It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walked slowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long, crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makes the left-shoulder higher, and bends their figures side-ways; from reaping the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keep on their feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as though varnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidered design and blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much like balloons about to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet.

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over the back with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying large baskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. These women walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with their erect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over their flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth, enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Now a char-a-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking up strangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of the cart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting.

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingled multitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high, long-napped hats of wealthy peasants, the headdresses of the women came to the surface of that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voices made a continuous, wild din, while above it occasionally rose a huge burst of laughter from the sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or a prolonged bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house.

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration, giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to country folks.

Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville and was making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a little piece of string. Maitre Hauchecorne, economical as are all true Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre Malandain, the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had a quarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice ever since. Maitre Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being seen by his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quickly hid it beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breeches' pocket, then pretended to be still looking for something on the ground which he did not discover and finally went off toward the market-place, his head bent forward and his body almost doubled in two by rheumatic pains.

He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly and noisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows, went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never quite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the effort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together, with terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the smaller price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was starting to go away:

“All right, I'll let you have them, Mait' Anthime.”

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast court was filled with vehicles of every sort—wagons, gigs, chars-a-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in the air.

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace, with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those who sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast meat and of gravy flowing over crisp brown skin arose from the hearth, kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens, but too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house. Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and napkins in their hand.

When the public crier had finished his taboo he called forth in a jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:

“Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are requested to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward.”

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maitre Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked:

“Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?”

Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table answered:

“Here I am, here I am.”

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

“Maitre Hauchecorne,” said he, “this morning on the Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of Manneville.”

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement frightened already at this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

“I—I picked up that pocketbook?”

“Yes, YOU.”

“I swear I don't even know anything about it.”

“You were seen.”

“I was seen—I? Who saw me?”

“M. Malandain, the harness-maker.”

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger, said:

“Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string here, M'sieu le Maire.”

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

“You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain, who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for a pocketbook.”

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside him as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

“For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul's salvation, I repeat it.”

The mayor continued:

“After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about for some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of it.”

The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

“How can they tell—how can they tell such lies as that to slander an honest man! How can they?”

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him.

At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders.

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office the old man was surrounded,interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or mocking, as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered. And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed.

He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing his acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he had nothing in them.

They said to him:

“You old rogue!”

He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not being believed, and kept on telling his story.

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the string, and all the way he talked of his adventure.

That evening he made the round of the village of Breaute for the purpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

He brooded over it all night long.

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand of Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned the pocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbreque, of Manneville.

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but not knowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his master.

The news spread to the environs. Maitre Hauchecorne was informed. He started off at once and began to relate his story with the denouement. He was triumphant.

“What grieved me,” said he, “was not the thing itself, do you understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”

All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to the people who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and next Sunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him without his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarks behind his back.

On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville, prompted solely by the need of telling his story.

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him pass. Why?

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him 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 string—a little bit of string. See, here it is, M'sieu le Maire.”

今天是趕集日，農民們帶著妻子從戈代維爾的四面八方朝鎮子走來。男人們慢悠悠地走著，羅圈長腿每走一步，整個身體就向前猛然移動。他們的腿之所以畸形，是因為推犁時左肩較高，側彎著身體，是因為收割糧食時，他們不得不分開兩腿，才能站穩腳跟。他們漿硬的藍上衣仿佛上了清漆似的光滑發亮，領口和袖口帶有一點繡花圖案，穿在他們瘦骨嶙峋的身上鼓囊囊的，活像一只將要騰空飛起的氣球，從中伸出了兩條胳膊和兩只腳。

這些人中有的牽著一頭母牛或牛犢。他們的妻子就跟在牲口后面，用一根掛滿葉子的樹枝抽打牲口的背部，催它快走。她們挎著大籃子，籃子里伸出了幾只小雞或鴨子的腦袋。這些女人比男人們走得更快、更有勁，干癟挺直的身子披著窄小的披肩，披肩用別針別在扁平的胸脯上方；頭上裹著一塊白布，白布上面貼著頭發戴了一頂便帽。

這時，一輛大型游覽車擦身而過，一匹老馬顛簸前進，顛得座位上的兩個男人和車尾的一個女人搖來晃去，那個女人緊緊地抓住車沿，以減輕猛烈的顛簸。

戈代維爾的集市上，人和牲口混合在一起，水泄不通。牛的犄角、富裕農民的長絨高帽、女人們的頭巾在那片海洋里紛紛浮現。尖銳刺耳的亂叫聲形成了一片連綿不斷的喧鬧，越過這片喧鬧聲，偶爾爆發出一個開心農民從強健的肺部發出的哈哈大笑聲，或者是拴在房墻上的母牛發出的一聲長吼。

