response. Marillac continued
raising his eyes in such a way that nothing but the whites could be seen,
and as if he were searching for his words in the ceiling.

"The Princess Borinski was walking slowly in the mysterious alley on the
borders of the foaming torrent--"

"Borinski! she is a Pole, then?" interrupted M. de Camier.

"Oh! go to the devil, old man! Do not interrupt me," exclaimed the
artist, impatiently.

"That is right. Silence now."

"You have the floor," said several voices at once.

"--She was pale, and she heaved convulsive sighs and wrung her soft, warm
hands, and a white pearl rolled from her dark lashes, and--"

"Why do you begin all your phrases with 'and?'" asked the public
prosecutor, with the captiousness of an inexorable critic.

"Because it is biblical and unaffected. Now let me alone," replied
Marillac, with superb disdain. "You are a police-officer; I am an artist;
what is there in common between you and me? I will continue: And he saw
this pensive, weeping woman pass in the distance, and he said to the
Prince: 'Borinski, a bit of root in which my foot caught has hurt my
limb, will you suffer me to return to the palace? And the Prince Borinski
said to him, 'Shall my men carry you in a palanquin?' and the cunning
Octave replied--"

"Your story has not even common-sense and you are a terrible bore,"
interrupted Gerfaut brusquely. "Gentlemen, are we going to sit at the
table all night?"

He arose, but nobody followed his example. Bergenheim, who for the last
few minutes had lent an attentive ear to the artist's story, gazed
alternately at the two friends with an observing eye.

"Let him talk," said the young magistrate, with an ironical smile. "I
like the palanquin in the court of Germany. That is probably what
novelists call local color. O Racine, poor, deserted Racine!"

Marillac was not intimidated this time by Gerfaut's withering glance,
but, with the obstinacy of drunkenness, continued in a more or less
stammering voice:

"I swore that I would gloss it over; you annoy me. I committed an error,
gentlemen, in calling the lover in this story Octave. It is as clear as
day that his name is Boleslas, Boleslas Matalowski. There is no more
connection between him and my friend Octave than there is between my
other friend Bergenheim and the prince Kolinski--Woginski--what the devil
has become of my Prince's name? A good reward to whoever will tell me his
name!"

"It is wrong to take