“The thought of that poor lost woman haunted me, and I made several applications to the Prussian authorities in order to obtain some information, and was nearly shot for doing so.  When spring returned, the army of occupation withdrew, but my neighbor’s house remained closed; the grass grew thick in the garden walks.  The old servant had died during the winter, and nobody troubled himself any longer about the occurrence; I alone thought about it constantly.  What had they done with the woman?  Had she escaped through the forest?  Had somebody found her, and taken her to a hospital, without being able to obtain any information from her?  Nothing happened to relieve my doubts; but, by degrees, time assuaged my fears.

“Well, in the following autumn the woodcock were very plentiful, and as my gout had left me for a time, I dragged myself as far as the forest.  I had already killed four or five of the long-billed birds, when I knocked over one, which fell into a ditch full of branches, and I was obliged to get into it, in order to pick it up, and I found that it had fallen close to a dead human body, and immediately the recollection of the mad woman struck me, like a blow in the chest.  Many other people had perhaps died in the wood during that disastrous year, but I do not know why, yet I was sure, sure, I tell you, that I should see the head of that wretched maniac.

“And suddenly I understood, I guessed everything.  They had abandoned her on that mattress in the cold, deserted wood; and, faithful to her fixed idea, she had allowed herself to perish under that thick and light counterpane of snow, without moving either arms or legs.

“Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I only pray that our sons may never see any wars again.”

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

I

“There, my friend,” I said to Labarbe, “you have just repeated those five words, that pig of a Morin.  Why on earth do I never hear Morin’s name mentioned without his being called a pig?”

Labarbe, who is a Deputy, looked at me with eyes like an owl’s, and said:  “Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin’s story, and you come from La Rochelle?” I was obliged to declare that I did not know Morin’s story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his recital.

“You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper’s shop on the Quai de la Rochelle?” “Yes, perfectly.”