that this

explained both the favourable reports she secured and her prospects of

rapid advancement.

Standing at the gate of her little garden, she was now speaking to

Mauraisin with great volubility, making sweeping gestures in the

direction of the boys' school; while the Inspector, wagging his head,

listened to her attentively. At last they entered the garden together,

gently closing the gate behind them. It was evident to Marc that the

woman was telling Mauraisin about the crime and the sounds of footsteps

and voices which she now declared she had heard. At the thought of this

the quiver of the early morning returned to Marc; he again experienced

discomfort--a discomfort arising from his hostile surroundings, from

the dark, stealthy plot which was brewing, gathering like a storm,

rendering the atmosphere more and more oppressive. Singular indeed

was the fashion in which that Elementary Inspector went to the help

of a threatened master: he began by taking the opinions of all the

surrounding folk whom jealousy or hatred inspired!

At two o'clock in the afternoon Marc found himself on the road to

La Désirade, just outside Maillebois. Bongard, whose name had been

given him by Simon, there owned a little farm of a few fields, which

he cultivated himself with difficulty, securing, as he put it, no

more than was needed to provide daily bread. Marc luckily met him

just as he had returned home with a cartload of hay. He was a strong,

square-shouldered, and stoutish man, with round eyes and placid silent

face, beardless but seldom fresh shaven. On her side La Bongard, a

long bony _blonde_, who was also present, preparing some mash for her

cow, showed an extremely plain countenance, outrageously freckled,

with a patch of colour on each cheek-bone, and an expression of close

reserve. Both looked suspiciously at the strange gentleman whom they

saw entering their yard.

'I am the Jonville schoolmaster,' said Marc. 'You have a little boy who

attends the Communal school at Maillebois, have you not?'

At that moment Fernand, the boy in question, who had been playing on

the road, ran up. He was a sturdy lad of nine years, fashioned, one

might have thought, with a billhook, and showing a low brow and a dull,

heavy countenance. He was followed by his sister Angèle, a lass of

seven, with a similarly massive but more knowing face, for in her quick

eyes one espied some dawning intelligence which was striving to escape

from its fleshy prison. She had heard Marc's question, and she cried in

a shrill voice: 'I go to Mademoiselle Rouzaire's, I do; Fernand goes to

Monsieur Simon's.'

Bongard had sent his children to the Communal schools, first because

the teaching cost him nothing, and secondly because, as a matter of

mere instinct,--for he had never reasoned the question,--he was not on

the side of the priests. He practised no religion, and if La Bongard

went to church it was simply from habit and by way of diversion. All

that the husband, who was scarce able to read or write, appreciated in

his wife, who was still more ignorant than himself, was her powers of

endurance, which, similar to those of a beast of burden, enabled her to

toil from morn till night without complaining. And the farmer showed

little or no anxiety whether his children made progress at school.

As a matter of fact little Fernand was industrious and took no end of

pains, but could get nothing into his head; whereas little Angèle,

who proved yet more painstaking and stubborn, at last seemed likely

to become a passable pupil. She was like so much human matter in the

rough, lately fashioned of clay, and awaking to intelligence by a slow

and dolorous effort.

'I am Monsieur Simon's friend,' Marc resumed, 'and I have come on his

behalf about what has happened. You have heard of the crime, have you

not?'

Most certainly they had heard of it. Their anxious faces suddenly

became impenetrable, in such wise that one could read on them neither

feeling nor thought. Why had that stranger come to question them in

this fashion? Their ideas about things concerned nobody. Besides, it

was necessary to be prudent in matters in which a word too much often

suffices to bring about a man's sentence.

'And so,' Marc continued, 'I should like to know if your little boy

ever saw in his class a copy-slip like this.'

Marc himself on a slip of paper had written the words '_Aimez vous

les uns les autres_' in a fine round-hand of the proper size. Having

explained matters, he showed the paper to Fernand, who looked at it

in a dazed fashion, for his mind worked slowly and he did not yet

understand what was asked him.

'Look well at it, my little friend,' said Marc; 'did you ever see such

a copy at the school?'

But before the lad had made up his mind, Bongard, in his circumspect

manner, intervened: 'The child doesn't know, how can he know?'

And La Bongard, like her husband's shadow, added: 'Why of course a

child, it can never know.'

Without listening to them, however, Marc insisted, and placed the copy

in the hands of Fernand, who, fearing that he might be punished, made

an effort, and at last responded: 'No, monsieur, I never saw it.'

As he spoke he raised his head, and his eyes met his father's, which

were fixed on him so sternly that he hastened to add, stammering as he

did so: 'Unless all the same I did see it; I don't know.'

That was all that could be got out of him. When Marc pressed him, his

answers became incoherent, while his parents themselves said yes or no

chancewise, according to what they deemed to be their interest. It was

Bongard's prudent habit to jog his head in approval of every opinion

expressed by those who spoke to him, for fear of compromising himself.

Yes, yes, it was a frightful crime, and if the culprit should be caught

it would be quite right to cut off his head. Each man to his trade,

the gendarmes knew theirs, there were rascals everywhere. As for the

priests, there was some good in them, but all the same one had a right

to follow one's own ideas. And at last, as Marc could learn nothing

positive, he had to take himself off, watched inquisitively by the

children, and pursued by the shrill voice of little Angèle, who began

chattering with her brother as soon as the gentleman could no longer

detect what she said.

The young man gave way to some sad reflections as he returned to

Maillebois. He had just come in contact with the thick layer of human

ignorance, the huge blind, deaf multitude still enwrapped in the

slumber of the earth. Behind the Bongards the whole mass of country

folk remained stubbornly, dimly vegetating, ever slow to awaken to a

true perception of things. There was a whole nation to be educated

if one desired that it should be born to truth and justice. But how

colossal would be the labour! How could it be raised from the clay in

which it lingered, how many generations perhaps would be needed to free

the race from darkness! Even at the present time the vast majority of

the social body remained in infancy, in primitive imbecility. In the

case of Bongard one descended to mere brute matter, which was incapable

of being just because it knew nothing and would learn nothing.

Marc turned to the left, and after crossing the High Street found

himself in the poor quarter of Maillebois. Various industrial

establishments there polluted the waters of the Verpille, and the

sordid houses of the narrow streets were the homes of many workpeople.

Doloir the mason tenanted four fairly large rooms on a first floor over

a wineshop in the Rue Plaisir. Marc, imperfectly informed respecting

the address, was seeking it when he came upon a party of masons who had

just quitted their work to drink a glass together at the bar of the

wineshop. They were discussing the crime in violent language.

'A Jew's capable of anything,' one big fair fellow exclaimed. 'There

was one in my regiment who was a thief, but that did not prevent him

from being a corporal, for a Jew always gets out of difficulties.'

Another mason, short and dark, shrugged his shoulders. 'I quite agree,'

said he, 'that the Jews are not worth much, but all the same the

priests are no better.'

'Oh! as for the priests,' the other retorted, 'some are good, some

are bad. At all events the priests are Frenchmen, whereas those dirty

beasts, the Jews, have sold France to the foreigners twice already.'

Then, as his comrade, somewhat shaken in his views, asked him if he had

read that in _Le Petit Beaumontais_, 'No, I didn't,' he added; 'those

newspapers give me too much of a headache. But some of my mates told

me, and, besides, everybody knows it well.'

