mous ledges of rock, so narrow in places that three men
could not walk abreast. Farther on it skirted the precipices; the gorge
opened abruptly; and one caught glimpses of the sea, of immense blue
horizons. But M. Mouchel was not in a state of mind to admire the
landscape. He swore as the pebbles rolled under his feet. It was the
fault of Coqueville, he promised to shake up those do-nothings well.
But, in the meantime, he was approaching. All at once, in the turning
at the last rock, he saw the twenty houses of the village hanging to the
flank of the cliff.

Nine o'clock struck. One would have believed it June, so blue and warm
was the sky; a superb season, limpid air, gilded by the dust of the
sun, refreshed by the good smell of the sea. M. Mouchel entered the only
street of the village, where he came very often; and as he passed before
Rouget's house, he went in. The house was empty. Then he cast his eye
toward Fouasse's--Tupain's--Brisemotte's. Not a soul; all the doors
open, and no one in the rooms. What did it mean? A light chill began to
creep over his flesh. Then he thought of the authorities. Certainly, the
Emperor would reassure him. But the Emperor's house was empty like the
others. Even to the _garde champetre_, there was failure! That village,
silent and deserted, terrified him now. He ran to the Mayor's. There
another surprise awaited him: the house was found in an abominable mess;
they had not made the beds in three days; dirty dishes littered the
place; chairs seemed to indicate a fight. His mind upset, dreaming of
cataclysms, M. Mouchel determined to go on to the end, and he entered
the church. No more cure than mayor. All the authorities, even religion
itself had vanished. Coqueville abandoned, slept without a breath,
without a dog, without a cat. Not even a fowl; the hens had taken
themselves off. Nothing, a void, silence, a leaden sleep under the great
blue sky.

Parbleu! It was no wonder that Coqueville brought no more fish!
Coqueville had moved away. Coqueville was dead. He must notify the
police. The mysterious catastrophe exalted M. Mouchel, when, with the
idea of descending to the beach, he uttered a cry. In the midst of
the sands, the whole population lay stretched. He thought of a general
massacre. But the sonorous snores came to undeceive him. During the
night of Sunday, Coqueville had feasted so late that it had found itself
in absolute inability to go home to bed. So it had slept on the san