"You ask me too much," he responded.
He was a worthy fellow who had been spending the night at a friend's
house, and on coming out into the open air, the wine flew into his head.
He told us all about it when he got sober, half an hour afterward. I
never saw a man so vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered: "The father
of a family, and at my age too! Oh! it is shameful! What shall I say to
my wife? What will the children think?"
"Did he talk much about his wife?"
"He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name--Eudosia Leocadie,
or some name of that sort. He declared that he should be ruined if we
kept him here. He begged us to send for the commissary, to go to his
house, and when we set him free, I thought he would go mad with joy; he
kissed our hands, and thanked us again and again!"
"And did you place him in the same cage as the murderer?" inquired
Lecoq.
"Of course."
"Then they talked with each other."
"Talked? Why, the drunkard was so 'gone' I tell you, that he couldn't
have said 'bread' distinctly. When he was placed in a cell, bang! He
fell down like a log of wood. As soon as he recovered, we let him out.
I'm sure, they didn't talk to each other."
The young police agent had grown very thoughtful. "I was evidently
right," he murmured.
"What did you say?" inquired the keeper.
"Nothing," replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to communicate his
reflections to the custodian of the guard-house. These reflections of
his were by no means pleasant ones.
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