The others, thereupon feeling convinced, became silent, and slowly

drained their glasses. They were just quitting the wineshop when Marc,

approaching, asked the tall fair one if he knew where Doloir the mason

lived. The workman laughed. 'Doloir, monsieur? that's me,' he said; 'I

live here; those are my three windows.'

The adventure quite enlivened this tall sturdy fellow of somewhat

military bearing. As he laughed his big moustaches rose, disclosing his

teeth, which looked very white in his highly coloured face, with large,

good-natured blue eyes.

'You could not have asked anybody more likely to know, could you,

monsieur?' he continued. 'What do you wish of me?'

Marc looked at him with a feeling of some sympathy in spite of the

hateful words he had heard. Doloir, who had been for several years in

the employment of Darras, the Mayor and building contractor, was a

fairly good workman--one who occasionally drank a drop too much, but

who took his pay home to his wife regularly. He certainly growled about

the employers, referred to them as a dirty gang, and called himself a

socialist, though he had only a vague idea what socialism might be.

At the same time he had some esteem for Darras, who, while making a

great deal of money, tried to remain a comrade with his men. But above

everything else three years of barrack-life had left an ineffaceable

mark on Doloir. He had quitted the army in a transport of delight at

his deliverance, freely cursing the disgusting and hateful calling in

which one ceased to be a man. But ever since that time he had been

continually living his three years' service afresh; not a day passed

but some recollection of it came to him. With his hand spoilt as it

were by the rifle he had carried, he had found his trowel heavy, and

had returned to work in a spiritless fashion, like one who was no

longer accustomed to toil, but whose will was broken and whose body had

become used to long spells of idleness, such as those which intervened

between the hours of military exercise. To become once more the

excellent workman that he had been previously was impossible. Besides,

he was haunted by military matters, to which he was always referring

apropos of any subject that presented itself. But he chattered in a

confused way, he had no information, he read nothing, he knew nothing,

being simply firm and stubborn on the patriotic question, which, to his

mind, consisted in preventing the Jews from handing France over to the

foreigners.

'You have two children at the Communal school,' Marc said to him, 'and

I have come from the master, my friend Simon, for some information. But

I see that you are hardly a friend of the Jews.'

Doloir still laughed. 'It's true,' said he, 'that Monsieur Simon is a

Jew; but hitherto I always thought him a worthy man. What information

do you want, monsieur?'

When he learnt that the question was merely one of showing his children

a writing copy in order to ascertain whether they had ever used it in

their class, he responded: 'Nothing can be easier, monsieur, if it will

do you a service. Come upstairs with me, the children must be at home.'

The door was opened by Madame Doloir, a dark, short but robust woman,

having a serious, energetic face with a low brow, frank eyes, and a

square-shaped chin. Although she was barely nine and twenty she was

already the mother of three children, and it was evident that she was

expecting a fourth. But this did not prevent her from being always the

first to rise and the last to go to bed in the home, for she was very

industrious, very thrifty, always busy, scrubbing and cleaning. She had

quitted her employment as a seamstress about the time of the birth of

her third child, and nowadays she only attended to her home, but she

did so like a woman who fully earned her bread.

'This gentleman is a friend of the schoolmaster, and wishes to speak to

the children,' her husband explained to her.

Marc entered a very clean dining or living room. The little kitchen was

on the left, with its door wide open. In front were the bedrooms of the

parents and the children.

'Auguste! Charles!' the father called.

Auguste and Charles, one eight, the other six years old, hastened

forward, followed by their little sister Lucille, who was four. They

were handsome, well-fed children in whom one found the characteristics

of the father and the mother combined; the younger boy appearing more

intelligent than the elder one, and the little girl, a _blondine_ with

a soft laugh, already looking quite pretty.

When, Marc, however, showed the copy to the boys and questioned them,

Madame Doloir, who hitherto had not spoken a word, hastily intervened:

'Excuse me, monsieur, but I do not wish my children to answer you.'

She said this very politely, without the slightest sign of temper, like

a good mother, indeed, who was merely fulfilling her duty.

'But why?' Marc asked in his amazement.

'Why, because there is no need for us, monsieur, to meddle in an affair

which seems likely to turn out very badly. I have had it dinned into my

ears ever since yesterday morning; and I won't have anything to do with

it, that's all.'

Then, as Marc insisted and began to defend Simon, she retorted: 'I say

nothing against Monsieur Simon, the children have never had to complain

of him. If he is accused, let him defend himself: that is his business.

For my part I have always tried to prevent my husband from meddling in

politics, and if he listens to me he will hold his tongue, and take up

his trowel without paying any attention either to the Jews or to the

priests. All this, at bottom, is politics again.'

She never went to church, although she had caused her children to

be baptised and had decided to let them take their first Communion.

Those, however, were things one had to do. For the rest, she simply and

instinctively held conservative views, accepting things as they were,

accommodating herself to her narrow life, for she was terrified by the

thought of catastrophes which might diminish their daily bread. With an

expression of stubborn resolve she repeated: 'I do not wish any of us

to be compromised.'

Those words were decisive: Doloir himself bowed to them. Although he

usually allowed his wife to lead him, he did not like her to exercise

her power before others. But this time he submitted.

'I did not reflect, monsieur,' he said. 'My wife is right. It is best

for poor devils like us to keep quiet. One of the men in my regiment

knew all sorts of things about the Captain. Ah! they did not stand on

ceremony with him. You should have seen what a number of times he was

sent to the cells!'

Marc, like the husband, had to accept the position; and so, renouncing

all further inquiry there, he merely said: 'It is possible that the

judicial authorities may ask your boys what I desired to ask them. In

that case they will have to answer.'

'Very good,' Madame Doloir answered quietly, 'if the judicial

authorities question them we shall see what they ought to do. They will

answer or not, it will all depend; my children are mine, and it is my

business.'

Marc withdrew, escorted by Doloir, who was in a hurry to return to his

work. When they reached the street, the mason almost apologised. His

wife was not always easy to deal with, he remarked; but when she said

the right thing, it was right and no mistake.

Such was Marc's discouragement that he now wondered whether it would

be worth his while to carry the inquiry further by visiting Savin the

clerk. In the Doloirs' home he had not found the same dense ignorance

as at the Bongards'. The former were a step higher in the social scale,

and if both husband and wife were still virtually illiterate, they at

least came in contact with other classes, and knew a little of life.

But how vague was still the dawn which they typified, how dim was the

groping through idiotic egotism, in what disastrous errors did lack

of solidarity maintain the poor folk of that class! If they were not

happier it was because they were ignorant of every right condition

of civic life, of the necessity that others should be happy in order

that one might be happy oneself. Marc thought of that human house, the

doors and windows of which people have striven to keep closed for ages,

whereas they ought to be opened widely in order to allow air and warmth

and light to enter in torrents freely.

While he was thus reflecting, he turned the corner of the Rue Plaisir,

and reached the Rue Fauche, where the Savins dwelt. He thereupon felt

ashamed of his discouragement, so he climbed the stairs to their flat,

and speedily found himself in the presence of Madame Savin, who had

hastened to answer his ring.

'My husband, monsieur? Yes, as it happens, he is at home, for he was

rather feverish this morning and could not go to his office. Please

follow me.'

