bliged to
get into it, in order to pick it up, and I found that it had fallen
close to a dead human body, and immediately the recollection of the mad
woman struck me, like a blow in the chest. Many other people had perhaps
died in the wood during that disastrous year, but I do not know why, yet
I was sure, sure, I tell you, that I should see the head of that
wretched maniac.

"And suddenly I understood, I guessed everything. They had abandoned her
on that mattress in the cold, deserted wood; and, faithful to her fixed
idea, she had allowed herself to perish under that thick and light
counterpane of snow, without moving either arms or legs.

"Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests
with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I
only pray that our sons may never see any wars again."

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

I

"There, my friend," I said to Labarbe, "you have just repeated those
five words, _that pig of a Morin_. Why on earth do I never hear Morin's
name mentioned without his being called _a pig_?"

Labarbe, who is a Deputy, looked at me with eyes like an owl's, and
said: "Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin's story, and you
come from La Rochelle?" I was obliged to declare that I did not know
Morin's story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his recital.

"You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper's
shop on the _Quai de la Rochelle_?" "Yes, perfectly."

"All right, then. You must know that in 1862 or 63 Morin went to spend a
fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the
pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in
Paris means for a country shopkeeper: it makes his blood grow hot. The
theater every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you, and
continual excitement; one goes almost mad with it. One sees nothing but
dancers in skin-tights, actresses in very low dresses, round legs, fat
shoulders, all nearly within reach of one's hands, without daring or
being able, to touch it, and one scarcely tastes some inferior dish,
once or twice. And one leaves it, one's heart still all in a flutter,
and one's mind still exhilarated by a sort of longing for kisses which
tickles one's lips."

* * * * *

Morin was in that state when he took his ticket for La Rochelle by the
8:40 night express. And he was walking up and down the waiting-