But he could find no opening; had no pretext, and he waited for some fortunate circumstance, with his heart ravaged, and his mind topsy-turvy.  The night passed, and the pretty girl still slept, while Morin was meditating his own fall.  The day broke and soon the first ray of sunlight appeared in the sky, a long, clear ray which shone on the face of the sleeping girl, and woke her, so she sat up, looked at the country, then at Morin and smiled.  She smiled like a happy woman, with an engaging and bright look, and Morin trembled.  Certainly that smile was intended for him, it was a discreet invitation, the signal which he was waiting for.  That smile meant to say:  “How stupid, what a ninny, what a dolt, what a donkey you are, to have sat there on your seat like a post all night.

“Just look at me, am I not charming?  And you have sat like that for the whole night, when you have been alone with a pretty woman, you great simpleton!”

She was still smiling as she looked at him, she even began to laugh; and he lost his head, trying to find something suitable to say, no matter what.  But he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, seized with a coward’s courage, he said to himself:  “So much the worse, I will risk everything,” and suddenly, without the slightest warning, he went towards her, his arms extended, his lips protruding, and seizing her in his arms, he kissed her.

She sprang up with a bound, crying out:  “Help!  Help!” and screaming with horror, and then she opened the carriage door, and waved her arm out, mad with terror, and trying to jump out, while Morin, who was almost distracted, and feeling sure that she would throw herself out, held her by the skirt and stammered:  “Oh!  Madame!...  Oh!  Madame!”

The train slackened speed, and then stopped.  Two guards rushed up at the young woman’s frantic signals, who threw herself into their arms, stammering:  “That man wanted ... wanted ... to ... to ...”  And then she fainted.

They were at Mauze station, and the gendarme on duty arrested Morin.  When the victim of his brutality had regained her consciousness, she made her charge against him, and the police drew it up.  The poor linen-draper did not reach home till night, with a prosecution hanging over him, for an outrage to morals in a public place.

II

At that time I was editor of the Fanal des Charentes, and I used to meet Morin every day at the Cafe du Commerce, and the day after his adventure he came to see me, as he did not know what to do.  I did not hide my opinion from him, but said to him:  “You are no better than a pig.  No decent man behaves like that.”

He cried.  His wife had given him a beating, and he foresaw his trade ruined, his name dragged through the mire and dishonored, his friends outraged and taking no more notice of him.  In the end he excited my pity, and I sent for my colleague Rivet, a bantering, but very sensible little man, to give us his advice.