"But it was your hands that were bound. Don't you recollect that I just untied them?"
"But let me explain—"
"Gently, gently, my friend, you are becoming excited. Your face is very red; I don't want you to fatigue yourself. Just be content to answer my questions. You say that your nephew is ill?"
"Mad, mad, mad, I tell you!"
"And it pleases you to see him mad?"
"What?"
"Answer me frankly. You don't wish him to be cured, do you?"
"Why do you ask me that?"
"Because his fortune is under your control. Don't you wish to be rich? Are you not disappointed and discouraged because you have toiled so long without making a fortune? Don't you very naturally think that your turn has come now?"
M. Morlot made no reply. His eyes were riveted on the floor. He asked himself if he was not dreaming, and tried his best to decide how much of this whole affair was real, and how much imaginary, so completely bewildered was he by the questions of this stranger, who read his heart as if it had been an open book.