"Of fraud--mademoiselle--of fraud and forgery." The man had a voice as
sweet as a church bell, and as deep. Every word he said rang out
slowly, sonorously. The attention of the table was fixed in an instant.
"It is the case of a Monsieur Filon, of Cherbourg. He is a cider
merchant. He has cheated the state, making false entries, etc. But his
worst crime is that he has used as his accomplice _un tout petit jeune
homme_--a lad of barely fifteen--"

"It is that that will make it go hard for him with the jury--"

"Hard!" cried the ex-soldier, getting red at once with the passion of
his protest--"hard--it ought to condemn him, to guillotine him. What
are juries for if they don't kill such rascals as he?"

"_Doucement, doucement, monsieur,_" interrupted the bell-note of the
merchant. "One doesn't condemn people without hearing both sides. There
may be extenuating circumstances!"

"Yes--there are. He is a merchant. All merchants are thieves. He does
as all others do--_only_ he was found out."

A protesting murmur now rose from the table, above which rang once
more, in clear vibrations, the deep notes of the merchant.

"_Ah--h, mais--tous voleurs--non_, not all are thieves. Commerce
conducted on such principles as that could not exist. Credit is not
founded on fraud, but on trust."

"_Tres bien, tres bien,_" assented the table. Some knives were thumped
to emphasize the assent.