"Do I not tell you that it is he? It is he, be sure!"
Before re-entering the house, I stop a moment in the harness-room, where Joseph is polishing his harnesses. Above a dresser, on which bottles of varnish and boxes of blacking are symmetrically arranged, I see flaming on the pine wainscoting the portrait of Drumont. To give him greater majesty, undoubtedly, Joseph has recently adorned him with a crown of laurel. Opposite, the portrait of the pope is almost entirely hidden by a horse-blanket hung upon a nail. Anti-Jewish pamphlets and patriotic songs are piled up on a shelf, and in a corner Joseph's club stands lonely among the brooms.
Suddenly I say to Joseph, solely from a motive of curiosity:
"Do you know, Joseph, that the little Claire has been found in the woods, murdered and outraged?"
At first Joseph cannot suppress a movement of surprise,—is it really surprise? Rapid and furtive as this movement was, it seems to me that, at the sound of the little Claire's name, a sort of strange shock, something like a shudder, passed through him. He recovers very quickly.
"Yes," he says, in a firm voice, "I know it. I was told so in the neighborhood this morning."
Now he is indifferent and placid. He rubs his harnesses methodically with a thick, black cloth. I admire the muscular development of his bare arms, the harmonious and powerful suppleness of his biceps, the whiteness of his skin. I cannot see his eyes under the lowered lids,—his eyes so obstinately fixed upon his work. But I see his mouth, his large mouth, his enormous jaw, the jaw of a cruel and sensual beast. And I feel a sort of light tremor at my heart. I ask him further:
"Do they know who did it?"
Joseph shrugs his shoulders. Half jesting, half serious, he answers: