They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, with military step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing the goose step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to have noticed him, they 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?” “It is.”  “Why did you leave it?” “To look for work.”

The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of a man who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated 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 pocket, 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 some one cleverer than himself has tricked.

After a few moments’ further reflection, he asked him:  “Have you any money on you?” “No.”  “None whatever?” “None.”  “Not even a sou?” “Not even a son!” “How do you live then?” “On what people give me.”  “Then you beg?” And Randel answered resolutely:  “Yes, when I can.”

Then the gendarme said:  “I have caught you on the highroad in the act of vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I command you to come with me.”  The carpenter got up and said:  “Wherever you please.”  And, placing himself between the two soldiers, even before he had received the order to do so, he added:  “Well, lock me up; that will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains.”

And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could be seen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off.  Service was about to begin when they went through the village.  The square was full of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminal pass.  He was being followed by a crowd of excited children.  Male and female peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin with their nails, to trample him under their feet.  They asked each other whether he had committed murder or robbery.  The butcher, who was an ex-’spahi’, declared that he was a deserter.  The tobacconist thought that he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for for six months.

In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel saw the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with the schoolmaster by his side.  “Aha! aha!” the magistrate exclaimed, “so here you are again, my fine fellow.  I told you I should have you locked up.  Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?”