She was charming was Madame Savin, dark, refined and gay, with a

pretty laugh, and so young-looking also, though her twenty-eighth

year was already past, that she seemed to be the elder sister of her

four children. The firstborn was a girl, Hortense; followed by twin

boys, Achille and Philippe, and then by another boy, Jules, whom the

young mother was still nursing. It was said that her husband was

terribly jealous, that he suspected her, and watched her, ever full

of ill-natured disquietude, although she gave him no cause for it. A

bead-worker by trade, and an orphan, she had been sought by him in

marriage for her beauty's sake, after her aunt's death, when she was

quite alone in the world; and on this account she retained a feeling of

gratitude towards him, and conducted herself very uprightly like a good

wife and a good mother.

Just as she was about to usher Marc into the adjoining room, some

embarrassment came over her. Perhaps she feared the bad temper of

her husband, who was ever ready to pick a quarrel, and to whom she

preferred to yield for the sake of domestic peace.

'What name am I to give, monsieur?' she asked.

Marc told her his name and the object of his visit, whereupon with

graceful suppleness she glided away, leaving the young man in the

little ante-chamber, which he began to scrutinise. The flat was

composed of five rooms, occupying the whole of that floor of the

house. Savin, a petty _employé_ of the Revenue service, clerk to the

local tax-collector, had to keep up his rank, which in his opinion

necessitated a certain amount of outward show. Thus his wife wore

bonnets, and he himself never went out otherwise than in a frock

coat. But how painful were the straits of the life which he led

behind that façade so mendaciously suggestive of class superiority

and easy circumstances! The bitterness of his feelings came from his

consciousness that he was bound fast to his humble duties, that he

had no prospect whatever of advancement, but was condemned for life

to never-changing toil and a contemptible salary, which only just

saved him from starvation. Poor in health and soured, humble and

irritable at one and the same time, feeling as much terror as rage

in his everlasting anxiety lest he might displease his superiors, he

showed himself obsequious and cowardly at his office, whilst at home he

terrorised his wife with his fits of passion, which suggested those of

a sickly child. She smiled at them in her pretty, gentle way, and after

attending to the children and the household she found a means to work

bead-flowers for a firm at Beaumont, very delicate and well-paid work,

which provided the family with little luxuries. But her husband, vexed

at heart, such was his middle-class pride, would not have it said that

his wife was forced to work, and so it was necessary for her to shut

herself up with her beads, and deliver her work by stealth.

For a moment Marc heard a sharp voice speaking angrily. Then, after

a gentle murmur, silence fell, and Madame Savin reappeared: 'Please

follow me, monsieur.'

Savin scarcely rose from the arm-chair in which he was nursing his

attack of fever. A village schoolmaster was of no consequence. Short,

lean, and puny, quite bald already, although he was only thirty-one

years old, the clerk had a poor, cadaverous countenance, with slight,

tired features, light eyes, and a very scanty beard of a dirty

yellowish tinge. He finished wearing out his old frock coats at home,

and that day the coloured scarf he had fastened about his neck helped

to make him look like a little old man, burdened with complaints and

quite neglectful of his person.

'My wife tells me, monsieur,' he said, 'that you have called about that

abominable affair, in which Simon the schoolmaster, according to some

accounts, is likely to be compromised; and my first impulse, I confess

it, was to refuse to see you.'

Then he stopped short, for he had just noticed on the table some

bead-work flowers which his wife had been making as she sat beside him,

while he perused _Le Petit Beaumontais_. He gave her a terrible glance

which she understood, for she hastened to cover her work with the

newspaper.

'But don't regard me as a Reactionary, monsieur,' Savin resumed. 'I am

a Republican--in fact a very advanced Republican; I do not hide it, my

superiors are well aware of it. When one serves the Republic it is only

honest to be a Republican, is it not? Briefly, I am on the side of the

Government for and in all things.'

Compelled to listen politely, Marc contented himself with nodding his

assent.

'My views on the religious question are very simple,' Savin

continued. 'The priests ought to remain in their own sphere. I am an

anti-clerical as I am a Republican. But I hasten to add that in my

opinion a religion is necessary for women and children, and that as

long as the Catholic religion is that of the country, why, we may as

well have that one as another! Thus, with respect to my wife, I have

made her understand that it is fitting and necessary for a woman of her

age and position to follow the observances of religion in order that

she may have a rule and a _morale_ in the eyes of the world. She goes

to the Capuchins!'

Madame Savin became embarrassed, her face turned pink, and she cast

down her eyes. That question of religious practices had long been

a great source of unpleasantness in her home. She, with all her

charming delicacy, her gentle, upright, heart, had always regarded

those practices with repugnance. As for her husband, he, wild with

jealousy, ever picking quarrels with her respecting what he called her

unfaithfulness of thought, looked upon Confession and Communion solely

as police measures, moral curbs, excellently suited to restrain women

from descending the slope which leads to betrayal. And his wife had

been obliged to yield to him in the matter, and accept the confessor

whom he selected, the bearded Father Théodose, though with her woman's

instinct she divined the latter to be a man of a horrid nature. But if

she was wounded at heart and blushed with offended delicacy, she none

the less shrugged her shoulders and continued to obey her husband for

the sake of domestic quietude.

'As for my children, monsieur,' Savin was now saying, 'my resources

have not enabled me to send Achille and Philippe, my twin sons, to

college; so, naturally enough, I have sent them to the secular school

in accordance with my duty as a functionary and a Republican. In the

same way my daughter Hortense goes to Mademoiselle Rouzaire's; but,

at bottom, I am well pleased to find that that lady has religious

sentiments, and conducts her pupils to church--for, after all, such

is her duty, and I should complain if she did not do so. Boys always

pull through. And yet if I did not owe an account of my actions to my

superiors, would it not have been more advantageous for my sons if I

had sent them to a Church school? Later in life they would have been

helped on, placed in good situations, supported, whereas now they will

simply vegetate, as I myself have vegetated.'

His bitter rancour was overflowing; and, seized with a secret dread,

he added in a lower tone: 'The priests, you see, are the stronger, and

in spite of everything one ought always to be with them.'

A feeling of compassion came over Marc; that poor, puny, trembling

being, driven desperate by mediocrity of circumstances and foolishness

of nature, seemed to him in sore need of pity. Foreseeing the

conclusion of all his speeches the young man had already risen. 'And

so, monsieur,' he said, 'the information which I desired to obtain from

your children----'

'The children are not here,' Savin answered; 'a lady, a neighbour,

has taken them for a walk. But, even if they were here, ought I to

allow them to answer you? Judge for yourself. A functionary can in no

case take sides. And I already have quite enough worries at my office

without incurring any responsibility in this vile affair.'

Then, as Marc hastily bowed, he added: 'Although the Jews prey on

our land of France I have nothing to say against that Monsieur

Simon, unless it be that a Jew ought never to be allowed to be a

schoolmaster. I hope that _Le Petit Beaumontais_ will start a campaign

on that subject.... Liberty and justice for all--such ought to be the

watchwords of a good Republican. But the country must be put first, the

country alone must be considered, when it is in danger! Is that not so?'

Madame Savin, who since Marc's entry into the room had not spoken a

word, escorted the young man to the door of the flat, where, while

still retaining an air of embarrassment amid her submissiveness--that

of a slave-wife superior to her harsh master--she contented herself

with smiling divinely. Then at the bottom of the stairs Marc

encountered the children whom the neighbour was bringing home.

