The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider.  Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales.  They exchanged news about the crops.  The weather was good for greens, but too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house.  Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and napkins in their hand.

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places: 

“Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o’clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers.  You are requested to return it to the mayor’s office at once or to Maitre Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville.  There will be twenty francs reward.”

Then the man went away.  They heard once more at a distance the dull beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier.  Then they all began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maitre Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on.  They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked: 

“Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?”

Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table answered: 

“Here I am, here I am.”

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair.  He was the notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

“Maitre Hauchecorne,” said he, “this morning on the Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of Manneville.”

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement frightened already at this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

“I—­I picked up that pocketbook?”

“Yes, you.”

“I swear I don’t even know anything about it.”

“You were seen.”

“I was seen—­I?  Who saw me?”

“M.  Malandain, the harness-maker.”

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger, said: 

“Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal?  He saw me picking up this string here, M’sieu le Maire.”

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head: 

“You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain, who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for a pocketbook.”

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside him as if to attest his good faith, repeating: