When Longman came and gave him food and asked how he felt he answered:
“I want to see my lawyer. Send him here.”
Longman, who had been directed to humor all his whims, replied:
“Very well, sir. He shall be summoned immediately.”
“And don’t let that parson come near me again. I hate parsons. And if he thinks he is going to nag me into confessing crimes I never even dreamed of committing he must be a much bigger fool than ever I took him to be. Send my lawyer to me, do you hear?”
“All right, sir.”
“Well, then, why the devil don’t you do it? You needn’t keep such an infernal sharp lookout on me. I am not going to commit suicide, I tell you.”
Longman laughed and left the room.
Gentleman Geff turned with his face to the wall and tried to remember the details of his supposed trial—what the lawyers had said, what “his honor” said, how he, the prisoner at the bar, had behaved; and then, failing to remember anything of what had never occurred, his diseased brain took to imagining a whole drama, in which he formed the central figure.
The doctor came in the same morning, felt his pulse and asked him how he had slept.