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?‰mile, 1836-1873

"Monsieur Lecoq"

Segmuller's face had
betrayed what was passing in his mind. When she paused, out of breath,
he rose from his seat, and without a word approached his clerk to
inspect the notes taken during the earlier part of the examination.
From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did not cease
watching the prisoner. "She thinks that it's all over," he muttered to
himself; "she fancies that her deposition is accepted without question."
If such were, indeed, the widow's opinion, she was soon to be
undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words to the smiling
Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fireplace, convinced that the
moment had now come to abandon defensive tactics, and open fire on the
enemy's position.
"So, Widow Chupin," he began, "you tell us that you didn't remain for a
single moment with the people who came into your shop that evening!"
"Not a moment."
"They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited on them, and then
left them to themselves?"
"Yes, my good sir."
"It seems to me impossible that you didn't overhear some words of their
conversation. What were they talking about?"
"I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers."
"Didn't you hear anything?"
"Nothing at all."
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of commiseration. "In
other words," he remarked, "you refuse to inform justice--"
"Oh, my good sir!"
"Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about leaving the shop
and mending your son's clothes in your bedroom are so many inventions.


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