Hortense, the girl, now nine years old, was already a pretty and

coquettish little person, with artful eyes which gleamed with

maliciousness when she did not veil them with the expression of

hypocritical piety which she had learnt to acquire at Mademoiselle

Rouzaire's. But Marc was more interested in the twin boys, Achille

and Philippe, two thin pale lads, sickly like their father, and very

unruly and sly for their seven years. They pushed their sister against

the banister, and almost made her fall; and when they had climbed the

stairs, and the door of the flat opened, an infant's wail was heard,

that of little Jules, who had awoke and was already in the arms of his

mother, eager for her breast.

As Marc walked down the street, he caught himself talking aloud. So

they were all agreed, from the ignorant peasant to the timid and

idiotic clerk, passing by way of the brutified workman, the spoilt

fruit of barrack-life and the salary system. In ascending the social

scale one merely found error aggravated by narrow egotism and base

cowardice. Men's minds remained steeped in darkness; the semi-education

which was nowadays acquired without method, and which reposed on

no serious scientific foundation, led simply to a poisoning of the

brain, to a state of disquieting corruption. There must be education

certainly, but complete education, whence hypocrisy and falsehood

would be banished--education which would free the mind by acquainting

it with truth in its entirety. Marc trembled at the thought of the

abyss of ignorance, error, and hatred which opened before him. What an

awful bankruptcy there would be if those folk were needed some day for

some work of truth and justice! And those folk typified France; they

were the multitude, the heavy, inert mass, many of them worthy people

no doubt, but none the less a mass of lead, which weighed the nation

down to the ground, incapable as they were of leading a better life,

of becoming free, just, and truly happy, because they were steeped in

ignorance and poison.

As Marc went slowly towards the school to acquaint his friend Simon

with the sad result of his visits, he suddenly remembered that he had

not yet called on the Mesdames Milhomme, the stationers of the Rue

Courte; and although he anticipated no better result with them than

with the others he resolved to fulfil his commission to the very end.

The Milhommes, the ladies' husbands, had been two brothers, born at

Maillebois. Edouard, the elder, had inherited a little stationery

business from an uncle, and, being of a stay-at-home and unaspiring

disposition, had made a shift to live on it with his wife; while

his younger, more active, and ambitious brother Alexandre laid the

foundations of a fortune while hurrying about the country as a

commercial traveller. But death swooped down on both: the elder brother

was the first to die, as the result of a tragic accident, a fall into

a cellar; the second succumbing six months later to an attack of

pulmonary congestion while he was at the other end of France. Their

widows remained--one with her humble shop, the other with a capital of

some twenty thousand francs, the first savings on which her husband

had hoped to rear a fortune. It was to Madame Edouard, a woman of

decision and diplomatic skill, that the idea occurred of inducing her

sister-in-law, Madame Alexandre, to enter into a partnership, and

invest her twenty thousand francs in the little business at Maillebois,

which might be increased by selling books, stationery, and other

articles for the schools. Each of the two widows had a son, and from

that time forward the Mesdames Milhomme, as they were called, Madame

Edouard with her little Victor, and Madame Alexandre with her little

Sébastien, had kept house together, living in the close intimacy

which their interests required, although their natures were radically

different.

Madame Edouard followed the observances of the Church, but this did not

mean that her faith was firm. She simply placed the requirements of her

business before everything else. Her customers were chiefly pious folk

whom she did not wish to displease. Madame Alexandre, on the contrary,

had given up church-going at the time of her marriage, for her husband

had been a gay companion and freethinker, and she refused to take up

religion again. It was Madame Edouard, the clever diplomatist, who

ingeniously indicated that these divergencies might become a source

of profit. Their business was spreading; their shop, situated midway

between the Brothers' school and the Communal school, supplied articles

suitable for both--lesson books, copybooks, diagrams, and drawing

copies, without speaking of pens, pencils, and similar things. Thus

it was decided that each of the two women should retain her views and

ways, the one with the priests, the other with the freethinkers, in

such wise as to satisfy both sides. And in order that nobody might

remain ignorant of the understanding, Sébastien was sent to the secular

Communal school, where Simon the Jew was master, while Victor remained

at the Brothers' school. Matters being thus settled, engineered with

superior skill, the partnership prospered, and Mesdames Milhomme now

owned one of the most thriving shops in Maillebois.

Marc, on reaching the Rue Courte, in which there were only two houses,

the Milhommes' and the parsonage, slackened his steps, and for a

moment examined the windows of the stationery shop, in which religious

prints were mingled with school pictures glorifying the Republic,

whilst illustrated newspapers, hanging from strings, almost barred

the doorway. He was about to enter when Madame Alexandre--a tall

and gentle-looking blonde, whose face, faded already, though she was

only thirty, was still lighted by a faint smile--appeared upon the

threshold. Close beside her was her little Sébastien, of whom she was

very fond: a child of seven, fair and gentle like his mother, very

handsome also, with blue eyes, a delicately shaped nose, and a mouth

bespeaking amiability.

Madame Alexandre was acquainted with Marc, and she at once referred to

the abominable crime which seemed to haunt her. 'How dreadful, Monsieur

Froment!' said she. 'To think also that it occurred so near to us! I

frequently saw poor little Zéphirin go by, either on his way to school

or returning home. And he often came here to buy copybooks and pens. I

can no longer sleep since I saw him dead!'

Then she spoke compassionately of Simon and his grief. She considered

him to be very kind-hearted and upright, particularly as he took

a great interest in her little Sébastien, who was one of his most

intelligent and docile pupils. Whatever other people might say, she

would never be able to think the master capable of such a frightful

deed as that crime. As for the copy-slip of which people talked so

much, nothing would have been proved even if similar ones had been

found in the school.

'We sell such slips, you know, Monsieur Froment,' she continued, 'and I

have already searched through those which we have in stock. It is true

that none bear those particular words, "Love one another"----'

At this moment Sébastien, who had been listening attentively, raised

his head. 'I saw one like that,' said he. 'My cousin Victor brought one

home from the Brothers' school--there were those words on it!'

His mother appeared stupefied: 'What are you saying?' she exclaimed.

'You never mentioned that to me!'

'But you did not ask. Besides, Victor forbade me to tell, because it's

forbidden to take the copy-slips from school.'

'Then where is that one?'

'Ah! I don't know. Victor hid it somewhere, so that he might not be

scolded.'

Marc was following the scene, astonished, delighted, his heart beating

fast with hope. Was the truth about to come forth from the mouth of

that child? Perchance this would prove the feeble ray which spreads

little by little until it finally expands into a great blaze of light.

And the young man was already putting precise and decisive questions to

Sébastien, when Madame Edouard, accompanied by Victor, appeared upon

the scene. She was returning from a visit which she had just made to

Brother Fulgence, under the pretext of applying for the payment of a

stationery account.

Taller than her sister-in-law, Madame Edouard was dark, with a massive

square-shaped face and a masculine appearance. Her gestures were quick,

her speech was loud. A good and honest woman in her way, she would not

have wronged her partner of a _sou_, though she never hesitated to

domineer over her. She indeed was the man in the household, and the

other as a means of defence only possessed her force of inertia, her

very gentleness, of which she availed herself at times for weeks and

months together, thereby often securing the victory. As for Victor,

Madame Edouard's son, he was a sturdy, squarely-set lad, nine years of

age, with a big dark head and massive face, quite a contrast indeed to

his cousin Sébastien.

Directly Madame Edouard was apprised of the situation, she looked at

her son severely: 'What! a copy? You stole a copy from the Brothers and

brought it here?'

Victor had already turned a glance of despair and fury upon Sébastien.

