Braunwald’s Heart disease: A Textbook

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Douglas P. Zipes
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21. I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and
of its probable influence on the hypochondriac, when one
evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline
was no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse
for a fortnight (previously to its final interment), in one of the
numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. The
worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular
proceeding was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute.
The brother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by
consideration of the unusual character of the malady of the
deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part
of her medical men, and of the remote and exposed situation
of the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that when I
called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I
met upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house,
I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but a
harmless, and by no means an unnatural, precaution.
22. At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the
arrangements for the temporary entombment. The body
having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The
vault in which we placed it (and which had been so long
unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive
atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was
small, damp, and entirely without means of admission for
light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that portion of
the building in which was my own sleeping apartment. It had
been used apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst
purposes of a donjon-keep, and in later days as a place of
deposit for powder, or some other highly combustible
substance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a
long archway through which we reached it, were carefully
sheathed with copper. The door, of massive iron, had been
also similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an
unusually sharp grating sound as it moved upon its hinges.
23. Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels
within this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet
unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the
tenant. A striking similitude between the brother and sister
now first arrested my attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps,
my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I
learned that the deceased and himself had been twins, and
that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always
existed between them. Our glances, however, rested not long
upon the dead, for we could not regard her unawed. The
disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of
youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly
cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the
bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile
upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and
screwed down the lid, and having secured the door of iron,
made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy
apartments of the upper portion of the house.
24. And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an
observable change came over the features of the mental
disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His
ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed
from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and
objectless step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed,
if possible, a more ghastly hue, but the luminousness of his
eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of
his tone was heard no more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of
extreme terror, habitually characterized his utterance. There
were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated
mind was laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge
which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times,
again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable
vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing upon vacancy
for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if
listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his
condition terrified—that it infected me. I felt creeping upon
me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his
own fantastic yet impressive superstitions.
25. It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of
the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady
Madeline within the donjon, that I experienced the full power
of such feelings. Sleep came not near my couch, while the
hours waned and waned away. I struggled to reason off the
nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to
believe that much if not all of what I felt was due to the
bewildering influence of the gloomy furniture of the room,—of
the dark and tattered draperies which, tortured into motion by
the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon
the walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the
bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor
gradually pervaded my frame; and at length there sat upon
my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking
this off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the
pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of
the chamber, hearkened—I know not why, except that an
instinctive spirit prompted me—to certain low and indefinite
sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long
intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense
sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw
on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more
during the night), and endeavored to arouse myself from the
pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to
and fro through the apartment.
26. I had taken but a few turns in this manner, when a light
step on an adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I
presently recognized it as that of Usher. In an instant
afterward he rapped with a gentle touch at my door, and
entered, bearing a lamp. His countenance was, as usual,
cadaverously wan—but, moreover, there was a species of
mad hilarity in his eyes,—an evidently restrained hysteria in
his whole demeanor. His air appalled me—but anything was
preferable to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I
even welcomed his presence as a relief.
27. “And you have not seen it?” he said abruptly, after having
stared about him for some moments in silence,—“you have
not then seen it?—but, stay! you shall.” Thus speaking, and
having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the
casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.
28. The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us
from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly
beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its
beauty. A whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our
vicinity, for there were frequent and violent alterations in the
direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds
(which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house)
did not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity with which
they flew careering from all points against each other, without
passing away into the distance. I say that even their
exceeding density did not prevent our perceiving this; yet we
had no glimpse of the moon or stars, nor was there any
flashing forth of the lightning. But the under surfaces of the
huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial
objects immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural
light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous
exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion.
29. “You must not—you shall not behold this!” said I
shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him with a gentle violence
from the window to a seat. “These appearances, which
bewilder you, are merely electrical phenomena not
uncommon—or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in
the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement; the
air is chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of
your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen;—and
so we will pass away this terrible night together.”
30. The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad
Trist” of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of
Usher’s more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is
little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could
have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my
friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand;
and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now
agitated the hypochondriac might find relief (for the history of
mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the
extremeness of the folly which I should read. Could I have
judged, indeed, by the wild, overstrained air of vivacity with
which he hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words of
the tale, I might well have congratulated myself upon the
success of my design.
31. I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where
Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for
peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds
to make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be
remembered, the words of the narrative run thus:—
32. “And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and
who was now mighty withal on account of the powerfulness of
the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold
parley with the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and
maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and
fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright
and with blows made quickly room in the plankings of the
door for his gauntleted hand; and now, pulling therewith
sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that
the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood alarumed and
reverberated throughout the forest.”
33. At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a
moment paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once
concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me)—it
appeared to me that from some very remote portion of the
mansion there came, indistinctly, to my ears, what might have
been in its exact similarity of character the echo (but a stifled
and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound
which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was,
beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my
attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the
casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still
increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely,
which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued the
story:—
34. “But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the
door, was so enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of
the maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a
scaly and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which
sate in guard before a palace with a floor of silver; and upon
the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend
enwritten:—

