"I tell you I will." She wrenched her hand free and caught at the
canvas. A naked foot and ankle showed. He pinioned her wrists with one
hand and drew her towards the door, determination and anger in his face.

"You beast, you liar!" she said.

"You beast! beast! beast!"

Then, with a burst of angry laughter, she opened the door herself. "You
ain't fit to know," she said; "they told the truth about you. Now you
can take the canvas off her. Good-bye!" With that she was gone. The
following day was Sunday. Francois did not attend Mass, and such strange
scandalous reports had reached the Cure that he was both disturbed and
indignant. That afternoon, after vespers (which Francois did not
attend), the Cure made his way to the sculptor's workshop, followed
by a number of parishioners.

The crowd increased, and when the Cure knocked at the door it seemed as
if half the village was there. The chief witness against Francois had
been Jeanne Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cure, with
indignation and bitterness, that there was no doubt about it; all that
had been said was true.

Francois, with wonder and some confusion, admitted the Cure. When M.
Fabre demanded that he be taken to the new workshop, Francois led the
way. The crowd pushed after, and presently the place was full. A
hundred eyes were fastened upon the canvas-covered statue, which had been
the means of the young man's undoing.

Terrible things had been said--terrible things of Francois, and of the