A stout peasant came in sight, drawing a score of frightened, bleating sheep in front of him, whom an active dog kept together, so Randel got up and raising his cap, he said:  “You do not happen to have any work for a man who is dying of hunger?” But the other giving an angry look at the vagabond, replied:  “I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the road.”

And the carpenter went back, and sat down by the side of the ditch again.  He waited there for a long time, watching the country people pass, and looking for a kind compassionate face, before he renewed his request, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was adorned with a gold chain.  “I have been looking for work,” he said, “for the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a half-penny in my pocket.”  But the semi-gentleman replied:  “You should have read the notice which is stuck up at the beginning of the village:  Begging is prohibited within the boundaries of this parish. Let me tell you I am the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly, I shall have you arrested.”

Randel, who was getting angry, replied:  “Have me arrested if you like; I should prefer it, for at any rate I should not die of hunger.”  And he went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about a quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road.  They were walking slowly, side by side, well in sight, glittering in the sun with their shining hats, their yellow accouterments and their metal buttons, as if to frighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance.  He knew that they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was seized with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and to have his revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking with military steps, heavily and balancing themselves as if they were doing the goose steps; and then suddenly as they passed him, they appeared to have noticed him, and stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly, and the brigadier came up to him and asked:  “What are you doing here?” “I am resting,” the man replied, calmly.  “Where do you come from?” “If I had to tell you all the places I have been to, it would take me more than an hour.”  “Where are you going to?” “To Ville-Avary.”  “Where is that?” “In La Manche.”  “Is that where you belong to?” “It is.”  “Why did you leave it?” “To try for work.”

The brigadier turned to his gendarme, and said, in the angry voice of a man who is exasperated at last by the same trick:  “They all say that, these scamps.  I know all about it.”  And then he continued:  “Have you any papers?” “Yes, I have some.”  “Give them to me.”

Randel took his papers out of his pockets; his certificates, those poor worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave them to the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing and then having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to Randel with the dissatisfied look of a man whom someone cleverer than himself has tricked.