“Yes, they are, as true as my name’s Mathieu, monsieur. I believe them to be honest.” “Yet they’ve been arrested?” “What does that prove?—But I don’t want to mix myself up in other people’s affairs.” “And what do you think of the murder?” “Of the murder of poor Mademoiselle Stangerson?—A good girl much loved everywhere in the country. That’s what I think of it—and many things besides; but that’s nobody’s business.” “Not even mine?” insisted Rouletabille. The innkeeper looked at him sideways and said gruffly: “Not even yours.” The omelette ready, we sat down at table and were silently eating, when the door was pushed open and an old woman, dressed in rags, leaning on a stick, her head doddering, her white hair hanging loosely over her wrinkled forehead, appeared on the threshold. “Ah!—there you are, Mother Angenoux!—It’s long since we saw you last,” said our host. “I have been very ill, very nearly dying,” said the old woman. “If ever you should have any scraps for the Bête du Bon Dieu—?” And she entered, followed by a cat, larger than any I had ever believed could exist. The beast looked at us and gave so hopeless a miau that I shuddered. I had never heard so lugubrious a cry. As if drawn by the cat’s cry a man followed the old woman in. It was the Green Man. He saluted by raising his hand to his cap and seated himself at a table near to ours. “A glass of cider, Daddy Mathieu,” he said. As the Green Man entered, Daddy Mathieu had started violently; but visibly mastering himself he said:— “I’ve no more cider; I served the last bottles to these gentlemen.” “Then give me a glass of white wine,” said the Green Man, without showing the least surprise. “I’ve no more white wine—no more anything,” said Daddy Mathieu, surlily. “How is Madame Mathieu?” “Quite well, thank you.” So the young woman with the large, tender eyes, whom we had just seen, was the wife of this repugnant and brutal rustic, whose jealousy seemed to emphasise his physical ugliness. Slamming the door behind him, the innkeeper left the room. Mother Angenoux was still standing, leaning on her stick, the cat at her feet. “You’ve been ill, Mother Angenoux?—Is that why we have not seen you for the last week?” asked the Green Man. “Yes, Monsieur keeper. I have been able to get up but three times, to go to pray to Sainte-Geneviève, our good patroness, and the rest of the time I have been lying on my bed. There was no one to care for me but the Bête du bon Dieu!” “Did she not leave you?” “Neither by day nor by night.” “Are you sure of that?” “As I am of Paradise.” “Then how was it, Madame Angenoux, that all through the night of the murder nothing but the cry of the Bête du bon Dieu was heard?” Mother Angenoux planted herself in front of the forest-keeper and struck the floor with her stick.