Beggarman, Thief by Irwin Shaw

to place a charge of attempted rape against him.”
    Rudolph groaned. He knew that it would be impossible to get Jean to do anything of the kind. “All my wife wants,” he said, “is to go home.”
    The lawyer nodded. “I quite understand that. And of course, there are no witnesses.”
    “The only witness was my brother,” Rudolph said, “and he’s dead.”
    “In that case, I think the best thing your wife could do would be to leave for home as soon as possible. I can imagine the ordeal …”
    No, you can’t, old man, Rudolph thought, not for a minute. He was thinking of himself more than of his wife.
    “In any case, rape cases are most difficult to sustain,” the old man said. “Especially in France.”
    “They’re not so easy in America, either,” Rudolph said.
    “It’s a crime in which the law finds itself in an uncomfortable position,” the lawyer said. He smiled, aged and used to injustice.
    “She’ll be on the plane tomorrow,” Rudolph said.
    “Now—” The lawyer smoothed the shining surface of his desk with a loving gesture, his white hand reflecting palely off the wood, one problem neatly disposed of. “About your nephew.” He looked obliquely, pale eyes in yellowing pouches of wrinkled skin, at Rudolph. “He is not a communicative boy. At least to me. Or to the police, either, for that matter. Under questioning, he refuses to divulge his motive for attacking the man in the bar. Perhaps he has said something to you?” Again the oblique, old, shrewd glance.
    “Not to me,” Rudolph said. “I have some notions, but …” He shrugged. “Of course they wouldn’t mean anything in a court of law.”
    “So—there is no defense. No extenuating circumstances. Physical attacks are regarded seriously under French law.” The lawyer breathed heavily. A touch of asthma, Rudolph thought, or a sign of approval, an unspoken pride in the civilized nature of France where hitting a man with a beer bottle was considered a matter of utmost gravity, as compared with the frontier attitude of America, where everybody struck everybody else with unpunishable lightness of heart. “Luckily,” the lawyer went on, regaining his breath, “the Englishman is well out of danger. He will be discharged in a few days from the hospital. He, himself, has had several brushes with the local police regulations and is not disposed to bring charges. Also, the juge d’instruction has taken into consideration the age of the boy and the loss he has recently suffered and in a spirit of mercy has merely indicated that the boy will be taken to the nearest border or to the airport in the next eight days. Forgive me—that is one week in French.” He smiled again, doting on his native language. “Don’t ask me why.” He smoothed the desk again, making a small, papery noise. “If the boy wishes to come back to France, to continue his education, perhaps—” With a little genteel snuffle into a handkerchief, the old man implied, with perfect politeness, that education was a rare commodity in America. “I am sure that after a year or so, when it has all been forgotten, I could arrange for him to be allowed back.”
    “I’m glad to hear that,” Rudolph said. “From what his father and Mr. Dwyer have told me, he likes it here and has done very well in school.”
    “He should continue on at the lycée, at least until he gets his baccalauréat. If he ever wants to get anyplace in the world that, I would say, in our day and age, is the minimum requirement.”
    “I’ll think about it. And, of course, talk it over with the boy.”
    “Good,” the old man said. “I trust, my dear friend, that you consider that I have served you well and faithfully and, if I may say so, have used what small influence I have in this—this—” For once he hesitated over the English word “—in this pays— this section of the coast—to good effect.”
    “I thank you very much, Maître,” Rudolph said. At least he had learned how to