“Ah! you have told me the truth!” scornfully continued the pitiless magistrate.  “Then, who is this man who was waiting for you while you were at the Poivriere?  Who is this accomplice who, after your arrest, dared to enter the Widow Chupin’s den to regain possession of some compromising object—­no doubt a letter—­which he knew he would find in the pocket of the Widow Chupin’s apron?  Who is this devoted, courageous friend who feigned drunkenness so effectually that even the police were deceived, and thoughtlessly placed him in confinement with you?  Dare you deny that you have not arranged your system of defense in concert with him?  Can you affirm that he did not give the Widow Chupin counsel as to the course she should pursue?”

But already, thanks to his power of self-control, the prisoner had mastered his agitation.  “All this,” said he, in a harsh voice, “is a mere invention of the police!”

However faithfully one may describe an examination of this kind, a narrative can convey no more idea of the real scene than a heap of cold ashes can give the effect of a glowing fire.  One can note down each word, each ejaculation, but phraseology is powerless to portray the repressed animation, the impassioned movements, the studied reticence, the varied tones of voice, the now bold, now faltering glances, full of hatred and suspicion, which follow each other in rapid succession, mostly on the prisoner’s side, but not entirely so, for although the magistrate may be an adept in the art of concealing his feelings, at times nature can not be controlled.

When the prisoner reeled beneath the magistrate’s last words, the latter could not control his feelings.  “He yields,” he thought, “he succumbs—­he is mine!”

But all hope of immediate success vanished when M. Segmuller saw his redoubtable adversary struggle against his momentary weakness, and arm himself for the fight with renewed, and, if possible, even greater energy.  The magistrate perceived that it would require more than one assault to over-come such a stubborn nature.  So, in a voice rendered still more harsh by disappointment, he resumed:  “It is plain that you are determined to deny evidence itself.”

The prisoner had recovered all his self-possession.  He must have bitterly regretted his weakness, for a fiendish spite glittered in his eyes.  “What evidence!” he asked, frowning.  “This romance invented by the police is very plausible, I don’t deny it; but it seems to me that the truth is quite as probable.  You talk to me about a cabman whose vehicle was hired by two short, fair-haired women:  but who can prove that these women were the same that fled from the Poivriere?”

“The police agent you see here followed the tracks they left across the snow.”

“Ah! at night-time—­across fields intersected by ditches, and up a long street—­a fine rain falling all the while, and a thaw already beginning!  Oh, your story is very probable!”