'No, no, mamma,' he answered.

'But you did, for your cousin saw it. He does not usually tell

falsehoods.'

The boy ceased answering, but he still cast terrible glances at his

cousin. And the latter was by no means at his ease, for he well knew

the physical strength of his playmate, and commonly represented the

vanquished, beaten enemy whenever they had a game at war together.

Under the elder's guidance, there were endless noisy gallops through

the house; the younger, so gentle by nature, letting himself be led

into them with a kind of rapturous terror.

'No doubt he did not steal it,' Madame Alexandre observed indulgently.

'Perhaps he only brought it home by mistake.'

In order that his cousin might the more readily forgive his

indiscretion, Sébastien at once confirmed this suggestion: 'Of course,

it was like that. I did not say he stole it.'

Madame Edouard, having now calmed down, ceased to exact an immediate

answer from Victor, who remained silent as if stubbornly resolved upon

making no confession. His mother, for her part, doubtless reflected

that it would be scarcely prudent to investigate the matter in a

stranger's presence without weighing the gravity of the consequences.

She pictured herself taking one or the other side in the affair, and

setting either the Brothers' school or the Communal school against her,

thereby losing one set of customers. So, after casting a domineering

glance at Madame Alexandre, she contented herself with saying to her

son: 'That will do. Go indoors, monsieur; we will settle all this by

and by. Just reflect, and if you do not tell me the real truth, I shall

know what to do to you.'

Then, turning to Marc, she added: 'We will tell you what he says,

monsieur; and you may depend upon it that he will soon speak unless he

desires such a whipping as he is not likely to forget.'

Marc could not insist any further, however ardent might be his desire

to learn the whole truth immediately, in order that he might convey it

to Simon like tidings of deliverance. But he no longer felt a doubt

respecting the genuineness of the decisive fact, the triumphant proof

which chance had placed in his hands; so he at once hastened to his

friend's, to tell him of his successive repulses with the Bongards,

the Doloirs, and the Savins, and of the unhoped-for discovery which he

made at the Milhommes'. Simon listened quietly, showing no sign of the

delight which Marc had anticipated. Ah! there were similar copies at

the Brothers' school? Well, he was not astonished to hear it. For his

own part, why should he worry, as he was innocent?

'I thank you very much for all the trouble you have taken, my good

friend,' he added, 'and I fully understand the importance of that

child's statement. But I cannot accustom myself to the idea that my

fate depends on what may be said, or what may not be said, considering

that I am guilty of nothing. To my thinking, that is as evident as the

sun in the skies.'

Marc, who felt quite enlivened, began to laugh. He now shared his

friend's confidence. And after they had chatted for a moment, he took,

his leave, but suddenly returned to ask: 'Has handsome Mauraisin been

to see you?'

'No, I have not seen him,' Simon answered.

'In that case, my friend, he must have wished to ascertain the opinions

of all Maillebois before coming. I caught sight of him this morning,

first with Father Crabot, and afterwards with Mademoiselle Rouzaire.

While I was running about this afternoon, too, I fancied I saw him

twice--once slipping into the Ruelle des Capucins, and then, as it

seemed to me, on his way to the mayor's. He must have been making

inquiries in order to be sure of taking the stronger side.'

Simon, hitherto so calm, made a nervous gesture; for, timid by nature,

he regarded his superiors with respect and fear. Indeed, his sole

personal worry in the catastrophe was the possibility of a great

scandal which might cost him his situation, or at least cause him to be

regarded very unfavourably by the officials of his department. And he

was about to confess this apprehension to Marc when, as it happened,

Mauraisin presented himself, looking frigid and thoughtful.

'Yes, Monsieur Simon, I have hastened here on account of that horrible

affair. I am in despair for the school, for all of you, and for

ourselves. It is very serious--very serious--very serious.'

As he spoke the Elementary Inspector drew up his little figure, and

his words fell from his lips with increasing severity. In a formal way

he had shaken hands with Marc, knowing that Le Barazer, the Academy

Inspector, his superior, was partial to the young man. But he looked at

him askance through his glasses as if to invite him to withdraw. And

Marc could not linger, although it worried him to leave Simon alone

with that man, on whom his position depended, and before whom he now

trembled--he who had shown so much courage ever since the morning. But

there was no help for it; so Marc went home full of the new impression

that had come to him, the covert hostility of that man Mauraisin, whom

he divined to be a traitor.

The evening, spent with the ladies, proved very quiet. Neither Madame

Duparque nor Madame Berthereau referred to the crime, and the little

house fell asleep peacefully, as if nought of the tragedy in progress

elsewhere had ever entered it. Marc had thought it prudent to say

nothing about his busy afternoon. On going to bed he contented himself

with telling his wife that he felt quite at ease with reference to

his friend Simon. The news pleased Geneviève; and they then continued

chatting until rather late, for in the daytime they were never alone

together, never able to speak freely, in such wise that they seemed to

be strangers. When they fell asleep in each other's arms, it was as if

they had been blissfully reunited after a positive separation.

But, in the morning, Marc was painfully astonished to find an

abominable article against Simon in _Le Petit Beaumontais_. He

remembered the paragraph of the previous day which had expressed

so much sympathy with the schoolmaster and had covered him with

praise. Twenty-four hours had sufficed to effect a complete change,

and now, with a wonderful show of perfidious suppositions and false

interpretations of the facts, the Jew was savagely sacrificed, plainly

accused of the ignoble crime. What could have happened then? What

powerful influence could have been at work? Whence came that poisoned

article, drafted so carefully in order that the Jew might be for

ever condemned by the ignorant populace athirst for falsehood? That

newspaper melodrama with its mysterious intricacies, its extraordinary

fairy-tale improbabilities, would prove, Marc felt it, a legend

changing into truth, positive truth, from which people henceforth would

refuse to depart. And when the young man had finished his perusal

he again became conscious of some secret working in the gloom, some

immense work which mysterious forces had been accomplishing since the

previous day in order to ruin the innocent and thereby save the unknown

culprit.

Yet no fresh incident had occurred, the magistrates had not returned to

Maillebois, there was still only the gendarmes guarding the chamber of

the crime, where lay the remains of the poor little victim, awaiting

burial. The post-mortem examination on the previous day had merely

confirmed the facts which were already known: After a scene of horror

Zéphirin had been killed by strangulation, as was indicated by the

deep violet finger-marks around his neck. It had been settled that the

funeral should take place that afternoon, and, according to report,

preparations were being made to invest it with avenging solemnity.

The authorities were to be present as well as all the victim's

school-fellows.

Marc, whom anxiety assailed once more, spent a gloomy morning. He did

not go to see Simon, for he thought it best to do so in the evening

after the funeral. He contented himself with strolling through

Maillebois, which he found drowsy, as if gorged with horrors, while

waiting for the promised spectacle. After his walk the young man's

spirits revived, and he was finishing lunch with the ladies, amused

by the prattle of little Louise, who was very lively that day, when

Pélagie, on entering the room with a fine plum tart, found herself

unable to restrain her rapturous delight.

'Ah! madame,' she exclaimed, 'they are arresting that brigand of a Jew!

At last! It's none too soon!'

'They are arresting Simon? How do you know it?' exclaimed Marc, who had

turned very pale.

'Why, everybody says so, monsieur. The butcher across the road has just

gone off to see it.'

Marc flung down his napkin, rose, and went out without touching any

tart. The ladies were aghast, deeply offended by such a breach of good

manners. Even Geneviève seemed to be displeased.

'He is losing his senses,' said Madame Duparque dryly. 'Ah! my dear

girl, I warned you. Without religion no happiness is possible.'

When Marc reached the street he immediately realised that something

extraordinary was taking place. All the shopkeepers were at their

doors, some people were running, while an ever-increasing uproar of

shouts and jeers was to be heard. Hastening his steps Marc turned into

the Rue Courte, and there he at once perceived the Mesdames Milhomme

and their children assembled on the threshold of the stationery shop.

They also were deeply interested in the great event. And Marc then

remembered that there was some good evidence to be obtained there, of

which he had better make sure immediately.

'Is it true?' he asked. 'Is Monsieur Simon being arrested?'

'Why, yes, Monsieur Froment,' Madame Alexandre replied in her gentle

way. 'We have just seen the Commissary pass.'

'And it is certain, you know,' said Madame Edouard in her turn, looking

him straight in the face, and anticipating the question which she had

already read in his eyes, 'it is quite certain that Victor never had

that pretended copy-slip. I have questioned him, and I am convinced

that he is telling no falsehood.'

The boy raised his face, with its square chin and large eyes full of

quiet impudence. 'No, of course I am not telling a falsehood,' he said.

Amazed, chilled to the heart, Marc turned to Madame Alexandre: 'But

what was it your son said, madame? He saw that copy in his cousin's

hands--he declared it!'

The mother appeared ill at ease and did not immediately answer. Her

little Sébastien had already taken refuge in her skirts as if to hide

his face, and she with a quivering hand fondled his hair, covered his

head anxiously and protectingly.

'No doubt, Monsieur Froment,' she at last responded, 'he saw it, or

rather he fancied he saw it. At present he is not very sure: he thinks

he may have been mistaken. And so, you see, there is nothing more to be

said.'

Unwilling to insist with the women, Marc addressed himself to the

little boy. 'Is it true that you did not see the copy? There is nothing

so wicked as a lie, my child.'

Sébastien, instead of answering, pressed his face more closely to

his mother's skirt, and burst into sobs. It was evident that Madame

Edouard, like a good trader, who feared that by taking any particular

side in the conflict she might lose a part of her custom, had imposed

her will upon the others. She was as firm as a rock, and it would be

impossible to move her. However, she condescended to indicate the

reasons by which she was guided.

'_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur Froment,' she said, 'we are against nobody,

you know; we need everybody's help in our business. Only it must be

admitted that all the appearances are against Monsieur Simon. Take,

for instance, that train which he says he missed, that return ticket

which he threw away in the station yard, that four-mile walk when he

met nobody. Besides, Mademoiselle Rouzaire is positive that she heard a

noise about twenty minutes to eleven o'clock, whereas he pretends that

he did not return till an hour later. Explain, too, how it happened

that Monsieur Mignot had to go and wake him when it was nearly eight

o'clock in the morning--he who is usually up so early.... Well, perhaps

he will justify himself. For his sake, let us hope so----'

Marc stopped her with a gesture. She was repeating what he had read

in _Le Petit Beaumontais_, and he was terrified by it. He cast a

keen glance on both women--the one who so resolutely silenced her

conscience, the other who trembled from head to foot; and he himself

shuddered at the thought of their sudden falsehood which might lead to

such disastrous consequences. Then he left them and hastened to Simon's.

A closed vehicle, guarded by two plain-clothes officers, was waiting

at the door. The orders were stringent, but Marc at last contrived

to enter. While two other officers guarded Simon in the classroom,

the Commissary of Police, who had arrived with a warrant signed by

Investigating Magistrate Daix, conducted a fresh and very minute

perquisition through the whole house, seeking, no doubt, for copies of

the famous writing slip. But he found nothing; and when Marc ventured

to ask one of the officers if a similar perquisition had taken place

at the school kept by the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, the

man looked at him in amazement. A perquisition at the good Brothers'

school? What for, indeed? But Marc was already shrugging his shoulders

at his own simplicity, for, even supposing that the officers had gone

to the Brothers', the latter had been allowed ample time to burn and

destroy everything likely to compromise them.

The young man had to exert all his powers of restraint to prevent

himself from expressing his feelings of revolt. His powerlessness to

demonstrate the truth filled him with despair. For yet another hour he

had to remain in the hall, waiting for the finish of the Commissary's

search. At last, just as the officers were about to remove Simon, he

was able to see him for a moment. Madame Simon and her two children

were there also, and she flung herself, sobbing, about her husband's

neck, while the Commissary, a rough but not hard-hearted man, made a

pretence of giving some last orders. There came a most heart-rending

scene.

Simon, livid, crushed by the downfall of his life, strove to preserve

great calmness.

'Do not grieve, my darling,' he said. 'It can only be an error, an

abominable error. Everything will certainly be explained as soon as I

am interrogated, and I shall soon return to you.'

But Rachel sobbed yet more violently, with a wild expression on her

tear-drenched face, while she raised the poor little ones, Joseph and

Sarah, in order that their father might kiss them once again.

'Yes, yes, the poor children; love them well; take good care of them

until my return. And I beg you do not weep so; you will deprive me of

all my courage.'

He tore himself from her clasp, and then, at the sight of Marc, his

eyes sparkled with infinite joy. He quickly grasped the hand which the

young man offered him: 'Ah! comrade, thank you! Let my brother David

be warned at once; be sure to tell him I am innocent. He will seek

everywhere, he will find the culprit, it is to him that I confide my

honour and my children's.'

'Be easy,' replied Marc, half-choking with emotion, 'I will help him.'

But the Commissary now returned and put an end to the leave-taking. It

was necessary that Madame Simon, wild with grief, should be removed at

the moment when Simon was led away by the two officers. What followed

was monstrous. The hour fixed for the funeral of little Zéphirin was

three, and, in order to prevent any regrettable collision, it had

been decided to arrest Simon at one o'clock. But the perquisition had

lasted so long that the very thing which the authorities had wished to

prevent took place. When Simon appeared outside, on the little flight

of steps, the square was already crowded with people who had come to

see the funeral procession. And this crowd, which had gorged itself

with the tales of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, and which was still stirred

by the horror of the crime, raised angry shouts as soon as it perceived

the schoolmaster, that accursed Jew, that slayer of little children,

who for his abominable witchery needed their virgin blood, whilst it

was yet sanctified by the presence of the Host. That was the legend,

never to be destroyed, which sped from mouth to mouth, maddening the

tumultuous and menacing crowd.

'To death! To death with the murderer and sacrilegist! To death, to

death with the Jew!'

Chilled to his bones, paler and yet more rigid than before, Simon, from

the top of the steps, responded by a cry which henceforth came without

cessation from his lips as if it were the very voice of his conscience:

'I am innocent, I am innocent!'

Then rage transported the throng, the hoots ascended tempestuously, a

huge human wave bounded forward to seize the accursed wretch and throw

him down and tear him into shreds.

'To death! to death with the Jew!'

But the officers had quickly pushed Simon into the waiting vehicle, and

the driver urged his horse into a fast trot, while the prisoner, never

tiring, repeated his cry in accents which rose above the tempest:

'I am innocent! I am innocent! I am innocent!'

All the way down the High Street the crowd rushed, howling louder and

louder, behind the vehicle. And Marc, who had remained in the square,

dazed and full of anguish, began to think of the other demonstration,

the indignant murmurs, the explosion of revolt which had attended the

end of the prize-giving at the Brothers' school two days previously.

Barely forty-eight hours had sufficed for a complete revulsion of

public opinion, and he was terrified by the abominable skill, the cruel

promptitude displayed by the mysterious hands which had gathered so

much darkness together. His hopes had crumbled, he felt that truth was

obscured, defeated, in peril of death. Never before had he experienced

such intense distress of mind.

But the procession for little Zéphirin's funeral was already being

formed. Marc saw the devout Mademoiselle Rouzaire bringing up the

girls of her class, after witnessing Simon's Calvary without making

even a gesture of sympathy. Nor had Mignot, who was surrounded by

some of the boys, gone to press his superior's hand. He stood there

sullen and embarrassed, suffering no doubt from the struggle between

his good nature and his interests. At last the procession started,

directing its steps towards St. Martin's amidst extraordinary pomp.

Again one realised how carefully artful hands had organised everything

in order to move the people, excite its pity, and its desire for

vengeance. On either side of the little coffin walked those of

Zéphirin's school-fellows who had taken their first Communion at the

same time as himself. Next appeared Darras, the Mayor, attended by

the other authorities and acting as chief mourner. Then came all the

pupils of the Brothers' school, led by Brother Fulgence with his three

assistants, Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias. The important

airs which Brother Fulgence gave himself were much remarked; he came,

went, and commanded on all sides, going even so far in his agitation

as to meddle with Mademoiselle Rouzaire's pupils as though they were

under his orders. And several Capuchins were also present with their

superior, Father Théodose, and there were Jesuits from the College of

Valmarie, headed by their rector, Father Crabot, together with priests

who had come from all the surrounding districts--such a gathering of

gowns and cassocks, indeed, that the whole Church of the region seemed

to have been mobilised in order to ensure itself a triumph by claiming

as its own the poor little body which, amid that splendid procession,

was now being carried to the grave.

Sobs burst forth along the whole line of route, and furious cries

resounded: 'Death to the Jews! Death to the dirty Jews!'

A final incident completed Marc's enlightenment while, with his

heart full of bitterness, he continued to watch the scene. He caught

sight of Inspector Mauraisin, who, as on the previous day, had come

from Beaumont to ascertain, no doubt, what might be his best line of

conduct. And when Father Crabot passed, Marc saw that he and Mauraisin

exchanged a smile and a discreet salutation, like men who understood

each other and regarded each other's conduct with approval. All the

monstrous iniquity, woven in the gloom during the last two days, then

appeared to Marc under the clear sky, while the bells of St. Martin's

rang out in honour of the poor little boy whose tragic fate was about

to be so impudently exploited.

But a rough hand was laid on Marc's shoulder, and some words addressed

to him in a tone of bitter irony caused him to look round.

'Well, what did I tell you, my worthy and simple colleague? The dirty

Jew is convicted of villainy and murder. And while he travels to

Beaumont gaol, all the good Brothers are triumphing!'

It was Férou who spoke--Férou the rebellious, starveling schoolmaster,

looking more gawky than ever, with his hair all in disorder, his long

bony head, and his big sneering mouth.

'How can they be accused,' he continued, 'since the little victim

belongs to them, to them alone? Ah! it's certain that nobody will

dare to accuse them, for all Maillebois has seen them take him to

the grave in grand procession! The amusing thing is the buzzing of

that ridiculous black fly, that idiotic Brother Fulgence, who knocks

up against everybody. He's over zealous. But you must have also seen

Father Crabot with his shrewd smile, which doubtless hides no little

stupidity, whatever may be his reputation for skilfulness. At all

events, remember what I tell you, the cleverest, the only really clever

one among them all, is certainly Father Philibin, who pretends to

look like a big booby. You may search for him, but you won't find him

there. It wasn't likely that he would come to Maillebois to-day. He's

keeping himself in the background, and you may be sure that he's doing

some fine work. Ah! I don't know exactly who the culprit may be--he is

certainly none of those--but he belongs to their shop, that's as plain

as a pikestaff, and they will overturn everything rather than give him

up.'

Then as Marc, still overcome, remained silent, merely nodding, Férou

went on: 'Ah! they regard it as a fine opportunity to crush the

freethinkers. A Communal schoolmaster guilty of abomination and murder!

What a splendid battle-cry! They will soon settle our hash, rogues that

we are, without God or country! Yes, death to the traitors who've sold

themselves! Death to the dirty Jews!'

Waving his long arms, Férou went off into the crowd. As he was wont to

say with his excessive jeering bitterness, it mattered little to him at

bottom whether he ended by being burnt at the stake, in a shirt dipped

in brimstone, or whether he starved to death in his wretched school at

Le Moreux.

That evening, when, after a silent dinner in the ladies' company, Marc

found himself alone again with Geneviève, she, observing his despair,

lovingly passed her arms about him, and burst into tears. He felt

deeply moved, for it had seemed to him that day as if their bond of

union had been slightly shaken, as if severance were beginning. He

pressed her to his heart, and for a long time they both wept without

exchanging a word.

At last, hesitating somewhat, she said to him: 'Listen, my dear Marc, I

think we should do well to shorten our stay with grandmother. We might

go away to-morrow.'

Surprised by these words, he questioned her: 'Has she had enough of us

then? Were you told to signify it to me?'

'Oh! no, no! On the contrary, it would grieve mamma. We should have to

invent a pretext, get somebody to send us a telegram.'

'But in that case, why should we not spend our full month here as

usual? We have some little differences together, no doubt; but I don't

complain.'

For a moment Geneviève remained embarrassed. She did not dare to

confess her anxiety at the thought that something had seemed to be

detaching her from her husband that evening, in the atmosphere of

devout hostility in which she lived at her grandmother's. She had felt

indeed as if the ideas and feelings of her girlhood were returning and

clashing with the life which she led as wife and mother. But all that

was merely the faint touch of the past, and her gaiety and confidence

soon returned amid Marc's caresses. Near her, in the cradle, she could

hear the gentle and regular breathing of her little Louise.

'You are right,' she said. 'Let us stay--and do your duty as you

understand it. We love each other too well to be otherwise than happy,

always.'

III

From that time forward, in order to avoid painful quarrels; nothing

more was said of the Affaire Simon in the ladies' little house. At

meals they spoke merely of the fine weather, as if they were a thousand

leagues from Maillebois, where the popular passions raged more and

more tempestuously, old friends of thirty years' standing, and even

relatives quarrelling, threatening one another and exchanging blows.

Marc, who in the home of Geneviève's family displayed such silence and

lack of interest, became elsewhere one of the most ardent combatants,

an heroic worker in the cause of truth and justice.

On the evening of the day when Simon was arrested he had persuaded his

colleague's wife to seek an asylum with her parents, the Lehmanns,

those tailors who dwelt in a little dark house of the Rue du Trou.

It was holiday-time, the school was closed; and, besides, Mignot the

assistant-master, remained to guard the building--that is, when he

was not fishing in the Verpille. Moreover, Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who

wished to take part in the affair, in which her evidence was likely

to prove important, had also remained at her post, renouncing on this

occasion the holiday visit which she usually paid to an aunt dwelling

at a distance. Thus Madame Simon, leaving her furniture behind, in

order that folk might not regard her departure as terrified flight and

a tacit acknowledgment of guilt, had taken Joseph and Sarah to the Rue

du Trou, with a single trunk of clothes, as if she merely intended to

stay with her parents for a few weeks.

