Mrs. Cizmeasz had, all her life, talked with ease from morning till night; and it could not be expected that now, perhaps for the first time in her life that she spoke from duty, she should stint her hearers, especially since Mr. Skinner had particularly cautioned her to tell all she knew.
Mrs. Cizmeasz had a powerful memory at times, and, on this occasion, remembered everything. She told where she had formerly lived; how she had come to the Castle; what had happened since her first quarrel with the cook; how the Jew (pointing to him) had stolen a florin and twenty-four kreutzers from her when she sent him to the Debrezin fair to buy twelve yards of calico: in short, the good woman left nothing untold that she could remember.
At length the justice jumped up, and paced the room in a state of great perplexity; and the clerk, who did not mean to write a book, laid his pen aside. The cook cast a triumphant glance first at the justice, and then at Mr. Kenihazy; as much as to say, "There, was I not right? Did I not say it was no use to examine this woman?"
Paul Skinner could restrain his impatience no longer; he exclaimed, "What, in the name of God, woman, do you mean by all this? Do you take me to be your confessor, or your fool, that you pester me with your d—d history?"
"I humbly beg your pardon," said Mrs. Kata, greatly astonished that any one should not take an interest in what she had related; "but your worship told me to tell everything and forget nothing, and that it would all be written down, because a man's life depended upon it——"
"That you should forget nothing relating to the murder, were my words."
"Exactly," resumed the lady; "but when you ask me about my name and occupation, and I answer that I am a widow, I must also mention my husband, and how long we lived together, and I assure you, your worship, we were very happy together, and when he died, and of what he died, and——"
"Well, well," interposed the justice, heartily wishing her eloquence anywhere but there; "now tell us, in a word, is it true that when the cook took the Jew to the death-bed of Mr. Catspaw, he shook his head?"
"It is true, your worship," answered she, with a glance of defiance at the cook; "he did shake his head; if your worship could only have seen how he shook his head! Since I stood at the death-bed of my husband—poor man! God rest his soul, he was a cook——"
"Yes, we know all about it," said the justice, interrupting her; "he died of dropsy. But tell us, young woman, is it true that my poor friend, Mr. Catspaw, shook his head the second time when the cook asked him?"