"All this," said he, in a harsh voice, "is a
mere invention of the police!"
However faithfully one may describe an examination of this kind, a
narrative can convey no more idea of the real scene than a heap of cold
ashes can give the effect of a glowing fire. One can note down each
word, each ejaculation, but phraseology is powerless to portray the
repressed animation, the impassioned movements, the studied reticence,
the varied tones of voice, the now bold, now faltering glances, full
of hatred and suspicion, which follow each other in rapid succession,
mostly on the prisoner's side, but not entirely so, for although the
magistrate may be an adept in the art of concealing his feelings, at
times nature can not be controlled.
When the prisoner reeled beneath the magistrate's last words, the
latter could not control his feelings. "He yields," he thought, "he
succumbs--he is mine!"
But all hope of immediate success vanished when M. Segmuller saw his
redoubtable adversary struggle against his momentary weakness, and
arm himself for the fight with renewed, and, if possible, even greater
energy. The magistrate perceived that it would require more than one
assault to over-come such a stubborn nature. So, in a voice rendered
still more harsh by disappointment, he resumed: "It is plain that you
are determined to deny evidence itself."
The prisoner had recovered all his self-possession. He must have
bitterly regretted his weakness, for a fiendish spite glittered in his
eyes.
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