"It is not the same thing; it is not the same thing."
In their hatred of Monsieur they do not, like Rose, go so far as to make a formal charge of murder. That he outrages little girls who consent to be outraged,—yes, that is possible. That he kills them,—that is scarcely credible. But Rose stormily insists. She froths at the mouth; she pounds the table with her soft, fat hands; she cries, with excited gestures:
"Do I not tell you yes? I am sure of it."
Mme. Gouin, who has been listening in a dreamy fashion, finally declares, in her meaningless voice:
"Oh! indeed, young women, in these matters one can never tell. As for the little Jézureau, it was a famous bit of luck, I assure you, that he did not kill her."
In spite of the authority of the grocer, in spite of the obstinacy of Rose, who will not consent to change the subject, they pass in review, one after another, all the people in the neighborhood who could have done the deed. They find heaps of them,—all those whom they detest, all those of whom they have any jealousy, against whom they have any spite. Finally the pale little woman with the rat-like nose remarks:
"You know that last week there were two capuchins begging around here, who did not present a very inviting appearance, with their dirty beards. May it not have been they?"
A cry of indignation arises:
"Worthy and pious monks? The good God's holy souls! It is abominable!"
And, as we take our departure, after laying everybody under suspicion, Rose, bent on establishing her theory, repeats: