Polyte listened with a nonchalant and even ironical air. In fact, this indirect threat scarcely touched him. Having previously made inquiries he had ascertained that he could not be condemned to more than six months’ imprisonment for the offense for which he had been arrested; and what did a month more or less matter to him?
The magistrate, who read this thought in Polyte’s eyes, cut his preamble short. “Justice,” said he, “now requires some information from you concerning the frequenters of your mother’s establishment.”
“There are a great many of them, sir,” answered Polyte in a harsh voice.
“Do you know one of them named Gustave?”
“No, sir.”
To insist would probably awaken suspicion in Polyte’s mind; accordingly, M. Segmuller continued: “You must, however, remember Lacheneur?”
“Lacheneur? No, this is the first time I’ve heard that name.”
“Take care. The police have means of finding out a great many things.”
The scapegrace did not flinch. “I am telling the truth, sir,” he retorted. “What interest could I possibly have in deceiving you?”
Scarcely had he finished speaking than the door suddenly opened and Toinon the Virtuous entered the room, carrying her child in her arms. On perceiving her husband, she uttered a joyful exclamation, and sprang toward him. But Polyte, stepping back, gave her such a threatening glance that she remained rooted to the spot.