All that dreadful night he wandered about the streets, the quays, and bridges of Paris, haunted by what seemed a dream, a nightmare, to endure for ever; and when day dawned he repaired straight to a Commissary (an official similar to our justice of the peace) and declared upon oath "that he had slain M. d'Escombas in the Rue de Tournon; but in a fair duel, sword in hand, in self-defence."
The Commissary deplored the circumstance, but accepted the declaration, and perceiving that he was dreadfully agitated, gave him some wine and water.
"And now, dear Isabelle," he muttered wildly, "you are free—but by my hand—alas, by my hand!"
"How, monsieur," exclaimed the Commissary, sharply, looking up from his desk, and surveying the miserable Monjoy through his spectacles—"what's this you say?"
Monjoy remained silent, but grew, if possible, paler.
"Hah! mon Dieu!" exclaimed the Commissary, changing colour; "I remember now. Is it true that you were a discarded lover of Madame, when she was Mademoiselle du Platel, and a boarder with les dames de Notre Dame de Charité on du réfuge de St. Michel, in the Rue de St. Jacques?"
"Yes," moaned Monjoy; "it is too true."
"Detain M. Gervais Monjoy in custody; send for a surgeon; bring the body of M. d'Escombas here, and let us have it examined," said the other to his officials.
In less than an hour all this was done.
"How is this?" exclaimed the surgeon, the Commissary; and all present; "there is a sword wound in the back, and the sword is still remaining there!"