“A Frenchy, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” she told him. “I am French. Where—where are you taking me, m’sieur? Is it to the prison—the station house?”
“Quit your kiddin’,” he said mockingly. “I s’pose you don’t know where we’re headin’? Night court for yours—Jefferson Market. Right over here across town.”
“They will not keep me there long? They will permit me to go if I pay a fine, eh? A small fine, eh? That is all they will do to me, is it not so?”
He grunted derisively. “Playin’ ignorant, huh? I s’pose you’re goin’ to tell me now [75] you ain’t never been up in the night court before?”
“No, no, m’sieur, never—I swear it to you. Never have I been—been like this before.”
“That’s what they all say. Well, if you can prove it—if you ain’t got any record of previous complaints standin’ agin’ you, and your finger prints don’t give you away—you’ll get off pretty light, maybe, but not with a fine. I guess the magistrate’ll give you a bit over on the Island—maybe thirty days, maybe sixty. Depends on how he’s feelin’ to-night.”
“The Island?”
“Sure, Blackwell’s Island. A month over there won’t do you no harm.”
“I cannot—you must not take me,” she broke out passionately now. “For thirty days? Oh, no, no, m’sieur!”