It was late in the afternoon when the door was thrown open and an old gentleman with white hair came into our prison.
“Now, you rogues, answer this gentleman,” said the jailer, who accompanied him.
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” said the gentleman, who was the public prosecutor, “I’ll question this one.” With his finger he indicated me. “You take charge of the other; I’ll question him later.”
I was alone with the prosecutor. Fixing me with his eye, he told me that I was accused of having stolen a cow. I told him that we bought the animal at the fair at Ussel, and I named the veterinarian who had assisted us in the purchase.
“That will be verified,” he replied. “And now what made you buy that cow?”
I told him that I was offering it as a token of affection to my foster mother.
“Her name?” he demanded.
“Madame Barberin of Chavanon,” I replied.
“The wife of a mason who met with a serious accident in Paris a few years ago. I know her. That also will be verified.”
“Oh!…”