Why？
  He　accosted　a　farmer　of　Criquetot；　who　did　not　let　hire　finish；　and
  giving　him　a　punch　in　the　pit　of　the　stomach　cried　in　his　face：　〃Oh；　you
  great　rogue！〃　　Then　he　turned　his　heel　upon　him。
  Maitre　Hauchecorne　remained　speechless　and　grew　more　and　more　uneasy。
  Why　had　they　called　him　〃great　rogue〃？
  When　seated　at　table　in　Jourdain's　tavern　he　began　again　to　explain　the
  whole　affair。
  A　horse　dealer　of　Montivilliers　shouted　at　him：
  〃Get　out；　get　out；　you　old　scamp！　　I　know　all　about　your　old　string。〃
  Hauchecorne　stammered：
  〃But　since　they　found　it　again；　the　pocketbook！〃
  But　the　other　continued：
  〃Hold　your　tongue；　daddy；　there's　one　who　finds　it　and　there's　another
  who　returns　it。　　And　no　one　the　wiser。〃
  The　farmer　was　speechless。　　He　understood　at　last。　　They　accused　him　of
  having　had　the　pocketbook　brought　back　by　an　accomplice；　by　a
  confederate。
  He　tried　to　protest。　　The　whole　table　began　to　laugh。
  He　could　not　finish　his　dinner；　and　went　away　amid　a　chorus　of　jeers。
  He　went　home　indignant；　choking　with　rage；　with　confusion；　the　more　cast
  down　since　with　his　Norman　craftiness　he　was；　perhaps；　capable　of　having
  done　what　they　accused　him　of　and　even　of　boasting　of　it　as　a　good　trick。
  He　was　dimly　conscious　that　it　was　impossible　to　prove　his　innocence；　his
  craftiness　being　so　well　known。　　He　felt　himself　struck　to　the　heart　by
  the　injustice　of　the　suspicion。
  He　began　anew　to　tell　his　tale；　lengthening　his　recital　every　day；　each
  day　adding　new　proofs；　more　energetic　declarations　and　more　sacred　oaths；
  which　he　thought　of；　which　he　prepared　in　his　hours　of　solitude；　for　his
  mind　was　entirely　occupied　with　the　story　of　the　string。　　The　more　he
  denied　it；　the　more　artful　his　arguments；　the　less　he　was　believed。
  〃Those　are　liars　proofs；〃　they　said　behind　his　back。
  He　felt　this。　　It　preyed　upon　him　and　he　exhausted　himself　in　useless
  efforts。
  He　was　visibly　wasting　away。
  Jokers　would　make　him　tell　the　story　of　〃the　piece　of　string〃　to　amuse
  them；　just　as　you　make　a　soldier　who　has　been　on　a　campaign　tell　his
  story　of　the　battle。　　His　mind　kept　growing　weaker　and　about　the　end　of
  December　he　took　to　his　bed。
  He　passed　away　early　in　January；　and；　in　the　ravings　of　death　agony；　he
  protested　his　innocence；　repeating：
  〃A　little　bit　of　stringa　little　bit　of　string。　　See；　here　it　is；　M'sieu
  le　Maire。〃
  End