這里的一切都散發出一股牛棚、牛奶、干草和汗水的氣味，同時散發出那種半人半畜的氣味，這種氣味是鄉下人特有的。

布雷奧泰村的奧什科納先生剛剛到達戈代維爾，正向廣場走去，這時他看到地上有一小截細繩。作為地地道道的諾曼底人，奧什科納管家格外節儉，尋思著凡是可能有用的東西都值得拾起來。他彎下腰，但非常吃力，因為他患有風濕病。他從地上拾起那截細繩，正準備仔細卷起，這時他看到馬具制造商馬朗丹老板站在門階盯著他。他們曾為了一只籠頭吵過架，從那以后彼此都懷恨在心。讓仇人看到自己在路上拾了一截細繩，奧什科納先生覺得羞愧難當。他飛快地把細繩藏在上衣下面，然后讓它滑進馬褲口袋，接著假裝還在地上尋找著什么東西，什么也沒有發現，頭彎向前，佝僂著因患風濕病而疼痛的腰，向集市走去。

他立馬就迷失在了人群里。人群討價還價，鬧哄哄的，繼續緩慢移動。那些農民仔細查看母牛，去而復返，總是疑神疑鬼，怕上當受騙，從不敢完全決定，直盯著賣家的眼神，努力想識破那人的詭計，發現牲口的缺陷。

女人們把大籃子放在腳邊后，掏出眼神恐懼、冠子發紅、被捆住腿的家禽，放在地上。

她們聽了還價，不動聲色，果斷堅持原價，或許突然決定同意還價，向那個正要開始離開的顧客大聲喊道：

“好吧，昂蒂姆大爺，我就賣給你了。”

隨后，廣場漸漸地空了。當午禱鐘聲敲響時，那些家住得遠的人紛紛涌進了客棧。

茹爾丹的大客店坐滿了吃飯的人，寬大的院子里停滿了各種車輛——有四輪馬車，有輕便兩輪馬車，有大型游覽車，有無蓋輕便兩輪馬車，還有說不清的叫不出名字的車輛，沾滿黃泥，奇形怪狀，拼在一起，有些轅桿像兩條手臂一樣舉向天空，有些是鼻子著地，尾部朝天。

就在那些人坐在碩大壁爐的桌邊吃飯的對面，明亮的火焰把那些坐在右面的人的背部烤得暖烘烘的。三根烤肉鐵扦都叉滿小雞、鴿子和羊腿，在火上轉動著；烤肉的美味和酥脆烤焦的皮上流著肉汁的香味，從爐邊飄出來，讓人開心，嘴流口水。

農民中間的所有上層人物都在茹爾丹老板那里吃飯。茹爾丹既開店又販馬，當年是一個大賺了一把的機靈人物。

菜一盤盤端上來一盤盤吃光，黃色蘋果酒也是一罐罐端上來，一罐罐喝光。每個人都談起了自己的生意，談起了自己買進賣出的東西。他們交換著有關莊稼的消息。天氣對綠地來說不錯，但對糧食來說卻太濕了。

突然，咚咚咚的鼓聲開始在前面的院子里響了起來。除了一些最漠不關心的人之外，每個人都馬上站起來，嘴里塞得滿滿的，手里拿著餐巾，向門口，向窗口奔去。

公告差役宣布完禁令后，就磕磕絆絆地大聲宣讀，有些地方斷句都斷錯了：

通知戈代維爾的居民和所有來趕集的人，有人九點鐘到十點鐘之間在伯茲維爾大路上遺失了，一只黑皮錢包，里面裝有五百法郎和商用票據。拾到者請馬上送交鎮長辦公室或送還馬納維爾的，福蒂內·烏爾布雷格先生。當面酬謝二十法郎。

說完，那個人就揚長而去。他們又一次聽到遠處傳來了低沉的鼓聲和公告差役微弱的聲音。于是，大家開始談論這件事，推測烏爾布雷格先生有沒有可能找到他的錢包。

午飯繼續進行。他們正要喝完咖啡，這時憲兵隊下士突然出現在了門口。

他問道：

“布雷奧泰的奧什科納先生在這里嗎？”

坐在桌子另一端的奧什科納先生回答說：

“我在這里，我在這里。”

之后，他跟在下士后面。

鎮長坐在扶手椅里正等著他。鎮長是當地的公證人，高大嚴肅、裝腔作勢。

“奧什科納先生，”他說，“今天上午有人看到你在伯澤維爾的大路上，拾到了馬納維爾的烏爾布雷格先生丟失的錢包。”

這個鄉下人望著鎮長，目瞪口呆，對落在他頭上的這個嫌疑感到莫名其妙。

“我——我拾到了那個錢包？”

“是的，就是你。”

“我發誓我甚至都不知道這件事啊。”

“有人看到你拾了。”

“有人看到我拾了——是我嗎？是誰看到我的？”

“馬具制造商馬朗丹先生。”

這時，老人才想起來，幡然醒悟，氣得臉色通紅，說道：

“啊！是他，是他這個無賴看到我拾起的？他看到我拾起的是這根細繩，鎮長先生。”

說著，他從口袋里摸出了那小截細繩。

但是，鎮長搖了搖頭，不相信：

“奧什科納先生，馬朗丹先生是一個可以信賴的人，你無法使我相信他會錯把這根細繩當成一個錢包。”

這個鄉下人怒不可遏，舉起了一只手，向旁邊吐了一口，以證明自己的誠信，又說道：

“盡管如此，但這千真萬確，鎮長先生。聽著！我以自己的靈魂救贖發誓，我再說一遍。”

