in nostra parochiali ecclesiâ, sub invocatione
sancti Nicolai, per nos rectorem Michaelem
Hocquet."

"And you call yourself Jean, whereas it
appears your real name is Philip! This fellow
can't open his mouth without telling a lie.
Come here, little one; I want to speak to you."

The procureur separated the child from the
beggar, and then asked him a few questions,
which were repeated and commented on by
fifty prating tongues. "What was his name?"
—"Louis." "May be, but don't be afraid of
that fellow, my little man. Your name is
Jacques. Isn't your name Jacques? Don't
you know some village hereabouts? Tell me;
come. Bois-Hiérôme; you remember, little
Jacques, Bois-Hiérôme? That's the place where
you were baptised!"

The lad, frightened out of his wits, assented
to everything. His name was Jacques; he did
know Bois-Hiérôme. He would have agreed to
any other suggestion. The Procureur du Roi
concluded the interview with a masterstroke.
Taking out of the child's hand a few copper
coins which had been slipped into it by
the charitable, he gave them to a little tailor
who was bustling about and haranguing the
crowd.

"Take them to the vagabond," he said, "and
tell him that little Jacques Le Moine has been
recognised; that he refuses to go strolling
about with his false father any longer; and
that he will be taken to his relations at Bois-Hiérôme."

The little tailor, proud of his mission,
communicated the message to the mendicant in a
tone of voice and with a few slight additions
that were anything but reassuring. The poor
devil, finding himself accused of some mysterious
crime, and deprived of his boy by magisterial
authority, was seized with a sudden and
very natural panic, and, breaking through the
crowd, tried to run away.

If proof were wanting, here it was—a plain
confession of guilt. The innocent do not usually
attempt to escape. They ran after him, and
caught him without difficulty. With cuffs and
curses, and all sorts of treatment, they dragged
him before the Lieutenant Particulier, the
Lieutenant Général being absent.

That worthy, a cousin-german of the late
Lancelot Le Moine, already, according to his
own opinion, sufficiently instructed in the matter
by public rumour, interrogated Monrousseau
with that superabundance of severity which, in
France, has always been considered the surest
way of reaching the truth. The beggar replied,
in substance, that his name was Jean
Monrousseau, the son of a stone-cutter of the
Limousin; fifty years of age—at least he believed
so. After being a shepherd in his youth,
he had enlisted as soon as he was turned of
twenty, and had taken part in the Italian and
Flemish campaigns. While in garrison at
Bapaume, he became acquainted with a
shoemaker's widow, Jeanne Le Blond, and sought
her in marriage. The nuptial benediction was
not given there, because she could not obtain
the certificate of her first husband's death; but
the ceremony was performed at Arras, on the
17th of May, 1642, by the curé of Saint
Nicholas, Michel Hocquet, whose certificate—
Greek for Mourousseau, who could not read—
erroneously gave him the christian name of
Philip.

As soon as he was married, Monrousseau
quitted the king's service, and turned ploughman,
gardener, and woodman. At Montdidier,
where he resided for some time, his wife
presented him with twins, who died one after the
other. Thence they shifted their quarters to
Neuville, where, in November, 1646, his wife
was again put to bed with twins—a boy and a
girl. The boy was the Louis whom they were
now trying to take away from him. Impoverished
by Jeanne's deplorable fecundity, they
were obliged to beg for their livelihood, and
Monrousseau, who bore a good character, easily
obtained from the Bishop of Beauvais an authorisation
to ask alms in the diocese.

From this date forward—and it was not to
be wondered at—Monrousseau's memory got
entangled in the marches and countermarches
of his mendicant life. He had begged his way
backwards and forwards throughout central
France, crossing and recrossing it in various
directions. In the Limousin he had lost one
of his last twins—the girl; and his wife had
died at the hospital at Tours, on the 10th of
June, 1654. From that time he had wandered
about in company with his only surviving child,
Louis. He had been to Paris, and seen the
Dame Le Moine there. He had left the capital
to seek for harvest work in Normandy. By bad
luck he had come to Vernon. Such was his
statement—not given all in one breath, but torn
from him bit by bit; perhaps through fear of
the magistrate and the mob—the consequence
of guilt, according to them. In this long examination,
made up of threats and protestations,
the Lieutenant Particulier noted several
contradictions. Why should he call himself Philip
at Arras, and Jean at Bapaume and at Vernon?
He could not tell. Sometimes he had
had four children at two births, sometimes only
two.

His answers were not clearer nor more
consistent with regard to his knowledge of the
Widow Le Moine. How many times had he
seen her? Only once, in the Place de Grève.
But the meeting at the entrance of the Hôtel
Dieu? That made twice. And then he talked
of another interview, a year afterwards, near
the Porte Saint Martin. How many times had
he been to Paris? Once only; he had left
it a fortnight before coming to Vernon. He
had been there twice; once during the
preceding year. He had been there three times.
"Take the vagabond to prison, and put him
in irons," was the lieutenant's decision, on his
own responsibility, without any other legal
formality.

He also caused the Widow Le Moine to be
arrested on his verbal order. She was marched