The rustic, dumfounded, stared at the mayor, already alarmed by this suspicion which had fallen upon him, although he failed to understand it. "I, I—I picked up that wallet?" "Yes, you." "On my word of honor, I didn't even so much as see it." "You were seen." "They saw me, me? Who was it saw me?" "Monsieur Malandain, the harness-maker." Thereupon the old man remembered and understood; and flushing with anger, he cried:— "Ah! he saw me, did he, that sneak? He saw me pick up this string, look, m'sieu' mayor." And fumbling in the depths of his pocket, he produced the little piece of cord. But the mayor was incredulous and shook his head. "You won't make me believe, Master Hauchecorne, that Monsieur Malandain, who is a man deserving of credit, mistook this string for a wallet." The peasant, in a rage, raised his hand, spit to one side to pledge his honor, and said:— "It's God's own truth, the sacred truth, all the same, m'sieu' mayor. I say it again, by my soul and my salvation." "After picking it up," rejoined the mayor, "you hunted a long while in the mud, to see if some piece of money hadn't fallen out." The good man was suffocated with wrath and fear. "If any one can tell—if any one can tell lies like that to ruin an honest man! If any one can say—" To no purpose did he protest; he was not believed. He was confronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintained his declaration. They insulted each other for a whole hour. At his own request, Master Hauchecorne was searched. They found nothing on him. At last the mayor, being sorely perplexed, discharged him, but warned him that he proposed to inform the prosecuting attorney's office and to ask for orders. The news had spread. On leaving the mayor's office, the old man was surrounded and questioned with serious or bantering curiosity, in which, however, there was no trace of indignation. And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed. He went his way, stopping his acquaintances, repeating again and again his story and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out, to prove that he had nothing. They said to him:— "You old rogue, _va!_" And he lost his temper, lashing himself into a rage, feverish with excitement, desperate because he was not believed, at a loss what to do, and still telling his story. Night came. He must needs go home. He started with three neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the bit of string: and all the way he talked of his misadventure. During the evening he made a circuit of the village of Bréauté, in order to tell everybody about it. He found none but incredulous listeners. He was ill over it all night. The next afternoon, about one o'clock, Marius Paumelle, a farmhand employed by Master Breton, a farmer of Ymauville, restored the wallet and its contents to Master Huelbrèque of Manneville.