“We shall see. We have not as yet established your identity,” Camusot observed, surprised at the prisoner’s indifference. “If you are really Don Carlos Herrera, the position of Lucien Chardon will at once be completely altered.” “To be sure, she became Madame Chardon--Mademoiselle de Rubempre!” murmured Carlos. “Ah! that was one of the greatest sins of my life.” He raised his eyes to heaven, and by the movement of his lips seemed to be uttering a fervent prayer. “But if you are Jacques Collin, and if he was, and knew that he was, the companion of an escaped convict, a sacrilegious wretch, all the crimes of which he is suspected by the law are more than probably true.” Carlos Herrera sat like bronze as he heard this speech, very cleverly delivered by the judge, and his only reply to the words “_knew that he was_” and “_escaped convict_” was to lift his hands to heaven with a gesture of noble and dignified sorrow. “Monsieur l’Abbe,” Camusot went on, with the greatest politeness, “if you are Don Carlos Herrera, you will forgive us for what we are obliged to do in the interests of justice and truth.” Jacques Collin detected a snare in the lawyer’s very voice as he spoke the words “Monsieur l’Abbe.” The man’s face never changed; Camusot had looked for a gleam of joy, which might have been the first indication of his being a convict, betraying the exquisite satisfaction of a criminal deceiving his judge; but this hero of the hulks was strong in Machiavellian dissimulation. “I am accustomed to diplomacy, and I belong to an Order of very austere discipline,” replied Jacques Collin, with apostolic mildness. “I understand everything, and am inured to suffering. I should be free by this time if you had discovered in my room the hiding-place where I keep my papers--for I see you have none but unimportant documents.” This was a finishing stroke to Camusot: Jacques Collin by his air of ease and simplicity had counteracted all the suspicions to which his appearance, unwigged, had given rise. “Where are these papers?” “I will tell you exactly if you will get a secretary from the Spanish Embassy to accompany your messenger. He will take them and be answerable to you for the documents, for it is to me a matter of confidential duty--diplomatic secrets which would compromise his late Majesty Louis XVIII--Indeed, monsieur, it would be better----However, you are a magistrate--and, after all, the Ambassador, to whom I refer the whole question, must decide.” At this juncture the usher announced the arrival of the doctor and the infirmary attendant, who came in. “Good-morning, Monsieur Lebrun,” said Camusot to the doctor. “I have sent for you to examine the state of health of this prisoner under suspicion. He says he had been poisoned and at the point of death since the day before yesterday; see if there is any risk in undressing him to look for the brand.”