"What then? what then?" they cry from all sides, with outstretched necks and open mouths. "But ... I should not be astonished ... if it were...." We are breathless. "Monsieur Lanlaire. There, that is what I think, if you want to know," she concludes, with an expression of base and atrocious ferocity. Several protest; others reserve judgment. I declare that Monsieur Lanlaire is incapable of such a crime, and I cry: "He, Lord Jesus? Oh, the poor man! He would be too much afraid." But Rose, with still more hatred, insists: "Incapable? Ta, ta, ta! And the little Jézureau? And Valentin's little girl? And the little Dougère? Do you remember them? Incapable?" "It is not the same thing; it is not the same thing." In their hatred of Monsieur they do not, like Rose, go so far as to make a formal charge of murder. That he outrages little girls who consent to be outraged,--yes, that is possible. That he kills them,--that is scarcely credible. But Rose stormily insists. She froths at the mouth; she pounds the table with her soft, fat hands; she cries, with excited gestures: "Do I not tell you yes? I am sure of it." Mme. Gouin, who has been listening in a dreamy fashion, finally declares, in her meaningless voice: "Oh! indeed, young women, in these matters one can never tell. As for the little Jézureau, it was a famous bit of luck, I assure you, that he did not kill her." In spite of the authority of the grocer, in spite of the obstinacy of Rose, who will not consent to change the subject, they pass in review, one after another, all the people in the neighborhood who could have done the deed. They find heaps of them,--all those whom they detest, all those of whom they have any jealousy, against whom they have any spite. Finally the pale little woman with the rat-like nose remarks: "You know that last week there were two capuchins begging around here, who did not present a very inviting appearance, with their dirty beards. May it not have been they?" A cry of indignation arises: "Worthy and pious monks? The good God's holy souls! It is abominable!" And, as we take our departure, after laying everybody under suspicion, Rose, bent on establishing her theory, repeats: "Do I not tell you that it is he? It is he, be sure!" Before re-entering the house, I stop a moment in the harness-room, where Joseph is polishing his harnesses. Above a dresser, on which bottles of varnish and boxes of blacking are symmetrically arranged, I see flaming on the pine wainscoting the portrait of Drumont. To give him greater majesty, undoubtedly, Joseph has recently adorned him with a crown of laurel. Opposite, the portrait of the pope is almost entirely hidden by a horse-blanket hung upon a nail. Anti-Jewish pamphlets and patriotic songs are piled up on a shelf, and in a corner Joseph's club stands lonely among the brooms. Suddenly I say to Joseph, solely from a motive of curiosity: