"Michou," said Isidore, his teeth chattering with fear, "have mercy on me; I will explain myself later. I am sick.... My father is dying.... You are not cruel.... Let me go out."
"Ha! ha! you are a coward.... Faith, I am glad of it; it takes from me the slightest compassion for you. Traitor! scoundrel! you were not so much afraid yesterday, when you thought of killing a brave, defenceless boy. To-day it is not repentance that makes you tremble, but the justice of men, who will not spare you. You feel them on your heels; you are not deceived. I have you; try to stir."
And he seized him by the arm with so vigorous a hand, the wretch felt his bones crack.
"You hurt me; let me go!" yelled Isidore, writhing under that iron hand.
"Shut up! Avow your crime; did you come, yes or no, to poison Jean-Louis?"
"He had provoked me. I was wild, I was mad—let me go...."
"You avow it, then; what poison was it?"
"I don't know; I know nothing further.... Michou, in the name of God, let me go...."
"Do you dare pronounce the name of God?" cried Michou, grasping him still more firmly. "Do you believe, then, in him, whom you have blasphemed since you were able to speak? You don't know what poison you used? After all, it matters little; M. Aubry will know—yes, he and the judge also. The case is clear, and, if I could drag you myself before the police, I would only leave hold of you at the door of the prison."
Isidore, prostrated and speechless from pain—for Michou, whose strength was trebled, crushed his arm with redoubled force—fell to the ground in the most miserable state that can be imagined.