His questioner stood over him in the attitude, of a judge and thrust his thumbs into his tricolour sash; he was noticing the make and look of this haggard, ragged figure, the shape of his hands, the pose of the head, the steady gaze of the eyes unknown in one born in servitude.
“Where have you come from?”
“Paris.”
“You are very tattered, citizen, to have come such a short way.”
Condorcet moved his arms on the table, and put up the right hand to rest his chin in; this attitude, so unconscious, so easy, so coolly reflective and authoritative betrayed him utterly; the fact that he had not risen when spoken to had in itself been almost sufficient to confirm the official’s suspicion.
“I have been out of a place,” said the Marquis, “some time. I have hopes of another at Bourg-la-Reine.”
The other laughed.
“You are a ‘suspect,’” he said. “And you lie very badly.”
Condorcet’s eyes flashed hell-fire for an instant: thereby he further betrayed himself. “Who do you think I am?” he asked.