“The Court,” he said, “is not able to determine with satisfaction whether the prisoner is Desruelles or Quentineau. The evidence preponderates in favor of Desruelles. But, so far as the ends of justice are concerned, it does not matter. Quentineau was a bad man, but Desruelles is evidently a man much worse. The prisoner is remanded to serve out his sentence, and at the expiration of his full term is doomed to transportation to New Caledonia for fifteen years.”
Desruelles fainted once more and was removed. That afternoon, waiting wearily in the salle des gardes, a man came and stood before him, looking at him fixedly, then turning away. Everybody paid him the utmost respect. Desruelles asked the sergeant by his side who that personage was.
“It is M. M——, chief of the secret police.”
“Good God!” cried Desruelles—“Vedova!”
He fell in an apoplectic fit, and before morning brought the question of his identity to the tribunal of a higher court.
ETCHINGS: THE OLD VIOLINIST
(Emma Churchman Hewitt: For Short Stories.)
The chorus has just ended and the conductor has acknowledged the plaudits of an enthusiastic audience.
Waiting in the side wings is a little bent old man, his silvery hair lying across his violin as he murmurs to it loving words.