Mouzon. So much the better. But you are a Basque; you are a Catholic. After death there is hell.
Etchepare. I'm not afraid of hell; I've done nothing wrong.
Mouzon. There is the dishonor that will fall on your children. You love your children, do you not? Eh? They will ask after you—they love you—because they don't know—yet—
Etchepare [suddenly weeping] My poor little children! My poor little children!
Mouzon. Come, then! All good feeling isn't extinct in you. Believe me, Etchepare, the jury will be touched by your confession, by your repentance—you will escape the supreme penalty. You are still young—you have long years before you in which to expiate your crime. You may earn your pardon and perhaps you may once again see those children, who will have forgiven you. Believe me—believe me—in your own interests even, confess! [Mouzon has approached Etchepare during the foregoing; he places his hands on the latter's shoulders; he continues, with great gentleness] Come, isn't it true? If you can't speak, you've only to nod your head. Eh? It's true? Come, since I know it's true. Eh? I can't hear what you say. It was you, wasn't it? It was you!
Etchepare [still weeping] It was not me, sir! I swear it was not me! I swear it!
Mouzon [in a hard voice, going back to his desk] Oh, you needn't swear. You have only to tell me the truth.
Etchepare. I am telling the truth—I am—I can't say I did it when I didn't!
Mouzon. Come, come! We shall get nothing out of you to-day. [To the recorder] Read him his interrogatory and let him be taken back to his cell. One minute—Etchepare!
Etchepare. Monsieur?