“It was this young man who cut the cord: it was impossible for us to stop him.”
“He did perfectly right,” said the magistrate. “Although younger than any one of you, he greatly surpasses you all in good sense. You ought to know that the idea is absurd that it is dangerous to assist an individual who attempts to commit suicide, or has been assassinated, before the arrival of the officers of justice. The magistrates come simply to take cognizance of the fact. It is the duty of every good citizen to save the lives of his fellow-men by every means in his power. The stupid tradition which makes the vulgar suppose one ought not to assist a man in danger, is not, however, without foundation. It unfortunately happened in the Middle Ages, and even before and after that period, that some individuals, who, at the risk of their lives, ventured to assist persons attacked by assassins, were arrested under the supposition that they were themselves the murderers, and as such they were executed; but in the enlightened age in which we live, with the means for ascertaining the truth at our command, justice cannot be mistaken.”
“I would not trust to it,—not I,” murmured a ragpicker, who had been a calm spectator of the drama of which the shop had been the scene. “I don’t pretend to say that justice can be mistaken, but I would not trust to it: I, for my part, prefer keeping on the safe side. There are a great many strange things now-a-days.”
“Sir,” said the commissary to Eusebe, who was anxiously watching the convulsive movements of the Auvergnat, “your conduct in this affair merits the highest commendation.”
“Not at all,” replied the young man, timidly.
“I beg your pardon,” rejoined the magistrate, who had misinterpreted Eusebe’s reply: “a man, whoever he may be, is still a man, and as such is a member of the great family which we call humanity.”
“Certainly, sir; you are perfectly right,” said the young man, who sought in vain for profundity in the good-natured officer’s reply. He then added, “This man, sir, was driven to this unnatural deed by poverty. I wish to assist him.”
“This desire does you honor.”
“Here,” continued Eusebe, “is a paper of the Bank of France, which is worth fifty louis, and each louis, as you doubtless know, is worth twenty twenty-sous pieces. Be so kind as to give it to him, if he will promise not to make another attempt to commit suicide until his money is gone. It is probable that by that time Providence, who has preserved him to-day, will make provision for his future welfare.”
The magistrate looked at Eusebe attentively. His dress, which was more than plain, his manner of expressing himself, his timidity, his gestures, and even the belt that contained his treasure, puzzled the functionary in a manner which he did not try to conceal. This honorable magistrate, who by years of experience in his profession had learned to form a tolerably correct opinion of men at a glance, was at a loss to know what to think of the singular being he had before him. The clerk, who imagined what was passing in the brain of the commissary, was as much perplexed as his superior. Nevertheless, as a murmur of applause and some words in favor of the young stranger ran through the circle, the worthy functionary thought the time propitious for ventilating his ideas in a short discourse. Addressing himself now to the crowd, and now to Eusebe, he was thus delivered:—