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;

Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win.

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, struck upon the head of the
dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath,
with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that
Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the
dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard.”
35. Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of
wild amazement, for there could be no doubt whatever that, in
this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction
it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently
distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or
grating sound,—the exact counterpart of what my fancy had
already conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as
described by the romancer.
36. Oppressed as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this
second and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand
conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror
were predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind
to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive
nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain
that he had noticed the sounds in question; although,
assuredly, a strange alteration had during the last few minutes
taken place in his demeanor. From a position fronting my
own, he had gradually brought round his chair, so as to sit
with his face to the door of the chamber; and thus I could but
partially perceive his features, although I saw that his lips
trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had
dropped upon his breast; yet I knew that he was not asleep,
from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a
glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at
variance with this idea, for he rocked from side to side with a
gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken
notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot,
which thus proceeded:—
37. “And now the champion, having escaped from the terrible
fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield,
and of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it,
removed the carcass from out of the way before him, and
approached valorously over the silver pavement of the castle
to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried
not for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver
floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.”
38. No sooner had these syllables passed my lips than—as if
a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily
upon a floor of silver—I became aware of a distinct, hollow,
metallic, and clangorous yet apparently muffled reverberation.
Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured
rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the
chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him,
and throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony
rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his shoulder, there
came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile
quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low,
hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my
presence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the
hideous import of his words.
39. “Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long—
long—long—many minutes, many hours, many days, have I
heard it, yet I dared not—oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I
am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! We have put her living
in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute? I now tell
you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow
coffin. I heard them—many, many days ago—yet I dared not
—I dared not speak! And now—to-night—Ethelred—ha! ha!—
the breaking of the hermit’s door, and the death-cry of the
dragon, and the clangor of the shield!—say rather, the rending
of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison,
and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault!
Oh, whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not
hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her
footsteps on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and
horrible beating of her heart? Madman!”—here he sprang
furiously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the
effort he were giving up his soul—“Madman! I tell you that she
now stands without the door!”
40. As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had
been found the potency of a spell, the huge antique panels to
which the speaker pointed threw slowly back, upon the
instant, their ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of
the rushing gust—but then without those doors there did
stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of
Usher! There was blood upon her white robes, and the
evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her
emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and
reeling to and fro upon the threshold—then, with a low
moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her
brother, and, in her violent and now final death agonies, bore
him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had
anticipated.
41. From that chamber and from that mansion I fled aghast.
The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself
crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the
path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so
unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its
shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the
 full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly
through that once barely discernible fissure, of which I have
before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a
zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure
rapidly widened—there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind
—the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight—
my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—
there was a long, tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of
a thousand waters—and the deep and dank tarn at my feet
closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the “House
of Usher.”

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

1. State as briefly as possible the impression made upon you by the
story under consideration.
2. Cite passages which are most effective in making this impression.
3. Do you find any jarring elements which tend to mar the single
impression?
4. Does the story approach any types besides that of the
impressionistic?
5. Mention any weak points you discover.
6. Write about three hundred words on the merits of the story.
7. Try to find an impressionistic story in some present-day magazine.
8. Criticise Poe’s language, in general and in particular.
9. Would either of these stories be popular if written to-day by an
unknown author?
10. Would cutting improve either of these stories? If so, say where.
11. Compare Hawthorne’s style with that of Poe.
12. Which story do you prefer, and why?
 TEN REPRESENTATIVE IMPRESSIONISTIC
STORIES
“The Luck of Roaring Camp,” Bret Harte, in The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other
Stories.
“The Father,” Björnstjerne Björnson, translated in Stories by Foreign Authors,
Scandinavian.
“A Journey,” Edith Wharton, in The Greater Inclination.
“The Brushwood Boy,” Rudyard Kipling, in The Day’s Work.
“The Great Stone Face,” Nathaniel Hawthorne, in The Snow-Image and Other
Twice-Told Tales.
“A Passion in the Desert,” Honoré de Balzac, translated in Little French
Masterpieces, Balzac.
“The Pit and the Pendulum,” Edgar Allan Poe, in Tales.
“The Silent Woman,” Leopold Kompert, translated in Modern Ghosts.
“Jesus Christ in Flanders,” Honoré de Balzac, translated in Little French
Masterpieces, Balzac.
“Silence,” Leonid Andreyev, translated in Short-Story Masterpieces.
 VII
CHARACTER STUDIES
The Piece of String.—Guy de Maupassant
The Substitute.—François Coppée
 Most of us, in actual life, are accustomed to distinguish
people who are worth our while from people who are not;
and those of us who live advisedly are accustomed to
shield ourselves from people who cannot, by the mere fact
of what they are, repay us for the expenditure of time and
energy we should have to make to know them. And
whenever a friend of ours asks us deliberately to meet
another friend of his, we take it for granted that our friend
has reasons for believing that the acquaintanceship will be
of benefit or of interest to both. Now the novelist stands in
the position of a friend who asks us to meet certain people
whom he knows; and he runs the risk of our losing faith in
his judgment unless we find his people worth our while....
He ... owes us an assurance that they shall be even more
worth while than the average actual person.—Clayton
Hamilton, Materials and Methods of Fiction.

CHARACTER STUDIES
A character-study, whether in the form of a sketch, a tale, or a short-
story, attempts to reveal individual human nature by the unfolding of
the story.
In the sketch it will be a photograph of character in a striking mood,
under stress of emotion, or just before, or during, or after a crisis that
is peculiarly suited to showing either the full character or one of its
interesting phases. Some photographs consist of bold masses of
light and shade, others are so handled as to bring out a multitude of
details. The sketch allows in a literary way the same methods of
treatment, but the typical sketch avoids unnecessary minutiæ.
The tale is also a photograph, but instead of being a single stationary
picture, it is a moving-picture, delineating character by a chain of
incidents which allow us to see what the characters are by what they
do. True to the type of the tale, it does not deal with character crisis,
but merely reveals character in a series of illuminating deeds.
In the character short-story the author’s method is more complicated,
for the whole mechanism of the story—introduction, plot, dialogue,
and conclusion—are designed to show us the characters under
stress of emotion and the results of that emotional arousement. We
learn the characters of the characters—for there is a distinction here
—by seeing how they act upon each other, how they solve problems,
how they meet the crises of life—what effect trouble or joy has upon
them—and the final outcome of it all. It is like studying a human
being while he is being subjected to a test, and observing the
development of his character, or its failure to stand the test, in that
critical moment.
By this it will be seen that a character-study is a story with a purpose
—a purpose deeper than that of affording entertainment from the
plot. The finest stories are those which so interest us in the action, or
plot, of the story proper that the profound character disclosures and
changes are borne in upon us while we are watching the progress of
the story. It is this subtle balance of narrative and character-study
which presents the story-teller’s art at its best.

THE PIECE OF STRING

(LA FICELLE)

BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT
Translation by The Editor

On all the roads around Goderville the Introduction.

