“He suddenly said: ’Oh, I have a
beautiful specimen in the next room. I’ll
go and get it.’
“He ran to the door quickly, and both sides
opened as though for a theatrical effect.
“In a large room, all in disorder, in the midst
of skirts, collars, waists lying around on the floor,
stood a tall, dried-up creature. The lower part
of her body was covered with an old, worn-out silk
petticoat, which was hanging limply on her shapeless
form, and she was standing in front of a mirror brushing
some short, sparse blond hairs. Her arms formed
two acute angles, and as she turned around in astonishment
I saw under a common cotton chemise a regular cemetery
of ribs, which were hidden from the public gaze by
well-arranged pads.
“The husband uttered a natural exclamation and
came back, closing the doors, and said: ’Gracious!
how stupid I am! Oh, how thoughtless! My
wife will never forgive me for that!’
“I already felt like thanking him. I left
three days later, after cordially shaking hands with
the two men and kissing the lady’s fingers.
She bade me a cold good-by.”
Karl Massouligny was silent. Some one asked:
“But what was the friend?”
“I don’t know—however—however
he looked greatly distressed to see me leaving so
soon.”
The defendants, Cesaire-Isidore Brument and Prosper-Napoleon
Cornu, appeared before the Court of Assizes of the
Seine-Inferieure, on a charge of attempted murder,
by drowning, of Mme. Brument, lawful wife of the
first of the aforenamed.
The two prisoners sat side by side on the traditional
bench. They were two peasants; the first was
small and stout, with short arms, short legs, and
a round head with a red pimply face, planted directly
on his trunk, which was also round and short, and
with apparently no neck. He was a raiser of pigs
and lived at Cacheville-la-Goupil, in the district
of Criquetot.
Cornu (Prosper-Napoleon) was thin, of medium height,
with enormously long arms. His head was on crooked,
his jaw awry, and he squinted. A blue blouse,
as long as a shirt, hung down to his knees, and his
yellow hair, which was scanty and plastered down on
his head, gave his face a worn-out, dirty look, a
dilapidated look that was frightful. He had been
nicknamed “the cure” because he could imitate
to perfection the chanting in church, and even the
sound of the serpent. This talent attracted to
his cafe—for he was a saloon keeper at Criquetot—a
great many customers who preferred the “mass
at Cornu” to the mass in church.
Mme. Brument, seated on the witness bench, was
a thin peasant woman who seemed to be always asleep.
She sat there motionless, her hands crossed on her
knees, gazing fixedly before her with a stupid expression.
The judge continued his interrogation.
“Well, then, Mme. Brument, they came into
your house and threw you into a barrel full of water.
Tell us the details. Stand up.”
