Now, on
the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of weakness and
despondency. He was seated on a bench opposite the grating in the door,
his elbows resting on his knees, his chin upon his hand, his under lip
hanging low and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.
"No," murmured Lecoq, "no, this man is not what he seems to be."
So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave the
detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word.
"Well, how goes it?" asked Lecoq.
"I am innocent!" responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, discordant voice.
"I hope so, I am sure--but that is for the magistrate to decide. I came
to see if you wanted anything."
"No," replied the murderer, but a second later he changed his mind. "All
the same," he said, "I shouldn't mind a crust and a drink of wine."
"You shall have them," replied Lecoq, who at once went out to forage
in the neighborhood for eatables of some sort. In his opinion, if the
murderer had asked for a drink after at first refusing to partake of
anything, it was solely with the view of conveying the idea that he was
really the kind of man he pretended to be.
At all events, whoever he might be, the prisoner ate with an excellent
appetite. He then took up the large glass of wine that had been brought
him, drained it slowly, and remarked: "That's capital! There can be
nothing to beat that!"
This seeming satisfaction greatly disappointed Lecoq, who had selected,
as a test, one of those horribly thick, bluish, nauseous mixtures in
vogue around the barrieres--hoping, nay, almost expecting, that the
murderer would not drink it without some sign of repugnance.
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