r 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?"