“'Reserving to himself,'” dictated he, “'the right of uttering still more bitter and untruthful comments on a future occasion.'” And the clerk wrote the words as he spoke them.
“You will sign this here,” said he, presenting me with the pen.
“Nothing of the kind, Herr Procurator. I will not lend myself to any, even the most ordinary, form of your stupid system.”
“'And refuses to sign the foregoing,'” dictated he, in the same unmoved voice. This done, he arose, and proceeded to draw on his gloves. “The act of allegation I now commit to your hands,” said he, calmly, “and you will have a week to reflect upon the course you desire to adopt.”
“One question before you go: Is the person called Rigges here at this moment, and can I see him?”
He consulted for a few seconds with his subordinate, and then replied, “These questions we are of opinion are irrelevant to the defence, and need not be answered.”
“I only ask you, as a favor, Herr Procurator,” said I.
“The law recognizes no favors, nor accepts courtesies.”
“Does it also reject common sense?—is it deaf to all intelligence?—is it indifferent to every appeal to reason?—is it dead to—”
But he would not wait for more, and having saluted me thrice profoundly, retired from the gallery and left me alone with my indignation.