While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations, Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell.
The two first days had not appeared very long.
He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered, which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage, plans of defence and a narrative of justification.
The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret cells, and the jailer who brought him his food.
“Am I not to be examined again?” he would ask.
“Your turn is coming,” the jailer invariably answered.
Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the depths of despair.
“Am I to stay here forever?” he moaned.
No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o’clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed back.
He ran toward the door.
But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to the spot.
“Father,” he gasped, “father!”
“Your father, yes!”
Prosper’s astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a feeling of great joy.
A father is one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember this man upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and although he can in no way assist us, his presence alone comforts and strengthens.
Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was about to throw himself on his father’s bosom.
M. Bertomy harshly repulsed him.
“Do not approach me!” he exclaimed.
He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The father and son were alone together, Prosper heart-broken, crushed; M. Bertomy angry, almost threatening.
Cast off by this last friend, by his father, the miserable young man seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment.
“You too!” he bitterly cried. “You, you believe me guilty? Oh, father!”
“Spare yourself this shameful comedy,” interrupted M. Bertomy: “I know all.”
“But I am innocent, father; I swear it by the sacred memory of my mother.”
“Unhappy wretch,” cried M. Bertomy, “do not blaspheme!”
He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a weak, broken voice, he added:
“Your mother is dead, Prosper, and little did I think that the day would come when I could thank God for having taken her from me. Your crime would have killed her, would have broken her heart!”
After a painful silence, Prosper said:
“You overwhelm me, father, and at the moment when I need all my courage; when I am the victim of an odious plot.”
“Victim!” cried M. Bertomy, “victim! Dare you utter your insinuations against the honorable man who has taken care of you, loaded you with benefits, and had insured you a brilliant future! It is enough for you to have robbed him; do not calumniate him.”
“For pity’s sake, father, let me speak!”
“I suppose you would deny your benefactor’s kindness. Yet you were at one time so sure of his affection, that you wrote me to hold myself in readiness to come to Paris and ask M. Fauvel for the hand of his niece. Was that a lie too?”
“No,” said Prosper in a choked voice, “no.”
“That was a year ago; you then loved Mlle. Madeleine; at least you wrote to me that you--”
“Father, I love her now, more than ever; I have never ceased to love her.”
M. Bertomy made a gesture of contemptuous pity.
“Indeed!” he cried, “and the thought of the pure, innocent girl whom you loved did not prevent your entering upon a path of sin. You loved her: how dared you, then, without blushing, approach her presence after associating with the shameless creatures with whom you were so intimate?”
“For Heaven’s sake, let me explain by what fatality Madeleine--”
“Enough, monsieur, enough. I told you that I know everything. I saw M. Fauvel yesterday; this morning I saw the judge, and ‘tis to his kindness that I am indebted for this interview. Do you know what mortification I suffered before being allowed to see you? I was searched and made to empty all of my pockets, on suspicion of bringing you arms!”
Prosper ceased to justify himself, but in a helpless, hopeless way, dropped down upon a seat.
“I have seen your apartments, and at once recognized the proofs of your crime. I saw silk curtains hanging before every window and door, and the walls covered with pictures. In my father’s house the walls were whitewashed; and there was but one arm-chair in the whole house, and that was my mother’s. Our luxury was our honesty. You are the first member of our family who has possessed Aubusson carpets; though, to be sure, you are the first thief of our blood.”
At this last insult Prosper’s face flushed crimson, but he remained silent and immovable.
“But luxury is necessary now,” continued M. Bertomy, becoming more excited and angry as he went on, “luxury must be had at any price. You must have the insolent opulence and display of an upstart, without being an upstart. You must support worthless women who wear satin slippers lined with swan’s-down, like those I saw in your rooms, and keep servants in livery--and you steal! And bankers no longer trust their safe-keys with anybody; and every day honest families are disgraced by the discovery of some new piece of villainy.”
M. Bertomy suddenly stopped. He saw that his son was not in a condition to hear any more reproaches.
“But I will say no more,” he said. “I came here not to reproach, but to, if possible, save the honor of our name, to prevent it from being published in the papers bearing the names of thieves and murderers. Stand up and listen to me!”
At the imperious tone of his father, Prosper arose. So many successive blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.
“First of all,” began M. Bertomy, “how much have you remaining of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?”
“Once more, father,” replied the unfortunate man in a tone of hopeless resignation, “once more I swear I am innocent.”
“So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have to repair the injury you have done M. Fauvel.”
“What do you mean?”
“The day he heard of your crime, your brother-in-law brought me your sister’s dowry, seventy thousand francs. I succeeded in collecting a hundred and forty thousand francs more. This makes two hundred and ten thousand francs which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel.”
This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor.
“You shall do nothing of the kind!” he cried with unrestrained indignation.
“I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel will grant me time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hundred francs. I can live upon five hundred, and am strong enough to go to work again; and your brother-in-law--”
M. Bertomy stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son’s face. His features were contracted with such furious rage that he was scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac’s.
“You dare not disgrace me thus!” he cried; “you have no right to do it. You are free to disbelieve me yourself, but you have no right for taking a step that would be a confession of guilt, and ruin me forever. Who and what convinces you of my guilt? When cold justice hesitates, you, my father, hesitate not, but, more pitiless than the law, condemn me unheard!”
“I only do my duty.”
“Which means that I stand on the edge of a precipice, and you push me over. Do you call that your duty? What! between strangers who accuse me, and myself who swear that I am innocent, you do not hesitate? Why? Is it because I am your son? Our honor is at stake, it is true; but that is only the more reason why you should sustain me, and assist me to defend myself.”
Prosper’s earnest, truthful manner was enough to unsettle the firmest convictions, and make doubt penetrate the most stubborn mind.
“Yet,” said M. Bertomy in a hesitating tone, “everything seems to accuse you.”
“Ah, father, you do not know that I was suddenly banished from Madeleine’s presence; that I was compelled to avoid her. I became desperate, and tried to forget my sorrow in dissipation. I sought oblivion, and found shame and disgust. Oh, Madeleine, Madeleine!”
He was overcome with emotion; but in a few minutes he started up with renewed violence in his voice and manner.
“Everything is against me!” he exclaimed, “but no matter. I will justify myself or perish in the attempt. Human justice is liable to error; although innocent, I may be convicted: so be it. I will undergo my penalty; but people are not kept galley-slaves forever.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, father, that I am now another man. My life, henceforth, has an object, vengeance! I am the victim of a vile plot. As long as I have a drop of blood in my veins, I will seek its author. And I will certainly find him; and then bitterly shall he expiate all of my cruel suffering. The blow came from the house of Fauvel, and I will live to prove it.”
“Take care: your anger makes you say things that you will repent hereafter.”
“Yes, I see, you are going to descant upon the probity of M. Andre Fauvel. You will tell me that all the virtues have taken refuge in the bosom of this patriarchal family. What do you know about it? Would this be the first instance in which the most shameful secrets are concealed beneath the fairest appearances? Why did Madeleine suddenly forbid me to think of her? Why has she exiled me, when she suffers as much from our separation as I myself, when she still loves me? For she does love me. I am sure of it. I have proofs of it.”
The jailer came to say that the time allotted to M. Bertomy had expired, and that he must leave the cell.
A thousand conflicting emotions seemed to rend the old man’s heart.
Suppose Prosper were telling the truth: how great would be his remorse, if he had added to his already great weight of sorrow and trouble! And who could prove that he was not sincere?
The voice of this son, of whom he had always been so proud, had aroused all his paternal affection, so violently repressed. Ah, were he guilty, and guilty of a worse crime, still he was his son, his only son!
His countenance lost its severity, and his eyes filled with tears.
He had resolved to leave, as he had entered, stern and angry: he had not the cruel courage. His heart was breaking. He opened his arms, and pressed Prosper to his heart.
“Oh, my son!” he murmured. “God grant you have spoken the truth!”
Prosper was triumphant: he had almost convinced his father of his innocence. But he had not time to rejoice over this victory.
The cell-door again opened, and the jailer’s gruff voice once more called out:
“It is time for you to appear before the court.”
He instantly obeyed the order.
But his step was no longer unsteady, as a few days previous: a complete change had taken place within him. He walked with a firm step, head erect, and the fire of resolution in his eye.
He knew the way now, and he walked a little ahead of the constable who escorted him.
As he was passing through the room full of policemen, he met the man with gold spectacles, who had watched him so intently the day he was searched.
“Courage, M. Prosper Bertomy,” he said: “if you are innocent, there are those who will help you.”
Prosper started with surprise, and was about to reply, when the man disappeared.
“Who is that gentleman?” he asked of the policeman.
“Is it possible that you don’t know him?” replied the policeman with surprise. “Why, it is M. Lecoq, of the police service.”
“You say his name is Lecoq?”
“You might as well say ‘monsieur,’” said the offended policeman; “it would not burn your mouth. M. Lecoq is a man who knows everything that he wants to know, without its ever being told to him. If you had had him, instead of that smooth-tongued imbecile Fanferlot, your case would have been settled long ago. Nobody is allowed to waste time when he has command. But he seems to be a friend of yours.”
“I never saw him until the first day I came here.”
“You can’t swear to that, because no one can boast of knowing the real face of M. Lecoq. It is one thing to-day, and another to-morrow; sometimes he is a dark man, sometimes a fair one, sometimes quite young, and then an octogenarian: why, not seldom he even deceives me. I begin to talk to a stranger, paf! the first thing I know, it is M. Lecoq! Anybody on the face of the earth might be he. If I were told that you were he, I should say, ‘It is very likely.’ Ah! he can convert himself into any shape and form he chooses. He is a wonderful man!”
The constable would have continued forever his praises of M. Lecoq, had not the sight of the judge’s door put an end to them.
This time, Prosper was not kept waiting on the wooden bench: the judge, on the contrary, was waiting for him.
M. Patrigent, who was a profound observer of human nature, had contrived the interview between M. Bertomy and his son.
He was sure that between the father, a man of such stubborn honor, and the son, accused of theft, an affecting scene would take place, and this scene would completely unman Prosper, and make him confess.
He determined to send for him as soon as the interview was over, while all his nerves were vibrating with terrible emotions: he would tell the truth, to relieve his troubled, despairing mind.
His surprise was great to see the cashier’s bearing; resolute without obstinacy, firm and assured without defiance.
“Well,” he said, “have you reflected?”
“Not being guilty, monsieur, I had nothing to reflect upon.”
“Ah, I see the prison has not been a good counsellor; you forget that sincerity and repentance are the first things necessary to obtain the indulgence of the law.”
“I crave no indulgence, monsieur.”
M. Patrigent looked vexed, and said:
“What would you say if I told you what had become of the three hundred and fifty thousand francs?”
Prosper shook his head sadly.
“If it were known, monsieur, I would not be here, but at liberty.”
This device had often been used by the judge, and generally succeeded; but, with a man so thoroughly master of himself, there was small chance of success. It had been used at a venture, and failed.
“Then you persist in accusing M. Fauvel?”
“Him, or someone else.”
“Excuse me: no one else, since he alone knew the word. Had he any interest in robbing himself?”
“I can think of none.”
“Well, now I will tell you what interest you had in robbing him.”
M. Patrigent spoke as a man who was convinced of the facts he was about to state; but his assurance was all assumed.
He had relied upon crushing, at a blow, a despairing wretched man, and was nonplussed by seeing him appear as determined upon resistance.
“Will you be good enough to tell me,” he said, in a vexed tone, “how much you have spent during the last year?”
Prosper did not find it necessary to stop to reflect and calculate.
“Yes, monsieur,” he answered, unhesitatingly: “circumstances made it necessary for me to preserve the greatest order in my wild career; I spent about fifty thousand francs.”
“Where did you obtain them?”
“In the first place, twelve thousand francs were left to me by my mother. I received from M. Fauvel fourteen thousand francs, as my salary, and share of the profits. By speculating in stocks, I gained eight thousand francs. The rest I borrowed, and intend repaying out of the fifteen thousand francs which I have deposited in M. Fauvel’s bank.”
