Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace,
with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those
who sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens,
with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast
meat and of gravy flowing ever crisp brown skin arose from the hearth,
kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.
All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Maît'
Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp
fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.
The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow
cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales.
They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens,
but too wet for grain.
Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house.
Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at
once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and
napkins in their hand.
When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a
jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:
"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all
persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on
the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather
pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are
requested, to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre
Fortuné Houlbrèque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs
reward."
Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull
beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all
began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maître
Houlbrèque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.
The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal
of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.
He asked:
"Is Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, here?"