Inexplicable!  It is inexplicable, this monster of a moon-struck skull!  We shall never get to comprehend it.  I shall not return to my former residence.  What does it matter to me?  I am afraid of encountering that man again, and I shall not run the risk.

I shall not risk it!  I shall not risk it!  I shall not risk it!

And if he returns, if he takes possession of his shop, who is to prove that my furniture was on his premises?  There is only my testimony against him; and I feel that that is not above suspicion.

Ah! no!  This kind of existence was no longer possible.  I was not able to guard the secret of what I had seen.  I could not continue to live like the rest of the world, with the fear upon me that those scenes might be re-enacted.

I have come to consult the doctor who directs this lunatic asylum, and I have told him everything.

After he had interrogated me for a long time, he said to me: 

“Will you consent, monsieur, to remain here for some time?”

“Most willingly, monsieur.”

“You have some means?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Will you have isolated apartments?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Would you care to receive any friends?”

“No, monsieur, no, nobody.  The man from Rouen might take it into his head to pursue me here to be revenged on me.”

And I have been alone, alone, all, all alone, for three months.  I am growing tranquil by degrees.  I have no longer any fears.  If the antiquary should become mad ... and if he should be brought into this asylum!  Even prisons themselves are not places of security.

SIMON’S PAPA

Noon had just struck.  The school-door opened and the youngsters tumbled out rolling over each other in their haste to get out quickly.  But instead of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as was their daily wont, they stopped a few paces off, broke up into knots and set to whispering.

The fact was that that morning Simon, the son of La Blanchotte, had, for the first time, attended school.

They had all of them in their families heard talk of La Blanchotte; and, although in public she was welcome enough, the mothers among themselves treated her with compassion of a somewhat disdainful kind, which the children had caught without in the least knowing why.

As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he never went abroad, and did not go galloping about with them through the streets of the village or along the banks of the river.  Therefore, they loved him but little; and it was with a certain delight, mingled with considerable astonishment, that they met and that they recited to each other this phrase, set afoot by a lad of fourteen or fifteen who appeared to know all, all about it, so sagaciously did he wink.  “You know ...  Simon ... well, he has no papa.”