The account was clear, exact, and could be easily proved; it must be a true one.
“Who lent you the money?”
“M. Raoul de Lagors.”
This witness had left Paris the day of the robbery, and could not be found; so, for the time being, M. Patrigent was compelled to rely upon Prosper’s word.
“Well,” he said, “I will not press this point; but tell me why, in spite of the formal order of M. Fauvel, you drew the money from the Bank of France the night before, instead of waiting till the morning of the payment?”
“Because M. de Clameran had informed me that it would be agreeable, necessary even, for him to have his money early in the morning. He will testify to that fact, if you summon him; and I knew that I should reach my office late.”
“Then M. de Clameran is a friend of yours?”
“By no means. I have always felt repelled by him; but he is the intimate friend of M. Lagors.”
While Sigault was writing down these answers, M. Patrigent was racking his brain to imagine what could have occurred between M. Bertomy and his son, to cause this transformation in Prosper.
“One more thing,” said the judge: “how did you spend the evening, the night before the crime?”
“When I left my office, at five o’clock, I took the St.-Germain train, and went to Vesinet, M. de Lagors’s country seat, to carry him fifteen hundred francs which he had asked for; and, finding him not at home, I left it with his servant.”
“Did he tell you that M. de Lagors was going away?”
“No, monsieur. I did not know that he had left Paris.”
“Where did you go when you left Vesinet?”
“I returned to Paris, and dined at a restaurant with a friend.”
“And then?”
Prosper hesitated.
“You are silent,” said M. Patrigent; “then I shall tell you how you employed your time. You returned to your rooms in the Rue Chaptal, dressed yourself, and attended a soiree given by one of those women who style themselves dramatic artistes, and who are a disgrace to the stage; who receive a hundred crowns a year, and yet keep their carriages, at Mlle. Wilson’s.”
“You are right, monsieur.”
“There is heavy playing at Wilson’s?”
“Sometimes.”
“You are in the habit of visiting places of this sort. Were you not connected in some way with a scandalous adventure which took place at the house of a woman named Crescenzi?”
“I was summoned to testify, having witnessed a theft.”
“Gambling generally leads to stealing. And did you not play baccarat at Wilson’s, and lose eighteen hundred francs?”
“Excuse me, monsieur, only eleven hundred.”
“Very well. In the morning you paid a note of a thousand francs.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Moreover, there remained in your desk five hundred francs, and you had four hundred in your purse when you were arrested. So that altogether, in twenty-four hours, four thousand five hundred francs--”
Prosper was not discountenanced, but stupefied.
Not being aware of the powerful means of investigation possessed by the law, he wondered how in so short a time the judge could have obtained such accurate information.
“Your statement is correct, monsieur,” he said finally.
“Where did all this money come from? The evening before you had so little that you were obliged to defer the payment of a small bill.”
“The day to which you allude, I sold through an agent some bonds I had, about three thousand francs; besides, I took from the safe two thousand francs in advance on my salary.”
The prisoner had given clear answers to all the questions put to him, and M. Patrigent thought he would attack him on a new point.
“You say you have no wish to conceal any of your actions; then why did you write this note to one of your companions?” Here he held up the mysterious note.
This time the blow struck. Prosper’s eyes dropped before the inquiring look of the judge.
“I thought,” he stammered, “I wished--”
“You wished to screen this woman?”
“Yes, monsieur; I did. I knew that a man in my condition, accused of a robbery, has every fault, every weakness he has ever indulged in, charged against him as a great crime.”
“Which means that you knew that the presence of a woman at your house would tell very much against you, and that justice would not excuse this scandalous defiance of public morality. A man who respects himself so little as to associate with a worthless woman, does not elevate her to his standard, but he descends to her base level.”
“Monsieur!”
“I suppose you know who the woman is, whom you permit to bear the honest name borne by your mother?”
“Mme. Gypsy was a governess when I first knew her. She was born at Oporto, and came to France with a Portuguese family.”
“Her name is not Gypsy; she has never been a governess, and she is not a Portuguese.”
Prosper began to protest against this statement; but M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders, and began looking over a large file of papers on his desk.
“Ah, here it is,” he said, “listen: Palmyre Chocareille, born at Paris in 1840, daughter of James Chocareille, undertaker’s assistant, and of Caroline Piedlent, his wife.”
Prosper looked vexed and impatient; he did not know that the judge was reading him this report to convince him that nothing can escape the police.
“Palmyre Chocareille,” he continued, “at twelve years of age was apprenticed to a shoemaker, and remained with him until she was sixteen. Traces of her for one year are lost. At the age of seventeen she is hired as a servant by a grocer on the Rue St. Denis, named Dombas, and remains there three months. She lives out during this same year, 1857, at eight different places. In 1858 she entered the store of a fan-merchant in Choiseul Alley.”
As he read, the judge watched Prosper’s face to observe the effect of these revelations.
“Toward the close of 1858 she was employed as a servant by Madame Munes, and accompanied her to Lisbon. How long she remained in Lisbon, and what she did while she remained there, is not reported. But in 1861 she returned to Paris, and was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment for assault and battery. Ah, she returned from Portugal with the name of Nina Gypsy.”
“But I assure you, monsieur,” Prosper began.
“Yes, I understand; this history is less romantic, doubtless, than the one related to you; but then it has the merit of being true. We lose sight of Palmyre Chocareille, called Gypsy, upon her release from prison, but we meet her again six months later, having made the acquaintance of a travelling agent named Caldas, who became infatuated with her beauty, and furnished her a house near the Bastille. She assumed his name for some time, then she deserted him to devote herself to you. Did you ever hear of this Caldas?”
“Never, monsieur.”
“This foolish man so deeply loved this creature that her desertion drove him almost insane from grief. He was a very resolute man, and publicly swore that he would kill his rival if he ever found him. The current report afterward was, that he committed suicide. He certainly sold the furniture of the House occupied by Chocareille, and suddenly disappeared. All the efforts made to discover him proved fruitless.”
The judge stopped a moment as if to give Prosper time for reflection, and then slowly said:
“And this is the woman whom you made your companion, the woman for whom you robbed the bank!”
Once more M. Patrigent was on the wrong track, owing to Fanferlot’s incomplete information.
He had hoped that Prosper would betray himself by uttering some passionate retort when thus wounded to the quick; but he remained impassible. Of all the judge said to him his mind dwelt upon only one word--Caldas, the name of the poor travelling agent who had killed himself.
“At any rate,” insisted M. Patrigent, “you will confess that this girl has caused your ruin.”
“I cannot confess that, monsieur, for it is not true.”
“Yet she is the occasion of your extravagance. Listen.” The judge here drew a bill from the file of papers. “During December you paid her dressmaker, Van Klopen, for two walking dresses, nine hundred francs; one evening dress, seven hundred francs; one domino, trimmed with lace, four hundred francs.”
“I spent this money cheerfully, but nevertheless I was not especially attached to her.”
M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders.
“You cannot deny the evidence,” said he. “I suppose you will also say that it was not for this girl’s sake you ceased spending your evenings at M. Fauvel’s?”
“I swear that she was not the cause of my ceasing to visit M. Fauvel’s family.”
“Then why did you cease, suddenly, your attentions to a young lady whom you confidently expected to marry, and whose hand you had written to your father to demand for you?”
“I had reasons which I cannot reveal,” answered Prosper with emotion.
The judge breathed freely; at last he had discovered a vulnerable point in the prisoner’s armor.
“Did Mlle. Madeleine banish you?”
Prosper was silent, and seemed agitated.
“Speak,” said M. Patrigent; “I must tell you that this circumstance is one of the most important in your case.”
“Whatever the cost may be, on this subject I am compelled to keep silence.”
“Beware of what you do; justice will not be satisfied with scruples of conscience.”
M. Patrigent waited for an answer. None came.
“You persist in your obstinacy, do you? Well, we will go on to the next question. You have, during the last year, spent fifty thousand francs. Your resources are at an end, and your credit is exhausted; to continue your mode of life was impossible. What did you intend to do?”
“I had no settled plan. I thought it might last as long as it would, and then I----”
“And then you would draw from the safe!”
“Ah, monsieur, if I were guilty, I should not be here! I should never have been such a fool as to return to the bank; I should have fled.”
M. Patrigent could not restrain a smile of satisfaction, and exclaimed:
“Exactly the argument I expected you to use. You showed your shrewdness precisely by staying to face the storm, instead of flying the country. Several recent suits have taught dishonest cashiers that flight abroad is dangerous. Railways travel fast, but telegrams travel faster. A French thief can be arrested in London within forty-eight hours after his description has been telegraphed. Even America is no longer a refuge. You remained prudently and wisely, saying to yourself, ‘I will manage to avoid suspicion; and, even if I am found out, I shall be free again after three or five years’ seclusion, with a large fortune to enjoy.’ Many people would sacrifice five years of their lives for three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“But monsieur, had I calculated in the manner you describe, I should not have been content with three hundred and fifty thousand francs; I should have waited for an opportunity to steal half a million. I often have that sum in charge.”
“Oh! it is not always convenient to wait.”
Prosper was buried in deep thought for some minutes.
“Monsieur,” he finally said, “there is one detail I forgot to mention before, and it may be of importance.”
“Explain, if you please.”
“The office messenger whom I sent to the Bank of France for the money must have seen me tie up the bundle, and put it away in the safe. At any rate, he knows that I left the bank before he did.”
“Very well; the man shall be examined. Now you can return to your cell; and once more I advise you to consider the consequences of your persistent denial.”
M. Patrigent thus abruptly dismissed Prosper because he wished to immediately act upon this last piece of information.
“Sigault,” said he as soon as Prosper had left the room, “is not this Antonin the man who was excused from testifying because he sent a doctor’s certificate declaring him too ill to appear?”
“It is, monsieur.”
“Where doe he live?”
“Fanferlot says he was so ill that he was taken to the hospital--the Dubois Hospital.”
“Very well. I am going to examine him to-day, this very hour. Take your pen and paper, and send for a carriage.”
It was some distance from the Palais de Justice to the Dubois Hospital; but the cabman, urged by the promise of a large fee, made his sorry jades fly as if they were blooded horses.
Would Antonin be able to answer any questions?
The physician in charge of the hospital said that, although the man suffered horribly from a broken knee, his mind was perfectly clear.
“That being the case, monsieur,” said the judge, “I wish to examine him, and desire that no one be admitted while he makes his deposition.”
“Oh! you will not be intruded upon, monsieur; his room contains four beds, but they are just now unoccupied.”
When Antonin saw the judge enter, followed by a little weazened man in black, with a portfolio under his arm, he at once knew what he had come for.
“Ah,” he said, “monsieur comes to see me about M. Bertomy’s case?”
“Precisely.”
M. Patrigent remained standing by the sick-bed while Sigault arranged his papers on a little table.
In answer to the usual questions, the messenger swore that he was named Antonin Poche, was forty years old, born at Cadaujac (Gironde), and was unmarried.
“Now,” said the judge, “are you well enough to clearly answer any questions I may put?”
“Certainly, monsieur.”
“Did you, on the 27th of February, go to the Bank of France for the three hundred and fifty thousand francs that were stolen?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“At what hour did you return with the money?”
“It must have been five o’clock when I got back.”
“Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you handed him the notes? Now, do not be in a hurry; think before you answer.”
“Let me see: first he counted the notes, and made them into four packages; then he put them in the safe; and then--it seems to me--and then he locked the safe; and, yes, I am not mistaken, he went out!”
He uttered these last words so quickly, that, forgetting his knee, he half started up, but, with a cry of pain, sank back in bed.
“Are you sure of what you say?” asked the judge.
M. Patrigent’s solemn tone seemed to frighten Antonin.
“Sure?” he replied with marked hesitation, “I would bet my head on it, yet I am not sure!”
It was impossible for him to be more decided in his answers. He had been frightened. He already imagined himself in difficulty, and for a trifle would have retracted everything.
But the effect was already produced; and when they retired M. Patrigent said to Sigault:
