This produced confusion on the bench. The hit was contemptuously
accidental; but it was a home-thrust at the chief, who had former been
a domestic in the Tuileries, and was still strongly suspected of being
a spy of the Bourbons. The crowd who knew his story, who are always
delighted with a blow at power, burst into a general roar. But a
little spruce fellow on the bench, who had already exhibited a desire
to take his share in the interrogatory, now thrust his head over the
table, and said in his most searching tone--

"To come to the point--Prisoner, how do you live? What are your means?
All honest men must have visible means. That is _my_ question." (All
eyes were now turned on me.)

I was now growing angry; and, pointing to the pile of purses and
watches on the table--

"No man," said I, "needs ask what are your visible means, when they
see that pile before you. Yet I doubt if that proves you to be an
honest man. That is _my_ answer."

The little inquisitor looked furious, and glanced towards the chief
for protection; but his intrusion had provoked wrath in that quarter,
and his glance was returned with a rigid smile.

"Prisoner," said the head of the tribunal, "though the question was
put improperly, it was itself a proper one. How do you live?"

"By my abilities."

"That is a very doubtful support in those times."