The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner’s armor.  “You say you have lived in foreign countries?” he inquired.

“Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson’s company, I traveled most of the time in England and Germany.”

“Then you are a gymnast and an athlete.  How is it that your hands are so white and soft?”

Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands from his lap and examined them with evident complacency.  “It is true they are pretty,” said he, “but this is because I take good care of them and scarcely use them.”

“Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?”

“Ah, no, indeed!  But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public, in turning a compliment, in making things pass off pleasantly, as the saying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certain knack—­”

M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever he considered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder.  “In that case,” said he, “will you give me a specimen of your talent?”

“Ah, ha!” laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest on the part of the magistrate.  “Ah, ha!”

“Obey me, if you please,” insisted M. Segmuller.

The supposed murderer made no objection.  His face at once assumed a different expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence, conceit, and irony.  He caught up a ruler that was lying on the magistrate’s desk, and, flourishing it wildly, began as follows, in a shrill falsetto voice:  “Silence, music!  And you, big drum, hold your peace!  Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to witness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaled in the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and in innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!”

“That is sufficient,” interrupted the magistrate.  “You can speak like that in France; but what do you say in Germany?”

“Of course, I use the language of that country.”

“Let me hear, then!” retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue was German.

The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, assumed an air of comical importance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak as follows, in very emphatic tones:  “Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichen Obrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zum erstenmal aufgefuhrt—­Genovesa, oder—­”

This opening of the prisoner’s German harangue may be thus rendered:  “With the permission of the local authorities there will now be presented before the honorable citizens, for the first time—­Genevieve, or the—­”

“Enough,” said the magistrate, harshly.  He rose, perhaps to conceal his chagrin, and added:  “We will send for an interpreter to tell us whether you speak English as fluently.”

On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward.  “I understand English,” said he.