“Very well,” I said, “I shall see her to-morrow and she will explain what this means.”

His hesitation continued.

“Madame Pierson has also told me—­that I should inform you—­in fact, I am requested to—­”

“Well, what is it?” I cried, impatiently.

“Sir, you are becoming violent!  I think Madame Pierson is seriously ill; she will not be able to see you this week.”

Another bow, and he retired.

It was clear that his visit concealed some mystery:  either Madame Pierson did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why; or Mercanson had interfered on his own responsibility.

I waited until the following day and then presented myself at her door; the servant who met me said that her mistress was indeed very ill and could not see me; she refused to accept the money I offered her, and would not answer my questions.

As I was passing through the village on my return, I saw Mercanson; he was surrounded by a number of schoolchildren, his uncle’s pupils.  I stopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have a word with him.

He followed me aside; but now it was my turn to hesitate, for I was at a loss how to proceed to draw his secret from him.

“Sir,” I finally said, “will you kindly inform me if what you told me yesterday was the truth, or was there some motive behind it?  Moreover, as there is not a physician in the neighborhood who can be called in, in case of necessity, it is important that I should know whether her condition is serious.”

He protested that Madame Pierson was ill, but that he knew nothing more, except that she had sent for him and asked him to notify me as he had done.  While talking we had walked down the road some distance and had now reached a deserted spot.  Seeing that neither strategy nor entreaty would serve my purpose, I suddenly turned and seized him by the arms.

“What does this mean, Monsieur?  You intend to resort to violence?” he cried.

“No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know.”

“Monsieur, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to know.”

“You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know.  Madame Pierson is not sick; I am sure of it.”

“How do you know?”

“The servant told me so.  Why has she closed her door against me, and why did she send you to tell me of it?”

Mercanson saw a peasant passing.

“Pierre!” he cried, calling him by name, “wait a moment, I wish to speak with you.”

The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would not dare use violence in the presence of a third person.  I released him, but so roughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree.  He clenched his fist and turned away without a word.

For three weeks I suffered terribly.  Three times a day I called at Madame Pierson’s and each time was refused admittance.  I received one letter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the village, and begged me to call less frequently.  Not a word about Mercanson or her illness.