Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 8

G >> Guy de Maupassant >> Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 8


The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken out
the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together, with
terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided
manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the smaller
price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was starting to
go away:

"All right, I'll let you have them, Mait' Anthime."

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus
struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast
court was filled with vehicles of every sort--wagons, gigs,
chars-a-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow
with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like
two arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in
the air.

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace, with
its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those who sat
at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with
pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast meat
and of gravy flowing over crisp brown skin arose from the hearth, kindled
merriment, caused mouths to water.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's,
the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made
a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow
cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales.
They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens, but
too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house. Every
one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at once and
ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and napkins in their
hand.

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a jerky
voice, pausing in the wrong places:

"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all
persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on
the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather
pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are
requested to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre Fortune
Houlbreque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward."

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull
beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all began
to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maitre
Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of
gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked:

"Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?"

Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table answered:

"Here I am, here I am."

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the notary
of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

"Maitre Hauchecorne," said he, "this morning on the Beuzeville road, you
were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of
Manneville."

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

"I--I picked up that pocketbook?"

"Yes, YOU."

"I swear I don't even know anything about it."

"You were seen."

"I was seen--I? Who saw me?"

"M. Malandain, the harness-maker."

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

"Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string
here, M'sieu le Maire."

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little
end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

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

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

"For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul's
salvation, I repeat it."

The mayor continued:

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

The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

"How can they tell--how can they tell such lies as that to slander
an honest man! How can they?"

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

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

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

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

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

They said to him:

"You old rogue!"

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

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

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

He brooded over it all night long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him pass.
Why?

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

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

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

A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

"Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string."

Hauchecorne stammered:

"But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"

But the other continued:

"Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's another
who returns it. And no one the wiser."

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

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

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

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

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

"Those are liars proofs," they said behind his back.

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

He was visibly wasting away.

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

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

"A little bit of string--a little bit of string. See, here it is,
M'sieu le Maire."