The Piece of String

On market day, the roads leading to Goderville were filled with peasants and their wives making their way to town. The men walked with a heavy gait, their bodies bent forward with each step, their legs crooked from years of labor in the fields. Their starched blue blouses, shiny as if varnished, were decorated with white stitching at the neck and wrists, and puffed out around their bony chests like balloons ready to take flight, with only their heads, arms, and feet protruding.

Some led cows or calves by ropes, while their wives followed behind, urging the animals on with leafy branches. These women carried large baskets on their arms, from which chickens and ducks poked their heads. They walked with a quicker, shorter step than the men, their thin, stiff figures wrapped in shabby shawls pinned over their flat chests, and their heads covered with white linen cloths and caps.

Now and then a char-à-bancs passed, jolting along behind a tired horse, with two men seated side by side, shaking like jelly, and a woman perched behind, clinging to the side to spare herself the worst bumps.

On the square at Goderville, there was a crowd—a jumble of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the tall hats of wealthy peasants, and the headdresses of the women bobbed above the throng. Sharp, shrill voices rose in an endless, raucous uproar, punctuated by bursts of laughter from sturdy farmers and the deep bellowing of cows tied to the walls of houses.

The air was thick with the smell of stables, milk, manure, hay, and sweat—that acrid, unpleasant odor of man and beast that belongs to the countryside.

Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had just arrived and was walking toward the square when he spotted a little piece of string on the ground. Being a thrifty Norman, he thought it wise to pick up anything that might come in handy. He stooped painfully, for he suffered from rheumatism, and took the thin cord from the dirt. As he was about to roll it up carefully, he noticed Master Malandain, the harness-maker, standing in his doorway, watching him. The two had quarreled over a halter long ago and bore each other a grudge. Hauchecorne was embarrassed at being seen by his enemy rummaging in the mud for a piece of string. He quickly hid his find under his blouse, then slipped it into his breeches pocket. He pretended to look for something else, but nothing was there, and finally he went on toward the market, his head thrust forward, bent double by his pains.

He disappeared at once into the slow-moving, shouting crowd, kept in a constant state of excitement by the endless bargaining. The peasants felt the cows, walked away, came back, troubled and afraid of being cheated, forever watching the seller’s eye, trying to spot the tricks and the flaws.

The women had set their big baskets on the ground and taken out their poultry, which lay with tied legs, blinking with frightened eyes and scarlet combs. They listened to offers, stuck to their prices, saying little, their faces blank; or else, suddenly deciding to accept a lower price, they would call out to the customer as he walked off: “All right, Mast’ Anthime, you can have it.”

By and by, the square emptied, and when the Angelus rang at noon, those who lived too far to go home made for the inns.

At Jourdain’s, the common room was packed with customers, just as the yard was full of vehicles of every kind—carts, cabriolets, char-à-bancs, and other nameless, shapeless carriages, patched and leaning, some with shafts pointing skyward like arms, others with noses in the ground and tails in the air.

The huge fireplace blazed, casting a fierce heat on the backs of those seated at the table on the right. Three spits turned, laden with chickens, pigeons, and legs of mutton, and the delicious smell of roasted meat and dripping gravy came from the hearth, making mouths water and spirits rise.

All the aristocracy of the plough ate there, at Mast’ Jourdain’s, the innkeeper and horse trader—a shrewd rascal who had money. The dishes passed and were quickly emptied, like the jugs of yellow cider. Everyone talked of business, of sales and purchases, and asked about the crops. The weather was good for greens, but a bit wet for wheat.

Suddenly a drum rolled in the yard in front of the house. In an instant everyone was on his feet, except a few indifferent ones, and they all ran to the doors and windows, their mouths still full, napkins in hand.

When the long roll had ended, the crier shouted in a jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places: “The people of Goderville, and all those at the market, are informed that between nine and ten this morning, on the Beuzeville road, a black leather wallet was lost, containing five hundred francs and business papers. The finder is asked to bring it to the mayor’s office or to Master Fortuné Huelbrèque of Manneville. A reward of twenty francs will be paid.”

Then he went away. They heard the muffled roll of the drum in the distance, and the crier’s voice growing indistinct. Then they began to talk about the incident, wondering whether Master Houlbrèque would find his wallet. And the meal went on.

They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared in the doorway. He asked, “Is Master Hauchecorne of Bréauté here?” Master Hauchecorne, seated at the far end of the table, answered, “Here I am.” The corporal added, “Master Hauchecorne, would you come with me to the mayor’s office? Monsieur the mayor wishes to speak with you.”

The peasant, surprised and disturbed, downed his petit verre at one swallow, rose, and, more bent than in the morning, for the first steps after rest were especially painful, started off, repeating, “Here I am, here I am.” He followed the brigadier.

