tache, short and grey. He was an old copper, a man of some two-score years. Crainquebille went up to him softly, and in a weak hesitating voice, said: "Mort aux vaches!"
Then he awaited the result of those sacred words. But nothing came of them. The constable remained motionless and silent, with his arms folded under his short cloak. His eyes were wide open; they glistened in the darkness and regarded Crainquebille with sadness, vigilance and scorn.
Crainquebille, astonished, but still resolute, muttered:
"Mort aux vaches! I tell you."
There was a long silence in the chill darkness and the falling of the fine penetrating rain. At last the constable spoke:
"Such things are not said.… For sure and for certain they are not said. At your age you ought to know better. Pass on."
"Why don't you arrest me?" asked Crainquebille.
The constable shook his head beneath his dripping hood:
"If we were to take up all the addle-pates who say what they oughtn't to, we should have our work cut out!… And what would be the use of it?"