This preliminary catechism being completed, the prosecutor unfolded his tale.  He had been drinking the health of His Majesty the King of the Belgians and confusion to his enemies in an estaminet at the crowded hour of 7 P.M.  The accused had entered, and in the presence of many of his neighbours had said to him, “Vous etes un Bosche.”  “Un Bosche!” repeated the witness indignantly.  “It is a gross defamation.”  With difficulty had he been restrained from the shedding of blood.  But, being a law-abiding, peaceful man and the father of a family, he volubly explained, he had laid this information ("denonciation”) before the procureur du roi.

The judge looked grave.  But he duly noted down the testimony, after some perfunctory cross-examination, and, it being read over to the witness, the judge added “Lecture faite,” and the persisting witness signed the deposition with his own hand.  The prosecutor having retired, two other witnesses, whom he had vouched to warranty, came forward and testified to the same effect.  And they also signed their depositions and withdrew.

The magistrate ordered the usher to bring in the accused, who had been summoned to appear by a mandat d’amener.  He was a stout, dark, convivial-looking soul, with a merry eye, not altogether convinced of the enormity of his delict, and inclined at first to deprecate these proceedings.  But the dialectical skill of the magistrate soon tied him into knots, and reduced him to a state of extreme penitence.

“Where were you on the 3rd of April at 7 P.M.?” began the magistrate, making what gunners call a ranging shot.  The accused appeared to have been everywhere in Poperinghe except at the estaminet.  He had been to the butcher’s, the baker’s, and the candlestick-maker’s.

“At what hour did you enter the Cafe a l’Harmonie?”

The accused tried to look as if he now heard of the Cafe “A l’Harmonie” for the first time, but under the searching eye of the magistrate he failed.  He might, he conceded, have looked in there for a thirsty moment.

“Do you know Jules F——?” the magistrate persisted.  The accused grudgingly admitted the existence of such a person.  “Is he a German?” asked the magistrate pointedly.  The accused pondered.  “Would you call him a Bosche?” persisted the magistrate.  “I never meant to call him ’a Bosche,’” the accused said in an unguarded moment.  The magistrate pounced on him.  He had found the range.  After that the result was a foregone conclusion.  The duel ended in the accused tearfully admitting he thought he must have been drunk, and throwing himself on the mercy of the magistrate.

“It is a grave offence,” said the magistrate severely, as he contemplated the lachrymose delinquent.  “An estaminet is a public place within the meaning of Section 444 of the Code Penal.  Vous avez mechamment impute a une personne un fait precis qui est de nature a porter atteinte a son honneur.”  “And calculated to provoke a breach of the peace,” he added.  “It is punishable with a term of imprisonment not exceeding one year.”  The face of the accused grew long.  “Or a fine of 200 francs,” he pursued.  The lips of the accused quivered.  “You may have to go to a maison de correction,” continued the magistrate pitilessly.  The accused wept.