There were moments when the magistrate, overpowered by a sense of
the insufficiency of the purely moral weapons at his disposal, almost
regretted that the Inquisition was suppressed. Yes, in presence of the
lies that were told him, lies so impudent that they were almost insults,
he no longer wondered at the judicial cruelties of the Middle Ages,
or at the use of the muscle-breaking rack, the flesh-burning, red-hot
pincers, and other horrible instruments, which, by the physical torture
they inflicted, forced the most obstinate culprit to confess. The
prisoner May's manner was virtually unaltered; and far from showing any
signs of weakness, his assurance had, if anything, increased, as though
he were confident of ultimate victory and as though he had in some way
learned that the prosecution had failed to make the slightest progress.
On one occasion, when summoned before M. Segmuller, he ventured to
remark in a tone of covert irony: "Why do you keep me confined so
long in a secret cell? Am I never to be set at liberty or sent to the
assizes. Am I to suffer much longer on account of your fantastic idea
that I am some great personage in disguise?"
"I shall keep you until you have confessed," was M. Segmuller's answer.
"Confessed what?"
"Oh! you know very well."
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders at these last words, and then in a
tone of mingled despondency and mockery retorted: "In that case there is
no hope of my ever leaving this cursed prison!"
It was probably this conviction that induced him to make all seeming
preparations for an indefinite stay.
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