"Dead!"
"As a mackerel!"
Jean paled perceptibly and almost staggered against his friend.
"Impossible!" he murmured. "It can't be! How——"
"Oh, easy enough," interrupted the other, lightly. "Some ruffian choked him to death, they say. Liable to occur, is it not? Sorry, of course, but——"
Fortunately for Jean's self-control, they were rudely separated by two angry opponents who wanted to fight it out then and there. He would have betrayed himself in another moment. And, wrought up to the present tension, it seemed as if he must go mad and shriek his guilt to all the world.
He sought an obscure corner and sat down on the floor with his back to the wall, his chin upon his knees.
In his own soul he was condemned already. He only awaited the guillotine.
When he was aroused the room was almost cleared. A couple of agents roughly hustled him before the busy commissaire. It was the old official the student had struck that morning. The red welt across his face gave it a sinister appearance. He glanced at the arraigned, then read from the blotter,—
"Jean Marot, student,—um, um, um!—charged with—with—let's see—with uttering seditious cries calculated to lead to a breach of the peace. What have you got to say for yourself, young man?"