tive. "I have a profession," he replied plaintively. "The one that
Mother Tringlot taught me. I subsist by its practise; and I have lived
by it in France and other countries."

The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner's armor. "You
say you have lived in foreign countries?" he inquired.

"Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson's company, I
traveled most of the time in England and Germany."

"Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that your hands are so
white and soft?"

Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands from his
lap and examined them with evident complacency. "It is true they are
pretty," said he, "but this is because I take good care of them and
scarcely use them."

"Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?"

"Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public,
in turning a compliment, in making things pass off pleasantly, as the
saying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certain
knack--"

M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever he
considered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder. "In that
case," said he, "will you give me a specimen of your talent?"

"Ah, ha!" laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest on
the part of the magistrate. "Ah, ha!"

"Obey me, if you please," insisted M. Segmuller.

The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at once assumed a
different expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence,
conceit, and irony. He caught up a ruler that was lying on the
magistrate's desk, and, flourishing it wildly, began as follows, in a
shrill falsetto voice: "Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold your
peace! Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to
witness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaled
in the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and in
innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!"

"That is sufficient," interrupted the magistrate. "You can speak like
that in France; but what do you say in Germany?"

"Of course, I use the language of that country."

"Let me hear, then!" retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue was
German.

The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, assumed an air of comical
importance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak as
follows, in very emphatic tones: "Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichen