was being followed by a crowd of excited children, pass. Male and female
peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred
in their eyes, and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin
with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked each other
whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an
ex-Spahl, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist thought that
he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad half
franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the
murderer of widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for, for six
months.

In the hall of the municipal council, into which his custodians took
him, Randel saw the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with
the schoolmaster by his side. "Ah! ah!" the magistrate exclaimed, "so
here you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you locked
up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without any
resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of begging,
but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are all in
order."

"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,
returned them, and then said: "Search him;" so they searched him, but
found nothing, and the Mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking for
work." "Work?... On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any, if
I hid in the woods?"