“Very well. Do you know any one in Paris?”
“Yes, four persons: a coachman who insulted me, a soldier who amused himself at my expense, an old man who abused me, and the shopkeeper whose life I saved.”
“That is sufficient,” said the magistrate. “Your age, the incoherence of your replies, and the large sum of money in your possession make it my duty to detain you until I have more ample information. You need not give yourself any uneasiness, for you will be well treated, and very soon, I trust, you will be set at liberty and restored to your family.”
“I am in no hurry. You can take your own time.”
For the last half-minute the commissary had been making a fruitless search in all his pockets.
“I have lost my handkerchief,” said he to his clerk. “When you go home, call at the house where we have been, and see if it is not there.”
“That will be useless,” said Eusebe: “I saw a child take it out of your pocket and run away.”
“And you did not tell me!” cried M. Bézieux.
“Unless it be an affair of more than ordinary importance, I trouble myself as little as possible about other people’s business. Allow me to offer you another.”
Without waiting for a reply, the young man opened his valise and took out a handkerchief, which he politely handed to the commissary, who refused it.