His name, he
had told the sergeant, was Francois Paul.

The other man, who had been discovered at the back of a farm just as he
was about to crawl inside a stack, was a typical country tramp. An old
soft felt hat was crammed down on his head, and a shock of rebellious
red and grey hair curled up all round it, while a hairy beard entirely
concealed all the features of his face. All that could be seen of it was
a pair of sparkling eyes incessantly moving in every possible direction.
This second man contemplated with interest the place into which the
police had conducted him. On his back he bore a heavy sort of wallet in
which he stowed articles of the most varied description. Whereas his
companion maintained a rigid silence, this man never stopped talking.
Nudging his neighbour every now and then he whispered:

"Say, where do you come from? You're not from these parts, are you? I've
never seen you before have I? Everybody round here knows me:
Bouzille--my name's Bouzille," and turning to the gendarme he said:
"Isn't it true, M'sieu Morand, that you and I are old acquaintances?
This is the fourth or fifth time you've pinched me, isn't it?"

Bouzille's companion vouchsafed him a glance.

"So it's a habit of yours, is it?" he said in the same low tone; "you
often get nabbed?"

"As to 'often,'" the garrulous fellow replied, "that depends on what you
mean by the word. In winter time it's not bad business to go back to
clink, because of the rotten weather; in the summer one would rather go
easy, and then, too, in the summer there isn't so much crime; you can
find all you want on the road; country people aren't so particular in
the summer, while in the winter it's quite another thing; so they have
done me down to-night for mother Chiquard's rabbit, I expect."

The gendarme, who had been listening with no great attention, chimed in.

"So it was you who stole the rabbit, was it, Bouzille?"

"What's the good of your asking me that, M'sieu Morand?" protested
Bouzille. "I suppose you would have left me alone if you hadn't been
sure of it?"

Bouzille's companion bent his head and whispered very low:

"There has been something worse than that: the job with the lady of this
house."

"Oh, that!" said Bouzille with a gesture of complete indifference. But
he did not proceed. The sergeant came back to the kitchen and said
sternly:

"Francois Paul, forward: the examining magistrate will hear you now."

The man summoned steppe