peasants and their wives were coming Establishes the
general setting, and
towards the town, for it was market-day. The station in life of the
men swung along at an easy gait, their characters.
whole bodies swaying forward with every
movement of their long, twisted legs—legs misshapen by
hard work: by holding down the plough, which throws up the
left shoulder while it deforms the figure; by Minute observation.
mowing grain, the effort of which spreads
the knees too wide apart to permit them to stand quite steady;
by all the tedious and laborious tasks of the fields. Their blue
blouses, starched and glossy as though varnished, and
decorated at collar and cuffs with neat designs in white
stitching, puffed out about their bony forms just like balloons
all ready to rise, from which protruded a head, two arms, and
two legs.
2. Some of the men were leading a cow or a Characterization.
calf at the end of a rope. Following close
behind, the wives switched the animals over the back with
branches still covered with leaves, in order to quicken their
pace. The women carried on their arms great baskets from
which the heads of chickens and ducks protruded, and they
walked with a shorter, quicker step than the Local-color by
men—each withered figure erect and character
wrapped in a scanty little shawl pinned description.
across her flat bosom, each head done up in
a white cloth, bound close about the hair and surmounted by
a cap.
3. Now a wagonette passed, drawn by a nag at a fitful trot,
grotesquely shaking up the two men seated side by side, and
the woman in the back of the vehicle, who clutched its sides
to lessen the rough jolting.
4. In the Goderville market-place there was Local-color.
a great crowd—a medley of man and beast.
The horns of the cattle, the high, long-napped hats of the
prosperous peasants, and the head-dresses of the women,
rose above the level of the throng. And the voices—sharp,
shrill, squawking—rose in a wild, incessant clamor, which was
dominated now and then by a great guffaw of laughter emitted
from the robust chest of some sturdy bumpkin, or by the long-
drawn-out lowing of a cow tethered to the wall of a house.
5. Everything there smelled of the stable—the milk, the
manure, the hay, the sweat, gave forth that acrid, offensive
odor of man and animal so peculiar to dwellers of the fields.
6. Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had just Chief Character.
arrived at Goderville, and was moving
toward the square, when he observed a little piece of string
on the ground. Economical, like a true Norman, Master
Hauchecorne thought that everything which The Normans are
could be used was worth saving; so he said to be typically
stooped down painfully, for he suffered from “ambitious, positive,
rheumatism, picked up from the dirt the bold, tricky,
economical.”
insignificant scrap of twine, and was just
about to roll it up with care when he noticed Foundation Plot
Master Malandin, the harness-maker, Incident.
standing on his doorstep looking at him.
Once the two men had had a difference over Chief
the matter of a halter, and ever since they Complication.
had remained angry with each other,
cherishing their spite. Master Hauchecorne was seized with a
sort of shame at having his enemy thus see him searching in
the mud for a mere scrap of string. He therefore hastily hid
away his find in his blouse, and then in his Resultant
breeches-pocket. At the same time he Complication.
pretended to be still searching in the dirt for
something which he had not been able to find. Finally he
moved on toward the market-place, his head thrust forward,
his body bent double by his pains.
7. In a moment he was lost in the slowly Local-color.
shifting, noisy throng, agitated by its own
constant chafferings. The peasants felt of the cows, turned
away, came back again, much puzzled—always fearful of
being over-reached in the bargain, never reaching a decision,
watching the eye of the vendor, seeking See note on ¶6.
ever to unmask the ruse of the man and the
defect in his animal.
8. The women, having set their huge baskets at their feet,
took out their poultry, which they laid on the ground with legs
tied together, terror-stricken eyes, and scarlet combs.
9. They listened to offers, maintaining their price with a keen
air but impassive face, or else suddenly deciding to take the
counter offer, crying out to the slowly retreating customer:
10. “It’s settled, Master Anthime, I’ll give them to you!”
11. At length, little by little, the square became empty, and
when the Angelus sounded noon, those who lived too far
away to go home repaired to the inns.
12. At Jourdain’s, the large hall was Setting for main
crowded with diners, while the great crisis.
courtyard was full of vehicles of every sort—
carts, gigs, wagonettes, tilburies, traps, nameless carriages,
yellow with mud, shapeless, patched, shafts pointing to
heaven like two arms, or with noses in the ground and backs
in the air.
13. Right opposite the diners at table, the immense fireplace,
all brightly aflame, cast a lively warmth on the backs of those
ranged along the right. Three spits were turning, laden with
chickens, pigeons, and legs of mutton; and a delectable odor
of roasting meat, and of juices streaming over the browned
skin, rose from the hearth, kindled good humor and made
everyone’s mouth water.
14. All the aristocracy of the plough were Note how the author
eating there, at Maît’ Jourdain’s, inn-keeper gathers the people
and horse-trader—a sly fellow who had to witness the crisis.
made money.
Maît’—colloquial
15. The dishes went round, and, like the abbreviation for
Maître, equal here
jugs of yellow cider, were emptied. Everyone to “Mine Host.”
told of his affairs: his sales and his
purchases. They exchanged news of the crops—the weather
was good for vegetables, but a trifle wet for wheat.
16. Suddenly the roll of a drum sounded in Approach of crisis.
the courtyard before the house. Instantly
everyone was on his feet, save a few Typical of their
class.
indifferent ones, and ran to the door or to the windows, with
mouth still full and napkin in hand.
17. After the public crier had ended his tattoo, he shouted out
in a jerky voice, making his pauses at the wrong time:
18. “Be it known to the people of Goderville, Preparation for
and in general to all—persons present at the crisis.
market, that there was lost this morning,
upon the Beuzeville road between—nine and ten o’clock, a
black leather pocketbook, containing five hundred francs and
some business papers. You are requested to return it—to the
mayor’s office, without delay, or to Master Fortuné
Houlbrèque of Manneville. There will be twenty francs
reward.”
19. Then the man went away. Once again was heard afar the
muffled roll of the drum and the faint voice of the crier.
20. Then they began to talk over the incident, estimating the
chances Master Houlbrèque had of recovering or of not
recovering his pocketbook. Meanwhile the meal went on.
21. They were finishing coffee when the corporal of
gendarmes appeared in the doorway.
22. He asked:
23. “Master Hauchecorne of Bréauté—is he Closer approach of
here?” crisis.

