At Jourdain's the common room was full of customers, as the great yard was full of vehicles of every sort—carts, cabriolets,[4] _char-à-bancs_, tilburys,[5] unnamable carriages, shapeless, patched, with, their shafts reaching heavenward like arms, or with their noses in the ground and their tails in the air. The vast fireplace, full of clear flame, cast an intense heat against the backs of the row on the right of the table. Three spits were revolving, laden with chickens, pigeons, and legs of mutton; and a delectable odor of roast meat, and of gravy dripping from the browned skin, came forth from the hearth, stirred the guests to merriment, and made their mouths water. All the aristocracy of the plough ate there, at Mast' Jourdain's, the innkeeper and horse trader—a shrewd rascal who had money. The dishes passed and were soon emptied, like the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, his sales and his purchases. They inquired about the crops. The weather was good for green stuffs, but a little wet for wheat. Suddenly a drum rolled in the yard, in front of the house. In an instant everybody was on his feet, save a few indifferent ones; and they all ran to the door and windows with their mouths still full and napkins in hand. Having finished his long tattoo, the public crier shouted in a jerky voice, making his pauses in the wrong places:— "The people of Goderville, and all those present at the market are informed that between—nine and ten o'clock this morning on the Beuzeville—road, a black leather wallet was lost, containing five hundred—francs, and business papers. The finder is requested to carry it to—the mayor's at once, or to Master Fortuné Huelbrèque of Manneville. A reward of twenty francs will be paid." Then he went away. They heard once more in the distance the muffled roll of the drum and the indistinct voice of the crier. Then they began to talk about the incident, reckoning Master Houlbrèque's chance of finding or not finding his wallet. And the meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared in the doorway. He inquired:— "Is Master Hauchecorne of Bréauté here?" Master Hauchecorne, who was seated at the farther end of the table, answered:— "Here I am." And the corporal added:— "Master Hauchecorne, will you be kind enough to go to the mayor's office with me? Monsieur the mayor would like to speak to you." The peasant, surprised and disturbed, drank his _petit verre[6]_ at one swallow, rose, and even more bent than in the morning, for the first steps after each rest were particularly painful, he started off, repeating:— "Here I am, here I am." And he followed the brigadier. The mayor was waiting for him, seated in his arm-chair. He was the local notary, a stout, solemn-faced man, given to pompous speeches. "Master Hauchecorne," he said, "you were seen this morning, on the Beuzeville road, to pick up the wallet lost by Master Huelbrèque of Manneville."