As Mme. Bernardet turned a ladleful of hot soup into her husband's plate she softly asked: "Are there no innocent ones condemned? Do you never deceive yourself?" Bernardet did not stop eating. "I cannot say--no one is infallible, no one--the shrewdest deceive themselves; they are sometimes duped. But it is rare, very rare. As well to say that it does not happen--Lesurques, yes (and the three little girls opened wide their large blue eyes as at a play), the Lesurques of the Courier de Lyon, who has made you weep so many times at the theatre at Montmartre; one would like to revise his trial to reinstate him, but no one has been able to do it. I have studied his trial--by my faith, I swear, I would condemn him still--ah! what good soup!" "But this one to-day?" asked Mme. Bernardet; "art thou certain? What is his name?" "Dantin--Jacques Dantin. Oh! He is a gentleman. A very fine man, elegant, indeed. Some Bohemian of the upper class, who evidently needed money, and who--Rovère had some valuables in his safe. The occasion made the thief--and there it is." "Papa," interrupted the eldest of the three little girls, "canst thou take us to see the trial, when he shall be sworn?" "That depends! It is not easy! I will try--I will ask. If thou wilt work hard--Oh, dame!" said Bernardet, "that will be a drama!" "I will work hard." At dessert, after he had taken his coffee, he allowed his three little girls to dip lumps of sugar into his saucer. He threw himself into his easy chair; he gave a sigh of satisfaction, like a man whose daily, wearisome tasks are behind him, and who is catching a moment's repose. "Ah!" he said, opening a paper which his wife had placed on a table near him, together with a little glass of cordial sent to them by some cousins in Burgundy; "I am going to see what has happened and what those good journalists have invented about the affair in the Boulevard de Clichy. It is true, it is a steeplechase between the reporters and us. Sometimes they win the race in the mornings. At other times, when they know nothing--ah! Then they invent, they embroider their histories!" A petroleum lamp lighted the paper which Bernardet unfolded and began to read. "Let us see what _Lutèce_ says."