“Mere fancy!” said Pierre carelessly,—­“And truly if it were not for knowing thee to be honest, I should doubt the miracle altogether!”

“And thou wouldst be of the majority!” said Patoux equably—­“For our house has been a very bee-hive of buzz and trouble ever since a bit of good was done in it—­and Martine Doucet, the mother of the cured child, has led the life of the damned, thanks to the kindness of her neighbours and friends!  And will you believe me, the Archbishop of Rouen himself took the trouble to walk into the market-place and assure her she was a wicked woman,—­that she had taught her boy to play the cripple in order to excite pity,—­and I believe he thinks she is concerned in the strange disappearance of his clerk, Claude Cazeau.  For this same Cazeau came to our house one night when Martine was there, and told her he had instructions to take her to Rome to see the Pope, and her child with her, for the purpose of explaining the miracle in her own words, and giving the full life-history of herself and the little one.  And she was angry,—­ah, she can be very angry, poor Martine!—­she has a shrill tongue and a wild eye, and she said out flatly that she would not go, and furthermore that she would not be caught in a priest’s trap, or words to that effect.  And this clerk, Cazeau,—­a miserable little white-livered rascal, crawled away from my door in a rage with us all, and was never seen again.  The police have hunted high and low for trace of him, but can find none.  But I have my suspicions—­”

“What are they?” enquired Midon,—­“That he went out like Judas, and hanged himself?”

“Truly he might have done that without loss or trouble to anyone!” said Patoux tranquilly,—­“But he thought too well of himself to be quite so ready for a meeting with le bon Dieu!  No!—­I will tell you what I think.  There was a poor girl who used to roam about the streets of our town, called Marguerite, she was once a sensible, bright creature enough, the only daughter of old Valmond the saddler, who died from a kick from his favourite horse one day, and left his child all alone in the world.  She was a worker in a great silk-factory, and was happy and contented, so it seemed, till—­well!  It is the old story—­a man with a woman, and the man is most often the devil in it.  Anyway, this Marguerite went mad on her love-affair,—­and we called her ’La Folle,’—­not harshly—­for all the town was kind to her.  I mentioned her name once in the presence of this man Cazeau, and he started as if an adder had bitten him.  And now—­he has disappeared—­and strange to say, so has she!”

“So has she!” echoed Midon, opening his eyes a little wider—­“Then what do you suppose?—­”

“Just this,” said Patoux, emphasizing his words by marking them out with a fat thumb on the palm of the other hand—­“That Cazeau was the villain of the piece as they say in the theatres, and that she has punished him for his villainy.  She used to swear in her mad speech that if ever she met the man who had spoilt her life for her, she would kill him; and that is just what I believe she has done!”