Thereupon La Normande threw herself upon a chair, and burst into a wild fit of hysterical sobbing at finding herself so powerless.  She was quite at a loss to understand what these men wanted with her.  The commissary, however, had noticed how scantily she was clad, and taking a shawl from a peg, he flung it over her.  Still she did not wrap it round her, but only sobbed the more bitterly as she watched the men roughly searching the apartment.

“But what have I done?” she at last stammered out.  “What are you looking for here?”

Thereupon the commissary pronounced the name of Florent; and La Normande, catching sight of the old woman, who was standing at the door, cried out:  “Oh, the wretch!  This is her doing!” and she rushed at her mother.

She would have struck her if she had reached her; but the police agents held her back, and forcibly wrapped her in the shawl.  Meanwhile, she struggled violently, and exclaimed in a choking voice: 

“What do you take me for?  That Florent has never been in this room, I tell you.  There was nothing at all between us.  People are always trying to injure me in the neighbourhood; but just let anyone come here and say anything before my face, and then you’ll see!  You’ll lock me up afterwards, I dare say, but I don’t mind that!  Florent, indeed!  What a lie!  What nonsense!”

This flood of words seemed to calm her; and her anger now turned against Florent, who was the cause of all the trouble.  Addressing the commissary, she sought to justify herself.

“I did not know his real character, sir,” she said.  “He had such a mild manner that he deceived us all.  I was unwilling to believe all I heard, because I know people are so malicious.  He only came here to give lessons to my little boy, and went away directly they were over.  I gave him a meal here now and again, that’s true and sometimes made him a present of a fine fish.  That’s all.  But this will be a warning to me, and you won’t catch me showing the same kindness to anyone again.”

“But hasn’t he given you any of his papers to take care of?” asked the commissary.

“Oh no, indeed!  I swear it.  I’d give them up to you at once if he had.  I’ve had quite enough of this, I can tell you!  It’s no joke to see you tossing all my things about and ferreting everywhere in this way.  Oh! you may look; there’s nothing.”

The officers, who examined every article of furniture, now wished to enter the little closet where Muche slept.  The child had been awakened by the noise, and for the last few moments he had been crying bitterly, as though he imagined that he was going to be murdered.

“This is my boy’s room,” said La Normande, opening the door.

Muche, quite naked, ran up and threw his arms round his mother’s neck.  She pacified him, and laid him down in her own bed.  The officers came out of the little room again almost immediately, and the commissary had just made up his mind to retire, when the child, still in tears, whispered in his mother’s ear:  “They’ll take my copy-books.  Don’t let them have my copy-books.”