their eyes met Jeanne Vacherot's. She beckoned
them to her, gazed hard at the lad, whispered
a sentence or two in the man's ear, and
then gave him a few sous by way of alms. He
thanked her with a bow, and the two were soon
lost in the crowd of peasants thronging round
the door of the church.

This little incident, brief as it was, did not
escape the notice of the congregation. When
they saw the notaress conversing with the boy
and the man, who appeared to be his father,
the same slight resemblance which had attracted
the mother also struck numerous other
spectators. "'Tis little Jacques Le Moine!" was
the general cry. This opinion, expressed in
whispers while the service continued, burst forth
into a shout when the congregation left the
church. The beggar and his boy had stationed
themselves at the side of the path by which
people passed, in order to receive the alms of
the charitable. They were soon surrounded
with inquisitive gazers. Another group awaited
the widow. As soon as she appeared, the
ranks opened, and an empty space was left
between her and the mendicants. Jeanne
Vacherot passed them with indifference, little
thinking that her behaviour was indignantly
critised. "You see she does not even look
at him," the gossips muttered; "and yet it
is little Jacques. One must be blind not to
see it!"

The widow proceeded in the direction of her
lodgings; the excited spectators could hold out
no longer. One woman stepped up to her, and
said, sharply:

"Your poor little Jacques is not in high
feather, Madame la Notaress. 'Tis my idea
that decent clothing and a bellyful of victuals
would suit him better than the three or four
sous you have given him out of charity."

Jeanne Vacherot stared at the woman with
surprise; but observing that her looks were
directed towards the young mendicant, she understood
her meaning, and, shrugging her shoulders,
replied:

"That child my poor little Jacques! My
boy's nose was not so long as his. Besides,
don't you see the difference of their eyes?" So
saying, she walked quietly home.

Her departure gave the signal for an explosion
of wrath.

"She renounces her own child!" the angry
women exclaimed. "Heartless creature!
Unnatural mother! Cruel parent! Did you notice
the unfeeling look she gave the poor boy? She
did not expect to see him back again after
putting him into the beggar's hands. A nice way
of providing for your children, Madame la
Notaress! And you, you wretch! you child-stealer!
you tool of a mother without mercy—
how dare you show your villanous face where
everybody knows the poor little fellow? Take
yourself off, you gallows-bird! We will soon
see whether this abominable stepmother means
to persevere in her wicked falsehood!"

The beggar, thus assailed by the mob of
furies, opened wide his eyes, not knowing what
he had done to offend them; the child, frightened,
began to cry. When the man understood
of what they accused him, he took the boy by
the hand, and forced his way through the crowd,
saying:

"You tell me, good people, that this is not
my child! All I know is, that I promised my
wife, when she was dying in the hospital, that
I would never part with him, and I never
have."

He gathered his rags about him with a hitch,
and went into the town. The devotees, meanwhile,
recruited to their party sundry idlers who
had been attracted by the disturbance. They
related, with excessive indignation, how coldly
cruel the wicked mother, and how shamelessly
insolent the beggar, had been. The news that
little Jacques had turned up at last, and that
his mother refused to acknowledge him, ran up
and down the streets of Vernon. At dinnertime
the popular excitement experienced a temporary
lull; but when people left their homes
to go to vespers, the only talk in every group
was about poor little Jacques Le Moine and his
cruel mother.

Meanwhile the beggar had not been wise
enough to turn his back upon the infatuated
town. He took up his station in a sunny corner
close to the Bissi gate, where he mumbled
paternosters, fearing no evil, as he held out his
hand to solicit alms. Several of the morning's
congregation recognised him, and in a few
minutes he and the boy were surrounded by an
angry crowd.

"That's he, the wretch! And the little angel
deserted by his mother—what a state he is in
for a rich man's orphan! Grand Dieu! Such
wickedness will bring the vengeance of Heaven
upon the town! Don't you know him again,
the little darling? I'd put my hand into the
fire if it isn't he!"

The tumult went on increasing; several bigwigs
of the town came to see what was the
matter, with the Procureur du Roi at their head.
The gossips and noodles made way respectfully,
acquainting him with their suspicions, or rather
their belief. The procureur, after a glance at
the lad, advanced to the man with frowning
looks, and inquired:

"Who are you, sirrah? Where were you
born? Where do you come from?"

"Jean Monrousseau—Limousin—from Bapaume."

"How? A Limousin from Bapaume! A
pretty story! Bapaume is in the province of
Artois, and you say you are a Limousin!"

"I have my papers—my certificates," said
the beggar, trembling under the magistrate's
eye as he produced, out of a dirty piece of cloth,
two or three greasy documents.

The procureur took one of them with the
tips of his fingers, opened it with evident
disgust, and ran his eye through it. It was a
certificate of marriage drawn up in Latin by the
curé who had married him to one Jeanne Blond.
The magistrate read, opening wide his eyes,
"Philippum Monrousseau et Johannam Blond,