“Hum!” responded the prisoner, suddenly growing serious. “I do blame them, however, and if I had one of them in a corner--But, never mind, I shall get over it. If I know myself aright, I have no more spite in my composition than a chicken.” “Your treatment depends on your own conduct,” rejoined M. Segmuller, “If you will only remain calm, you shan’t be put in a strait-waistcoat again. But you must promise me that you will be quiet and conduct yourself properly.” The murderer sadly shook his head. “I shall be very prudent hereafter,” said he, “but it is terribly hard to stay in prison with nothing to do. If I had some comrades with me, we could laugh and chat, and the time would slip by; but it is positively horrible to have to remain alone, entirely alone, in that cold, damp cell, where not a sound can be heard.” The magistrate bent over his desk to make a note. The word “comrades” had attracted his attention, and he proposed to ask the prisoner to explain it at a later stage of the inquiry. “If you are innocent,” he remarked, “you will soon be released: but it is necessary to prove your innocence.” “What must I do to prove it?” “Tell the truth, the whole truth: answer my questions honestly without reserve.” “As for that, you may depend upon me.” As he spoke the prisoner lifted his hand, as if to call upon God to witness his sincerity. But M. Segmuller immediately intervened: “Prisoners do not take the oath,” said he. “Indeed!” ejaculated the man with an astonished air, “that’s strange!” Although the magistrate had apparently paid but little attention to the prisoner, he had in point of fact carefully noted his attitude, his tone of voice, his looks and gestures. M. Segmuller had, moreover, done his utmost to set the culprit’s mind at ease, to quiet all possible suspicion of a trap, and his inspection of the prisoner’s person led him to believe that this result had been attained. “Now,” said he, “you will give me your attention; and do not forget that your liberty depends upon your frankness. What is your name?” “May.” “What is your Christian name?” “I have none.” “That is impossible.” “I have been told that already three times since yesterday,” rejoined the prisoner impatiently. “And yet it’s the truth. If I were a liar, I could easily tell you that my name was Peter, James, or John. But lying is not in my line. Really, I have no Christian name. If it were a question of surnames, it would be quite another thing. I have had plenty of them.” “What were they?” “Let me see--to commence with, when I was with Father Fougasse, I was called Affiloir, because you see--” “Who was this Father Fougasse?” “The great wild beast tamer, sir. Ah! he could boast of a menagerie and no mistake! Lions, tigers, and bears, serpents as big round as your thigh, parrakeets of every color under the sun. Ah! it was a wonderful collection. But unfortunately--”