It was Sunday morning, and the streets of the town of Beaulieu were full of people, many of them being farming folk from the neighborhood, who had come in to attend church, and through the midst of this curious crowd the unfortunate Tamby children, their faces crimsoned with shame, were compelled to pass in charge of two gendarmes, just as if they were criminals.
When they reached the entrance of the court-house, Nadine turned to Nalla, and, patting his trunk tenderly, said:
"Dear old friend, you must be very wise now, very wise indeed, lest some fresh trouble come upon us."
And while Nalla responded with his queer grunting, Nadine saw that he too had his anxieties. He turned his huge head from right to left, looking at the children with his bright little eyes in an inquiring way. The fact of the matter was that the old fellow was seeking for his little pet, Lydia. He could not understand her absence from the group, and he wanted the others to explain it to him. But that was just what they could not do.
The sous-préfet at Beaulieu was a retired army officer, who had brought with him from the service a very stern and imperious manner. He had a white mustache and beard, and bushy white eyebrows, which gave him such a cross look, one could not expect to receive much courtesy or consideration at his hands.
He was busy at a desk littered with papers when the brigadier brought the Tambys before him. At first sight of him the children were filled with fear, his whole appearance was so severe.
"Your Honor," said the brigadier, "I bring the prisoners before you."
"Very well, wait there!" was the sharp reply, given without looking up from the paper, at which he continued to write.
"Wait here!" the brigadier repeated to the children, who certainly had no thought of stirring, however glad they would have been to do so.
For several minutes there was no sound save the scratching of the magistrate's pen as he wrote busily without taking any notice whatever of the Tambys.