He caught his breath, then, coming nearer to me, he exclaimed: "Yes, all murderers have long arms and enormous hands.... Well, you are different, you are an exception, that's all.... And the very smallness of your hands proves that you are guilty. Even in your physique you deceive, you lie.... And those little hands which look so innocent are the more criminal, since they look so innocent. There!"
And he concluded this frenzied outburst by dealing a terrific blow on the table with his clenched fist.
I looked at him, I watched his hands....
"What's the matter! Why do you look at me like that!"
I looked fixedly at the hands of the examining magistrate, enormous, red, hairy hands, and then let my gaze wander over his long arms, until my eyes met his....
I was trembling with pain and anger. This man had treated me like a murderess from the very first minute of the Instruction, and had tortured me as those two journalists had one night, only more relentlessly, and with greater persistence.... They had an excuse—they were after copy—but this judge had none. He was supposed to be seeking light, and truth, and justice. And no judge should take it for granted that the person he is interrogating has committed the crime of which he—or she—is suspected.
"What are you looking at?" M. André asked.
"I was examining your hands, Monsieur le Juge."...
"Well...?"
"... And I was thinking what a fortunate thing it was for you that you are not accused of any murder, for even though you were as innocent as I am, the size and look of your hands would unmistakably denounce you as a murderer—if you had to deal with a judge after your own heart!"