they lost sight of him; but two hours later he returned laughing and
rolling against the walls. He was drunk, absolutely drunk.

Nothing could cure him.

Driven from home by his mother, he became a wagon driver, and drove the
charcoal wagons for the Pougrisel firm, which is still in existence.

His reputation as a drunkard became so well known and spread so far that
even at Evreux they talked of Mme. Husson's "Rosier," and the sots of the
countryside have been given that nickname.

A good deed is never lost.

Dr. Marambot rubbed his hands as he finished his story. I asked:

"Did you know the 'Rosier'?"

"Yes. I had the honor of closing his eyes."

"What did he die of?"

"An attack of delirium tremens, of course."

We had arrived at the old citadel, a pile of ruined walls dominated by
the enormous tower of St. Thomas of Canterbury and the one called the
Prisoner's Tower.

Marambot told me the story of this prisoner, who, with the aid of a nail,
covered the walls of his dungeon with sculptures, tracing the reflections