"Master Hauchecorne," said he, "you were seen to pick up, on the Benzeville road, this morning, the wallet lost by Master Houlebrèque, of Manneville." The peasant, astonished, looked at the mayor, frightened already, without knowing why, by this suspicion which had fallen on him. "What! what! I picked up the wallet?" "Yes; you yourself." "Word of honor, I didn't even know of it." "You were seen." "Seen? What? Who saw me?" "Monsieur Malandin, the harness-maker." Then the old man remembered, understood, reddened with anger. "He saw meh, th' lout? He saw meh pick up that string! See here, m'sieu mayor," and feeling in the bottom of his pocket, he drew out the bit of cord. But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head. "You won't make me believe, Master Hauchecorne, that Malandin, who is a man worthy of credence, took that thread for a wallet." The peasant, furious, raised his hand, spit, to attest his innocence, and declared: "Yet it's the truth of God, the sacred truth, m'sieu mayor. On my soul and my salvation, I repeat it." The mayor continued: "After picking up the object you went on searching in the mud a long time to see if some piece of money mightn't have escaped you." The old man gasped with indignation and fear. "May one tell--may one tell lies like that to injure an honest man? May one say--" His protest was vain. He was not believed. He was confronted with Monsieur Malandin, who repeated and sustained his former affirmation. For an hour the two men hurled insults at each other. Hauchecorne was searched, at his demand, and nothing was found on him. Finally the mayor, greatly perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he should inform the council and await orders. The news spread. When he came out of the town hall the old man was surrounded and questioned with a curiosity serious or mocking, but with no ill-will in it. He began to recount the story of the string, but no one believed him--they only laughed. He went on, stopped by everybody, stopping his acquaintances, beginning anew his tale and his protestations, turning his pockets inside out to prove that he had nothing. "Move on, old quibbler," they said to him. And he became angry, exasperated, feverish, sick at heart, at not being believed. He did not know what to do, but told his story over and over. Night came. It was time to go home. He set out with three of his neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the bit of cord, and all the way home he talked of his adventure. In the evening he made a circuit of the village of Bréauté to tell it to everybody. He met only incredulity. He was ill all night from his trouble. The next day, toward one o'clock in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand, of Ymanville, returned the wallet and its contents to Monsieur Houlebrèque, of Manneville. The man stated, in effect, that he had found the wallet in the road, but not knowing how to read, had taken it home to his employer.