“What, Corentin?”
“Ah! Is his name Corentin? Thank you, monsieur. Well, will you promise to do as I ask you?”
“A magistrate can make no promises.—Coquart, tell the usher and the gendarmes to take the prisoner back to the Conciergerie.—I will give orders that you are to have a private room,” he added pleasantly, with a slight nod to the convict.
Struck by Jacques Collin’s request, and remembering how he had insisted that he wished to be examined first as a privilege to his state of health, Camusot’s suspicions were aroused once more. Allowing his vague doubts to make themselves heard, he noticed that the self-styled dying man was walking off with the strength of a Hercules, having abandoned all the tricks he had aped so well on appearing before the magistrate.
“Monsieur!”
Jacques Collin turned round.
“Notwithstanding your refusal to sign the document, my clerk will read you the minutes of your examination.”
The prisoner was evidently in excellent health; the readiness with which he came back, and sat down by the clerk, was a fresh light to the magistrate’s mind.
“You have got well very suddenly!” said Camusot.
“Caught!” thought Jacques Collin; and he replied: