can never tell. As for the little Jezureau, it was a famous bit of luck, I assure you, that he did not kill her."
In spite of the authority of the grocer, in spite of the obstinacy of Rose, who will not consent to change the subject, they pass in review, one after another, all the people in the neighborhood who could have done the deed. They find heaps of them,—all those whom they detest, all those of whom they have any jealousy, against whom they have any spite. Finally the pale little woman with the rat-like nose remarks:
"You know that last week there were two capuchins begging around here, who did not present a very inviting appearance, with their dirty beards. May it not have been they?"
A cry of indignation arises:
"Worthy and pious monks? The good God's holy souls! It is abominable!"
And, as we take our departure, after laying everybody under suspicion. Rose, bent on establishing her theory, repeats:
"Do I not tell you that it is he? It is he, be sure!"
Before re-entering the house, I stop a moment in the harness-room, where Joseph is polishing his harnesses. Above a dresser, on which bottles of varnish and boxes of blacking are symmetrycally