"I used—but certainly—moral force. He had made his way into this room through the window, Monsieur—Monsieur—?"
"Leblanc, at your service," said the commissioner carelessly. "Did you say through the window? That seems scarcely probable."
But Plon was positive there was no other way by which he could have entered unseen by him. And now he would give M. le Commissaire a dozen guesses to find out what this rascal had the villainy to pretend. To look at him, would any one suppose now that he could be the husband of madame?
"Apparently," said the other, glancing at them, "Madame herself is not averse from that opinion."
"Her husband—hee, hee!" said M. Plon, getting red. "Poor Jean, who was shot in émeute three years ago! See there, monsieur, it is ridiculous! If any one should know anything about those times, it is I. I was myself on the very point of becoming a martyr for my country; and as for Jean Didier, whether rightly or wrongly, he was shot, and there was an end of him. To pretend that he turns up three years later...."
Marie was crying, and M. Plon thought his eloquence had provoked her tears, but she put aside his hand, walked to the commissioner, and dropped on her knees before him.
"Monsieur, if you have a wife—"
"I have not," said the man roughly.
"But your mother! If her son—"
"I have my duty, that is enough," he said in the same tone, "Get up, Madame Didier, and let me know the truth of all this matter. This explains your unwillingness that I should return with you. Who's the man?"