鎮長接著說道：

“你拾起那個可疑的東西后，甚至還在泥地里尋找了一段時間，看有沒有掉出來一張錢。”

這個好人因憤怒和害怕而喘不過氣來。

“他們怎么能說——他們怎么能說這種謊話，來中傷一個老實人！他們怎么能說？”

他的抗議白費力氣；對方不相信他。

馬朗丹先生跟他對質，重述了一遍證詞，一口咬定就是他。他們相互責罵了一個小時。應奧什科納先生本人的請求，他們對他進行了搜身。什么也沒有搜到。

鎮長不知所措，最后就把他打發走了，同時警告他要通知公訴人，聽候命令。

消息已經傳開了。老人離開鎮長辦公室后，人們把他團團圍住，好奇地對這個案子問來問去，要么是出于真心，要么是出于嘲笑，但誰也沒有憤憤不平。于是，他就開始講起了細繩的故事。他們都不相信他，而是哈哈大笑。

他一路走來，不是被大家截住，就是本人截住他認識的人，一遍又一遍地講述他的故事，提出抗議，同時把各個口袋翻過來，證明他在里面什么也沒有裝。

他們對他說：

“你這老滑頭！”

他對沒有人相信自己越來越生氣，緊張慌亂，陷入了絕望，就繼續講述他的故事。

夜晚來臨。該回家了。他跟三個鄰居一起離開，指給他們看他拾到細繩的地方，一路上講著他的奇遇。

那天晚上，他在布雷奧泰村轉了一圈，目的是告訴每個人。他遇到的只是不相信他的人。

他徹夜都郁悶沉思。

第二天下午一點鐘左右，給依莫維爾村菜農布雷東先生當短工的馬呂斯·波梅爾，把錢包和里面的東西，送還給了馬納維爾村的烏爾布雷格先生。

這個短工說，他是在大路上發現的，但他不識字，就帶回去交給了東家。

這個消息傳到了四里八鄉。奧什科納先生也聽說了。他馬上出發，開始講述他那個故事的結局。他洋洋得意。

“你明白，讓我傷心的，”他說，“不是事情本身，而是無端指責的謊話。再沒有比謊話更傷害人的了，很不討人喜歡。”

他一天到晚都談論著自己的這次奇遇。他在大路上講給過往的行人聽，在酒館里講給喝酒的人聽，到了下個禮拜日講給禮拜完從教堂出來的人聽。他甚至攔住陌生人，講給他們聽。他現在輕松了，但某個事兒折磨著他，他卻又不知道究竟是什么。人們聽他講故事的同時，一副開玩笑的樣子，好像沒有心服口服。他似乎感到他們在他背后說三道四。

到了下一個星期二，僅僅需要講述這件事，他就在這種心理驅使下去戈代維爾趕集。

馬朗丹站在門階上，看到他走過時，開始放聲大笑起來。為什么呢？

他對克里格托的一個農場主說話，這個農場主沒有讓他說完，就在他心窩搗了一拳，對他當面嚷道：“噢，你這老滑頭！”說完，他轉身離去。

奧什科納先生無言以對，越來越不安。他們為什么叫他“老滑頭”呢？

他在茹爾丹酒館落座后，又開始解釋起了整個事情。

蒙蒂列埃的一個馬販子沖對他大聲嚷道：

“出去，出去，你這老混蛋！我對你那根細繩的事兒一清二楚。”

奧什科納結結巴巴地說：

“那個錢包可不是又找到了嘛！”

但是，那個人接著說道：

“閉嘴吧，老爹；拾的是一個人，還的是另一個人。沒有人比這再聰明了。”

這個農民說不出話來。他終于明白了。他們指責是他讓一個同伙、一個共犯把錢包送了回去。

他想設法抗辯。在座的人全都哈哈大笑。

他吃不完這頓飯，就在一片嘲笑聲中離開了。

他回到家，憤憤不平，怒火和困惑憋得他透不出氣來；更使他沮喪的是，他具有諾曼底人的狡猾，他們指責他的事兒，他說不定會做出來，甚至還會吹噓這是一種高明手段。他隱約意識到不可能證明他的清白無罪了，因為他的狡猾眾所周知。他覺得自己蒙受了不白之冤，就像在心里被扎了一刀似的。

他又開始講起了自己的故事，每天都要拉長自己的敘述，每天都要增加一些新的證據，增加一些更有力的聲明和更神圣的誓詞，這都是他獨處的時刻想出來、準備好的，因為他的思想完全被細繩這個故事占住了。他越矢口否認，他的爭辯越巧妙，大家就越不相信他。

“那些都是說謊者的證據。”

他感受到了這一點。這折磨著他，他怎么努力都沒用，自己筋疲力盡了。

顯然，他日漸消瘦。

為了逗樂，一些愛開玩笑的人常常會使他講“那根細繩”的故事，就像你讓參加過戰役的士兵講打仗的故事一樣。他的思想越來越脆弱。大約到了十二月底，他就倒在了床上。

他一月初去世，在臨終痛苦的胡話中，他還在斷言自己清白無罪，反復說道：

“一小截細繩——一小截細繩。看，在這里，鎮長先生。”