“Nannon,” he said, sternly, “this must end. You have been allowed too much licence already. So much as relates to the affair here is finished; for the rest, Jean-Marie and his master must settle it between them.”
There was a little murmur of applause among the town-people, an honest admiration for their doctor made his opinion as decisive as the maire’s. Nannon shook her head, and drew herself up with a certain pathetic dignity.
“That is easy to say, monsieur,” she answered, her poor old voice tremulous with indignation. “We all know the quantity was just when the corn left the farm, and if the poor boy goes back with this story, it does not require to be a witch to know that my sister will have him on her hands again.”
Thérèse, standing rather behind fat Madame Lemaire, and her basket, was in a little flame of excitement. Her colour rose, her eye sparkled, one or two people near looked at her with curiosity and admiration, but she did not remark it. She liked the old woman with her ugly, half comical, half-pathetic face, and wanted her to be proved in the right; M. Deshoulières, who found himself, to his amusement, constituted a kind of judge, little knew what a warm partisan of the accused was watching him from the background with flashing eyes. He asked a few necessary questions; the sacks had been brought tied and marked as usual, the bill of the quantity delivered to Madame Mathurine, Jean-Marie stoutly denied any encounters on the road. M. Deshoulières felt convinced that he denied too much; old Nannon, on the contrary, was in triumph.
“Now monsieur sees that he is telling the truth!”
“That is just what he is not doing,” said the doctor severely. “If he can give no other account of himself, and Madame Mathurine does not call in the commissary of police, it will be Gohon’s duty to do so. As for you, Nannon, you should know better than to encourage him.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
Nannon’s face was tragic. Thérèse was altogether on her side against M. Deshoulières’ harshness. No one can be so unjust as a girl when her feelings are brought into the battle-field; Nannon’s young champion would have ridden pell-mell over right and wrong, laws and principles, Madame Mathurine, and the whole corporation, in defence of this old woman with her foolish, unreasonable love. She detested M. Deshoulières when he said:—
“It is true. Listen to me, Jean-Marie. You shall have one chance more. Whom did you see on your road here to-day?”
Something came out which sounded like “the Simons and Michault.” There was a murmur of indignation.