"You doubtless had your reasons for concealing your name and address. When a man hires a scoundrel to commit a murder, he is usually anxious to keep his identity secret. However, there is a very easy way for you to prove that I am mistaken. That is, to tell me what this man wanted of you, what he said to you at the Lion d'Or, and where you went with him after dinner." This argument was irrefutable, and Puymirol realised it.
"In short," continued the magistrate, "if you will only tell the truth, I can almost promise that you would escape indictment."
Puymirol's eyes flashed. He espied liberty before him—the effacement of his fault, a bright future; but his face suddenly clouded, his features contracted, and he said, with a scornful gesture: "Bah! your clemency could not restore me what I have lost. A man who has spent three days in prison is dishonoured for life. Besides, I haven't a penny, and the only future in store for me is starvation."
"I can prove to you that you have nothing of the kind to fear. You come from Périgord, don't you, and your relatives reside there?"
"My only remaining relative is an aunt who allows me two thousand francs a year; my father left me nothing but debts."
"Which were long since paid by your aunt, Madame Bessèges, who resides at Montpazier, in the department of the Dordogne."
"How do you know that?"
"I have naturally made inquiries about you, and have learned that you belong to an old and highly respected family."
"Oh! We have been ruined for centuries."
"Your aunt made a wealthy marriage, however, and she inherited all her husband's property."