The prisoner had nothing to say for himself,—at least, nothing better than that,—so he was speechless.
"Ah! evidently never been here before," said the old commissaire. "Go! and never come here again. Discharged. Call the next."
"Monsieur le Commissaire," began a police agent who had here risen to his feet with an air of remonstrance,—"monsieur——"
"Call the next!" said the commissaire, waving the agent down peremptorily.
And thus Jean Marot, before he had recovered from his surprise, or could even realize what had happened, was again hustled through the corridor, this time to be unceremoniously thrust into the street—a free man.
"Hold, Monsieur Jean!" said the lively voice of Mlle. Fouchette. "What a precious long time you have been!"
"It might have been longer," he remarked, vaguely accepting her presence as not unnatural, and suffering himself to be led down the block.
"Oh, here it is," said she, going straight to a cab in waiting. "Now, don't stop to ask questions or I'll be wicked. Get in! Dinner is——"
"Dinner is, is it?" he repeated, almost hysterically.
He felt exhausted physically and mentally, indifferent as to what now befell him, prepared to accept anything. Nothing could be worse. He felt as if everything was crumbling beneath his feet. There was nobody to lean against, nobody to sympathize with him, nobody to care one way or the other, or——