‘They accuse me of having poisoned Mirabeau.’
‘And would that be called a crime?’ said one.
‘Against whom, I would like to know, could that be an offence?’ said another. ‘Not against the King, whom he had deserted, nor against the people whom he betrayed.’
‘Silence!—silence in the court!’ said the Prévôt; then, addressing Gerald, he went on: ‘with what object did you kill him?’
‘I did not poison him—I am innocent,’ said Gerald calmly.
‘So are we all,’ said the Prévôt devoutly—‘spotless as the snowdrift. Who was she that persuaded you to act?—tell us her name.’
‘There was no act, and could have been no suggester.’
‘Young man,’ said the Prévôt solemnly, ‘we know of but one capital crime here, that is, concealment. Be frank, therefore, and fearless.’
‘I cannot be sure, if I had done this crime, that I would have confessed it here, but as I have not even imagined it, I repeat to you once more I know nothing of it.’
With an acuteness perfectly wonderful at his age, and with an intellect that retained much of its former subtlety—for the Prévôt had been the first lawyer at the Lyons bar—he questioned Gerald as to what had led to the accusation. Partly to display his own powers of cross-examination, and partly that the youth’s answers imparted an interest to his story, he prolonged the inquiry considerably. Nor was Gerald indisposed to speak openly about himself; it was a species of relief out of the dreary isolation in which he had recently passed his days.