From that moment Marc visited the Lehmanns almost daily. The Rue du

Trou, which opened into the Rue du Plaisir, was one of the most sordid

streets of the poor quarter of Maillebois, and the Lehmanns' house

was composed merely of a dark shop and a still darker shop parlour on

the ground floor, then three first-floor rooms, reached by a black

staircase, at the very top of which was a spacious garret, this

last being the only part of the house which the sunrays occasionally

entered. The damp, greenish, cellar-like shop parlour served as a

kitchen and living room. Rachel took possession of the dismal bedroom

of her girlhood; and the old people contented themselves with one

chamber, the third being given to the children, who were also allowed

the run of the garret, which made them a gay and spacious playroom.

Marc constantly felt surprised that such an admirable woman as Rachel,

one of so rare a beauty, should have sprung in such a horrid den from

needy parents, weighed down by a long heredity of anxious penury.

Lehmann, her father, was, at five and fifty, a Jew of the classic type,

short and insignificant, with a large nose, blinking eyes, and a thick

grey beard which hid his mouth. His calling had distorted him; he had

one shoulder higher than the other, and a kind of anxious discomfort

of body was thus added to his humility. His wife, who plied her needle

from morning till night, hid herself away in his shadow, being yet more

retiring in her humility and silent disquietude. They led a narrow life

full of difficulties, earning a scanty subsistence by dint of hard work

for slowly-acquired customers, such as the few Israelites of the region

who were in easy circumstances, and certain Christians who did not

spend much money on their clothes. The gold of France, with which the

Jews were said to gorge themselves, was certainly not piled up there.

Indeed, a feeling of great compassion came to one at the sight of those

poor weary old people, who were ever trembling lest somebody should

deprive them of the bread which cost them so much toil.

At the Lehmanns', however, Marc became acquainted with Simon's brother

David, whom a telegram had summoned on the day of the arrest. Taller

and stronger than Simon, whose senior he was by three years, David had

a full firm face with bright and energetic eyes. After his father's

death he had entered the army, in which he had served for twelve

years, rising from the ranks to a lieutenancy, and after innumerable

struggles and rebuffs being, it seemed, near promotion to the rank

of captain, when he suddenly sent in his papers, lacking the courage

to contend any longer against the affronts to which his comrades and

superiors subjected him because he was a Jew. This had taken place some

five years before the crime of Maillebois, at the time when Simon was

about to marry Rachel. David, who remained a bachelor, looked round

him for occupation, and, like a man of initiative and energy, embarked

in an enterprise of which nobody had previously thought. This was the

working of some very extensive sand and gravel pits on the estate of

La Désirade, which then still belonged to the millionaire banker,

Baron Nathan. The latter, taken with the young man's energy and sense,

granted him a thirty years' lease on fairly low terms, and thus David

was soon on the high road to fortune; for in three years he earned a

hundred thousand francs in this enterprise, which steadily increased in

magnitude and at last absorbed every hour of his time.

But, on hearing of the charge brought against his brother, he did not

hesitate; he placed his business in the hands of a foreman on whom he

could rely, and hurried to Maillebois. He did not for a moment doubt

his brother's innocence. It was materially impossible, he felt, that

such a deed could be the act of such a man, the one whom he knew best

in all the world, who was indeed the counterpart of himself. But he

evinced great prudence, for he desired to do nothing that might harm

his brother, and he knew, too, that all Jews were unpopular. Thus, when

Marc in his impassioned way spoke to him of his suspicions, declaring

that the real culprit must certainly be one of the Brothers of the

Christian Doctrine, David, though at heart of the same opinion, strove

to calm his friend, saying that one must not lose sight of the theory

of a prowling tramp, a chance murderer, who might have entered and left

by the window. As a matter of fact, he felt that he would increase the

popular prejudice against Simon by bringing any random charge against

the Brothers; he foresaw, too, that all efforts would be vain against

the coalition of the interested parties unless he were possessed of

decisive proofs. Meantime, in order that Simon might benefit by an

element of doubt, would it not be best to revert to the theory of that

prowler, which everybody had admitted as possible at the moment of

the discovery of the crime? It would serve as an excellent basis for

provisional operations; whereas a campaign at that moment against the

well-informed and powerfully supported Brothers could only turn against

the prisoner.

David was able to see Simon in the presence of Investigating

Magistrate Daix, and by the long hand-shake which they then exchanged

they fully understood that each was possessed by the same feelings.

Later, David also saw his brother at the prison, and, on returning

to the Lehmanns, he described Simon as being still in great despair,

ever straining his mind in endeavouring to unravel the enigma, but

displaying extraordinary energy in defending his honour and that of

his children. When David recounted all this, seated in the dim little

shop where Marc also was present, the latter was profoundly stirred by

the silent tears of Madame Simon, who looked so beautiful and dolorous

in her self-abandonment, like a woman of weak loving nature cruelly

struck down by destiny. The Lehmanns also could only sigh and display

the shrinking despair of poor folk who were resigned to contumely.

They still plied their needles, and, though they were convinced of

their son-in-law's innocence, they dared not proclaim it before their

customers for fear lest they should aggravate his position and lose

their own means of livelihood. The public effervescence at Maillebois

was unhappily increasing, and one evening a band of brawlers smashed

the shop windows. It was necessary to put up the shutters at once. Then

little manuscript notices were posted in various parts of the town,

calling upon patriots to assemble and burn down the shop. For some days

indeed--particularly one Sunday, after a pompous religious ceremony at

the Capuchin Chapel--the explosion of anti-semite passion became so

intense that Darras, the Mayor, had to send to Beaumont for police,

deeming it necessary to have guards posted in the Rue du Trou lest the

house of the Lehmanns should be sacked.

From hour to hour the affair expanded, and grew more virulent, becoming

a social battlefield on which rival parties contended hotly. Magistrate

Daix had doubtless received orders to conduct his investigations

with all possible speed. In less than a month he interrogated all

the witnesses--Mignot, Mademoiselle Rouzaire, Father Philibin,

Brother Fulgence, several schoolchildren and railway employés.

Brother Fulgence, with his usual exuberance, demanded that his three

assistants, Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias, should also be

interrogated; he likewise insisted that a search should be made at

his school, and this was done; but naturally nothing was found. Daix

thought it his duty, however, to inquire minutely into the suggestion

that the crime might have been committed by a tramp. By his orders the

entire gendarmerie of the department scoured the roads, and some fifty

tramps were arrested, and then released, without the slightest clue

being arrived at. In one instance a pedlar remained three days under

lock and key, but to no purpose. Then Daix, setting aside the theory

of a prowler, remained in presence of the copy-slip, the one tangible

piece of evidence at his disposal, the only thing on which he could

rear his charge.

When this reached the ears of Marc and David, they became calm again,

for it seemed to them impossible that a serious accusation could be

based on that slip of paper, the importance of which was so open to

discussion. As David repeated, although no guilty tramp had been found,

the hypothesis that one existed, or at least an element of doubt, still

remained. And if thereto one added the lack of proof against Simon,

the moral improbability of his guilt, his never-varying protests of

innocence, it was purely impossible for an Investigating Magistrate,

possessed of any conscience, to come to the conclusion that he was the

culprit. A _non-lieu_, otherwise a decision that there was no ground to

proceed further against the prisoner, seemed a certainty on which one

might rely.