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It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration, giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to country folks. Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville and was making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a little piece 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: "For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There!
They heard once more in the distance the muffled roll of the drum and the indistinct voice of the crier. Then they began to talk about the incident, reckoning Master Houlbrèque's chance of finding or not finding his wallet. And the meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared in the doorway. He inquired: "Is Master Hauchecorne of Bréauté here?"
Maitre Hauchecorne was informed. He started off at once and began to relate his story with the denoument. He was triumphant. "What grieved me," said he, "was not the thing itself, do you understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying." All day he talked of his adventure.
His protestations were in vain; he was not believed. He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him. At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders. The news had spread.
Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy. Why had they called him "great rogue"? When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain the whole affair. A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him: "Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string." Hauchecorne stammered: "But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"
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: "For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There!
Malandain, standing in his doorway, began to laugh when he saw him coming. Why? He accosted a farmer from Criquetot, who did not let him finish, but poked him in the pit of his stomach, and shouted in his face: "Go on, you old fox!" Then he turned on his heel. Master Hauchecorne was speechless, and more and more disturbed. Why did he call him "old fox"?
Maitre Hauchecorne, economical as are all true Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre Malandain, the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him.
To no purpose did he protest; he was not believed. He was confronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintained his declaration. They insulted each other for a whole hour. At his own request, Master Hauchecorne was searched. They found nothing on him.
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