The magistrate’s drudge smiled, and, regarding the young provincialist with a look of benevolence mingled with compassion, replied,—
“No, sir: the courts of justice are held at the Palace: this may be considered as being one of the laboratories that supply them with materials.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the youth.
“No matter,” replied the clerk. “It is to be hoped you will understand better by-and-by. Here comes the commissary. Be seated, and answer the questions he asks you.”
“You told me that your name was Eusebe Martin,” said the commissary.
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you leave your father’s house?”
“By taking the Pénicault coach as far as Vierzon.”
The commissary and his clerk exchanged significant glances. “Write the replies,” said M. Bézieux to the clerk.