that of theft exasperated her. They knew it, and that was why folks,
from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face.

The man who had just called her father a thief was merely repeating
what he had heard said for many years. The girl's defiant attitude
only incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silvere still had his fists
clenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher from
the Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadside
awaiting the order to march, had not come to the girl's assistance.

"The little one's right," he said. "Chantegreil was one of us. I knew
him. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always believed
in the truth of his deposition before the judge. The gendarme whom he
brought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubt
taking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself! At all events
Chantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery."

As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficed
to bring other defenders to Miette's aid. Several workmen also professed
to have known Chantegreil.

"Yes, yes, it's true!" they all said. "He wasn't a thief. There are
some scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be sent to prison in his place.
Chantegreil was our brother. Come, now, be calm, little one."

Miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father. He was
generally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found good
fellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be an
honest man. She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened in
her by the "Marseillaise;" and she bethought herself how she might thank