"Such being
the case," said he, "do me the favor to tell me what pretext you would
invent in order to withdraw from the case without exciting suspicion?"
"I don't know; I can't say now. But if I were placed in such a position
I should find some excuse--invent something--"
"And if you could find nothing better," interrupted Tabaret, "you would
adopt M. d'Escorval's expedient; you would pretend you had broken a
limb. Only, as you are a clever fellow, you would sacrifice your arm; it
would be less inconvenient than your leg; and you wouldn't be condemned
to seclusion for several months."
"So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are convinced that M. d'Escorval knows who
May really is."
Old Tirauclair turned so suddenly in his bed that his forgotten gout
drew from him a terrible groan. "Can you doubt?" he exclaimed. "Can you
possibly doubt it? What proofs do you want then? What connection do you
see between the magistrate's fall and the prisoner's attempt at suicide?
I wasn't there as you were; I only know the story as you have told it
to me. I can't look at the facts with my own eyes, but according to your
statements, which are I suppose correct, this is what I understand. When
M. d'Escorval has completed his task at the Widow Chupin's house,
he comes to the prison to examine the supposed murderer. The two men
recognize each other. Had they been alone, mutual explanations might
have ensued, and affairs taken quite a different turn. But they were not
alone; a third party was present--M.
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