He reflected for a moment, then lingering over each
word, he added: “Only do not then expect
from me the consideration I have shown you to-day.
Justice is human; that is, she is indulgent toward
certain crimes. She has fathomed the depth of
the abyss into which blind passion may hurl even an
honest man. To-day I freely offer you any assistance
that will not conflict with my duty. Speak, shall
I send this officer of police away? Would you
like me to send my clerk out of the room, on an errand?”
He said no more, but waited to see the effect of this
last effort.
The prisoner darted upon him one of those searching
glances that seem to pierce an adversary through.
His lips moved; one might have supposed that he was
about to make a revelation. But no; suddenly he
crossed his arms over his chest, and murmured:
“You are very frank, sir. Unfortunately
for me, I’m only a poor devil, as I’ve
already told you. My name is May, and I earn
my living by speaking to the public and turning a
compliment.”
“I am forced to yield to your decision,”
said the magistrate sadly. “The clerk will
now read the minutes of your examination—listen.”
While Goguet read the evidence aloud, the prisoner
listened without making any remark, but when asked
to sign the document, he obstinately refused to do
so, fearing, he said, “some hidden treachery.”
A moment afterward the soldiers who had escorted him
to the magistrate’s room conducted him back
to the Depot.
When the prisoner had gone, M. Segmuller sank back
in his armchair, literally exhausted. He was
in that state of nervous prostration which so often
follows protracted but fruitless efforts. He had
scarcely strength enough to bathe his burning forehead
and gleaming eyes with cool, refreshing water.
This frightful examination had lasted no less than
seven consecutive hours.
The smiling clerk, who had kept his place at his desk
busily writing the whole while, now rose to his feet,
glad of an opportunity to stretch his limbs and snap
his fingers, cramped by holding the pen. Still,
he was not in the least degree bored. He invariably
took a semi-theatrical interest in the dramas that
were daily enacted in his presence; his excitement
being all the greater owing to the uncertainty that
shrouded the finish of the final act—a
finish that only too often belied the ordinary rules
and deductions of writers for the stage.
“What a knave!” he exclaimed after vainly
waiting for the magistrate or the detective to express
an opinion, “what a rascal!”
M. Segmuller ordinarily put considerable confidence
in his clerk’s long experience. He sometimes
even went so far as to consult him, doubtless somewhat
in the same style that Moliere consulted his servant.
But, on this occasion he did not accept his opinion.
“No,” said he in a thoughtful tone, “that
man is not a knave. When I spoke to him kindly
he was really touched; he wept, he hesitated.
I could have sworn that he was about to tell me everything.”
