“What does this mean, Monsieur? You intend to resort to violence?” he cried.
“No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know.”
“Monsieur, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to know.”
“You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know. Madame Pierson is not sick; I am sure of it.”
“How do you know?”
“The servant told me so. Why has she closed her door against me, and why did she send you to tell me of it?”
Mercanson saw a peasant passing.
“Pierre!” he cried, calling him by name, “wait a moment, I wish to speak with you.”
The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would not dare use violence in the presence of a third person. I released him, but so roughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree. He clenched his fist and turned away without a word.
For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called at Madame Pierson’s and each time was refused admittance. I received one letter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the village, and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word about Mercanson or her illness.