"Oh! I know nothing about it; I make no assertions. But...."
And she leaves our curiosity hanging on this "but."
"What then? what then?" they cry from all sides, with outstretched necks and open mouths.
"But ... I should not be astonished ... if it were...."
We are breathless.
"Monsieur Lanlaire. There, that is what I think, if you want to know," she concludes, with an expression of base and atrocious ferocity.
Several protest; others reserve judgment. I declare that Monsieur Lanlaire is incapable of such a crime, and I cry:
"He, Lord Jesus? Oh, the poor man! He would be too much afraid."
But Rose, with still more hatred, insists:
"Incapable? Ta, ta, ta! And the little Jézureau? And Valentin's little girl? And the little Dougère? Do you remember them? Incapable?"