He was interrupted by the President telling him, that whatever the place might have been, there he should have staid to the end of his time, and must be punished for returning to Paris.  “But,” continued the delinquent, “the vile little hole to which I was exiled contained no society whatever, the inhabitants were merely a set of illiterate beings, and how could any enlightened person vegetate amongst such a mic-mac of semi-barbarians; but tell me, M. le President, what has become of the Rue de la Mortellerie?”

Without deigning to answer, the President was proceeding to condemn the prisoner, when interrupted by his exclaiming, “Now I intreat, M. le President, that you who are no doubt a very enlightened personage, would only place yourself in my position, and conceive how it was possible to exist buried alive as it were among such a set of Goths, and above all do tell me what has become of my Rue de la Mortellerie?”

The President, out of all patience, sentenced him to imprisonment in one of the goals of Paris for three years.

“Well,” said the garrulous and incorrigible offender, “I shall have one satisfaction, that of knowing that I am still in Paris, that seat of the arts, that centre of civilisation, and terrestrial paradise; but pray tell me, M. le President, before we part, do tell me what have they done with my dear Rue de la Mortellerie?” Without affording him time to occupy the court any longer with his irrelevant questions and explanations, they hurried him away, whilst he continued to murmur what could possibly have gone with his dear Rue de la Mortellerie which was no other than a little narrow filthy street which it would be difficult to match in the worst neighbourhoods in London.

I also recollect an instance of the deliberate coolness of a man who was tried and found guilty of the robbery and murder of a farmer; being asked if he knew his accomplice, he observed “As to knowing him, M. le President, that is more than I can say; you must be aware that it is extremely difficult to know a person, you may have seen a person often, and even conversed with him for years, and yet never know him.”

“Are you acquainted with him,” was the next question.

“As to that,” continued the prisoner, “I am a man who has very few acquaintances, being naturally of a reserved character and rather diffident in my nature, I shrink from entering much into society; being of a reflecting habit, I like often to pass my hours alone, having rather an indifferent opinion of human nature.”

How long he would have gone on in the same strain, it is impossible to say, when he was imperatively demanded if he knew him by name, by sight, and had talked, or walked, or ate, or drank with him.

“Really you put so many questions to me at once that you tax my memory beyond its means; I never was celebrated for having a very retentive memory, my mother used to say.”