24. Master Hauchecorne, who was seated at the other end of

the table, replied:
25. “That’s me.”
26. And the corporal replied:
27. “Master Hauchecorne, will you have the goodness to go
with me to the mayor’s office. Monsieur le maire would like to
speak with you.”
28. The peasant—surprised, disturbed— Note how
drained his glass at a gulp, got up, and, throughout the
more doubled up than in the morning, author emphasizes
physical
because the first steps after a rest were characteristics as
always particularly difficult, he started off, indicating character.
repeating: Minute observation.

29. “That’s me, that’s me,” and he followed the corporal.

30. The mayor was awaiting him, seated in an armchair. He
was the notary of the place, a large man, grave, and pompous
in speech.
31. “Master Hauchecorne,” said he, “you Full Crisis.
were seen to pick up this morning, on the
Beuzeville road, the pocketbook lost by Master Houlbrèque,
of Manneville.”
32. The countryman, speechless, stared at the mayor, already
terrified by this suspicion which rested upon him without his
understanding why.
33. “Me, me, I picked up that pocketbook?”
34. “Yes, exactly you.”
35. “Word of honor, I ain’t even so much as seen it.”
36. “You were seen.”
37. “They saw me, me? Who’s it 'as seen me?”
38. “Monsieur Malandin, the harness- Note how the
maker.” complication is
involved by personal
39. Then the old man remembered, and prejudice.
understood. Reddening with rage, he cried:
40. “Ah! he saw me, that cad! He saw me pick up this here
string—look, m’sieu le maire.”
41. And, fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out
the little bit of cord.
42. But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head.
43. “You will not make me believe, Master Hauchecorne, that
Monsieur Malandin, who is a man worthy of belief, has
mistaken that bit of string for a pocketbook.”
44. The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat to one
side, thus to attest his honor, repeating:
45. “All the same it’s the truth of the good God, the holy truth,
m’sieu le maire. There! Upon my soul and my salvation, I say
it again.”
46. The mayor replied:
47. “After having picked the thing up, you Circumstantial
even hunted a long time in the mud to see if evidence. The
some piece of money had not fallen out.” miser’s character
helps condemn him
48. The good man choked with indignation unjustly.
and fear.
49. “How can anyone tell—how can anyone tell—lies like that
to misrepresent an honest man! How can anyone tell—”
50. However he might protest, no one believed him.
51. He was confronted with Monsieur Malandin, who repeated
and sustained his affirmation. They railed at each other for a
whole hour. At his own request, Master Hauchecorne was
searched. They found nothing upon him.
52. At last, the mayor, greatly perplexed, Suspense.
sent him away, with the warning that he
would advise the public prosecutor, and ask for orders.
53. The news had spread. When he came out of the mayor’s
office the old man was surrounded and questioned with a
curiosity either serious or bantering, but into which not the
least indignation entered. And he began to recount the history
of the piece of string. No one believed him. They laughed.
54. He went on, halted by everyone, Tone of story.
stopping his acquaintances, renewing