artist, impatiently.

"That is right. Silence now."

"You have the floor," said several voices at once.

"--She was pale, and she heaved convulsive sighs and wrung her soft, warm
hands, and a white pearl rolled from her dark lashes, and--"

"Why do you begin all your phrases with 'and?'" asked the public
prosecutor, with the captiousness of an inexorable critic.

"Because it is biblical and unaffected. Now let me alone," replied
Marillac, with superb disdain. "You are a police-officer; I am an
artist; what is there in common between you and me? I will continue:
And he saw this pensive, weeping woman pass in the distance, and he said
to the Prince: 'Borinski, a bit of root in which my foot caught has hurt
my limb, will you suffer me to return to the palace? And the Prince
Borinski said to him, 'Shall my men carry you in a palanquin?' and the
cunning Octave replied--"

"Your story has not even common-sense and you are a terrible bore,"
interrupted Gerfaut brusquely. "Gentlemen, are we going to sit at the
table all night?"

He arose, but nobody followed his example. Bergenheim, who for the last
few minutes had lent an attentive ear to the artist's story, gazed
alternately at the two friends with an observing eye.

"Let him talk," said the young magistrate, with an ironical smile.