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Half an hour later, convinced that it was his melancholy duty, Bouzille left two-thirds of his train in mother Chiquard's custody, got astride his prehistoric tricycle and slowly pedalled off towards Saint-Jaury. New Year's Day is a melancholy and a tedious one for everybody whose public or private relations do not make it an exceptionally interesting one.
The gendarme, who had been listening with no great attention, chimed in. "So it was you who stole the rabbit, was it, Bouzille?" "What's the good of your asking me that, M'sieu Morand?" protested Bouzille. "I suppose you would have left me alone if you hadn't been sure of it?"
"I don't recognise him; he's not from the country." "That's sure," the old woman agreed. "He's dressed like a gentleman." The two looked at each other in silence. Bouzille was not nearly so complacent as he had been a few minutes before.
The day of that murder you know the murder of the Marquise de Langrune!" Bouzille in his excitement had caught the green man by the sleeve, but the green man impatiently shook him off, growling angrily. "Well, and what about it?" For some minutes now Hogshead Geoffroy and Mealy Benoît had been exchanging threatening glances.
Behind Bonbonne came Bouzille, who had left his turn-out on the pavement and come down into the supper room to eat and drink his five francs, and more if credit could be got.
Bouzille's companion bent his head and whispered very low: "There has been something worse than that: the job with the lady of this house." "Oh, that!" said Bouzille with a gesture of complete indifference. But he did not proceed. The sergeant came back to the kitchen and said sternly: "François Paul, forward: the examining magistrate will hear you now."
"Well, they did and they didn't," said Bouzille, scratching his head. "M'sieu Morand, who is an old friend of mine, took me to the lock-up at Saint-Jaury, and I was to have gone next morning to the court at Brives, where I know the sentence for stealing domestic animals is three weeks.
A sensational article about the globe-trotting tramp appeared in the next number of that famous sporting journal, and Bouzille woke to find himself famous.
"Well, no, Bouzille," he said kindly, "we must take you to the lock-up; there's the little matter of the rabbit to be cleared up, you know. Come now, quick march! Take him to Saint-Jaury, Morand!"
On the shoulders and back of the neck were bruises and stains of blood. Bouzille, who was quite unaffected by the ghastliness of the object and still kept up his gay chant "I have fished up a body, I've earned twenty-five francs," observed that there were large splinters of wood, rotten from long immersion, sticking in some of the wounds.
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