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"Who?" demanded the traveller.

"Monseigneur, the man."

"May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man?

You know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?"

"Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the

country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him."

"Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?"

"With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it,

Monseigneur. His head hanging over--like this!"

He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with

his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then

recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.

"What was he like?"

"Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with

dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!"

The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd;

but all eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at

Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any

spectre on his conscience.