The mayor was waiting in his armchair. He was the local notary, a stout, solemn man given to pompous speeches. “Master Hauchecorne,” he began, “you were seen this morning, on the Beuzeville road, picking up the wallet lost by Master Huelbrèque of Manneville.” The rustic, dumfounded, stared at the mayor, already alarmed by the suspicion that had fallen on him, though he did not understand it. “I, I—me? I picked up that wallet?” “Yes, you.” “On my word of honor, I didn’t even see it.” “You were seen.” “They saw me? Who saw me?” “Monsieur Malandain, the harness-maker.”

The old man remembered and understood; flushing with anger, he cried, “Ah! He saw me, did he, that sneak? He saw me pick up this string, here, m’sieu’ mayor.” And fumbling in his pocket, he brought out the little piece of cord. But the mayor shook his head, unconvinced. “You won’t make me believe, Master Hauchecorne, that Monsieur Malandain, a man deserving of credit, mistook this string for a wallet.” The peasant, in a rage, raised his hand, spat to one side to pledge his honor, and said, “It’s God’s own truth, the sacred truth, m’sieu’ mayor. I say it again, by my soul and my salvation.” “After picking it up,” rejoined the mayor, “you hunted a long while in the mud, to see if some money hadn’t fallen out.” The good man was suffocating with wrath and fear. “If anyone can tell—if anyone can tell lies like that to ruin an honest man! If anyone can say—” To no avail; he was not believed.

He was faced with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintained his declaration. They insulted each other for a whole hour. At his own request, Master Hauchecorne was searched; they found nothing. At last the mayor, sorely perplexed, let him go, but warned that he would inform the prosecuting attorney and ask for orders.

The news had spread. On leaving the mayor’s office, the old man was surrounded and questioned with serious or bantering curiosity, but without a trace of indignation. He began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed.

He went on, stopping his acquaintances, repeating again and again his story and his protestations, turning his pockets inside out to prove he had nothing. They said to him, “You old rogue, va!” And he lost his temper, lashing himself into a rage, feverish with excitement, desperate because he was not believed, at a loss what to do, and still telling his story. Night came. He had to go home. He set out with three neighbors, to whom he pointed out the exact spot where he had picked up the string, and all along the way he talked of his misadventure.

That evening he made a round of the village of Bréauté, telling everyone about it. He found only incredulous listeners. He was ill over it all night.

The next afternoon, about one o’clock, Marius Paumelle, a farmhand employed by Master Breton, a farmer of Ymauville, returned the wallet and its contents to Master Huelbrèque of Manneville. The man claimed he had found it on the road, but, being unable to read, had carried it home and given it to his employer. The news soon spread; Master Hauchecorne heard it. He started out again at once and began to tell his story, now complete with the dénouement. He was triumphant. “What made me feel bad,” he said, “wasn’t so much the thing itself, you understand, but the lying. There’s nothing hurts you so much as being blamed for lying.”

All day he talked of his adventure; he told it on the roads to passersby, at the wine-shop to drinkers, and after church on the following Sunday. He even stopped strangers to tell them. His mind was at rest now, yet something embarrassed him, though he could not say what. People seemed to laugh while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He felt as if remarks were made behind his back.

On Tuesday of the next week, he went to market at Goderville, driven solely by the longing to tell his story. Malandain, standing in his doorway, began to laugh when he saw him coming. Why? He accosted a farmer from Criquetot, who did not let him finish, but poked him in the stomach and shouted in his face, “Go on, you old fox!” Then he turned on his heel.

Master Hauchecorne was speechless, and more and more disturbed. Why did he call him “old fox”? When he sat down at the table in Jourdain’s inn, he began to explain the affair once more. A horse trader from Montvilliers called out, “Nonsense, nonsense, you old dodger! I know all about your string!” “But they’ve found the wallet!” faltered Hauchecorne. “None of that, old boy; there’s one who finds it, and there’s one who carries it back. I don’t know just how you did it, but I understand you.” The peasant was stunned. He understood at last. He was accused of having sent the wallet back through an accomplice. He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, but left the inn amid a chorus of jeers. He returned home, shamefaced and indignant, suffocated by wrath and confusion, and all the more downcast because, with his Norman cunning, he was quite capable of the deed of which he was accused, and even of boasting of it as a clever trick. He had a vague sense that his innocence was impossible to establish, his craftiness being so well known. And he was deeply hurt by the injustice of the suspicion.

Thereupon he began once more to tell the story, making it longer each day, adding new arguments, more forceful protestations, more solemn oaths, which he devised in his hours of solitude, his mind wholly taken up with the tale. The more elaborate his defense, the less he was believed. “Those are a liar’s reasons,” people said behind his back. He realized it. He gnawed his nails and exhausted himself in vain efforts. He grew visibly thinner.

Now the jokers asked him to tell the story of “The Piece of String” for their amusement, as soldiers are asked about their battles. His mind, attacked at its root, grew weaker. Late in December, he took to his bed. In early January, he died, and in his delirium, in the throes of death, he protested his innocence, repeating, “A little piece of string—a little piece of string—see, here it is, m’sieu’ mayor.”