"Of fraud—mademoiselle—of fraud and forgery." The man had a voice as sweet as a church bell, and as deep. Every word he said rang out slowly, sonorously. The attention of the table was fixed in an instant. "It is the case of a Monsieur Filon, of Cherbourg. He is a cider merchant. He has cheated the state, making false entries, etc. But his worst crime is that he has used as his accomplice un tout petit jeune homme—a lad of barely fifteen—"
"It is that that will make it go hard for him with the jury—"
"Hard!" cried the ex-soldier, getting red at once with the passion of his protest—"hard—it ought to condemn him, to guillotine him. What are juries for if they don't kill such rascals as he?"
"Doucement, doucement, monsieur," interrupted the bell-note of the merchant. "One doesn't condemn people without hearing both sides. There may be extenuating circumstances!"
"Yes—there are. He is a merchant. All merchants are thieves. He does as all others do—only he was found out."
A protesting murmur now rose from the table, above which rang once more, in clear vibrations, the deep notes of the merchant.
"Ah—h, mais—tous voleurs—non, not all are thieves. Commerce conducted on such principles as that could not exist. Credit is not founded on fraud, but on trust."
"Très bien, très bien," assented the table. Some knives were thumped to emphasize the assent.
"As for stealing"—the rich voice continued, with calm judicial slowness—"I can understand a man's cheating the state once, perhaps—yielding to an impulse of cupidity. But to do as ce Monsieur Filon has done—he must be a consummate master of his art—for his processes are organized robbery."
"Ah—h, but robbery against the state isn't the same thing as robbing an individual," cried the explosive, driven into a corner.