“Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense with useless words. Who sends you?”
“No one.”
“How did you know I was in prison?”
“I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy who so gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs-Élysées.”
“Oh, the Champs-Élysées? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game of pincette. The Champs-Élysées? Come, let us talk a little about my father.”
“Who, then, am I?”
“You, sir?—you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume, who placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I spent in four or five months; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my father; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me invited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at this moment, in company with the most distinguished people in Paris—amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose acquaintance I did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful to me just now;—it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two millions, when the fatal discovery of my little secret took place. Come, speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!”
“What do you wish me to say?”
“I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs-Élysées just now, worthy foster-father.”
“Well?”
“Well, in the Champs-Élysées there resides a very rich gentleman.”
“At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?”