Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1882-01-25
From the New York Dispatch.l
THE BITTEN FINGER-NAiLS.

NJ. lie Commissaire, may 1 speak with
you?"
The man who uttered these words
looked frightened, abject and wretched.
He had the look of a ragman, and was
hollow checked, with sunken eyes and
unkept hair. Hewore an old blouse and
pants That were threadbare and patched.
1t was on the 31st of January, 1868,
that this man ran into the Office of the
commissaire of police, Jules Minteaux,
In Paris. The object glanced from one
to the other, and then at the commissaire.
Each official mentally photographed him
upon his memory.
"May L speak with you, monsieur ?"
repeated the man.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
asked the commissaire, CURLY.
"My wife-Mme. Purvois-has COM
nlitted suicide. She is dead, monsieur.
/ live in the Rue Feron, No. T."
"Suicide-when?"
"Some time during the night, mon
sieur. Last night when [ came home
from looking for work she was alive and
In her usual spirits. She always had a
smile for me, poor as I am, and even
though we hadn't sou IN the house."
"Wen ?" broke in the commissaire, alb
ruptly.
eve were very hungry, both of us,
but | cheered her with the good news
that I had obtained the promise of work
at my trade, and we went to bed supper
less, thinking of what good things we
would have when [ had earned my first
francs. An hour ago [ awoke, and
mon dieu! she was dead. She was not
lying beside me on our pallet, but on
the floor, monsieur. In her hand was a
razor, and she had cut her throat from
ear to ear. The blood was on her face
the floor. 1t seemed to be everywhere
In the room. Oh, monsieur, it was
horrible sight"
"a woman does not usually commit
suicide with razor, and people Of your
appearance do not usually posses such
tool, " said the commissaire.
"Ah, but the razor is not mine, for I
have none; do not know where she got
it. She must have thought of killing
herself before
''She may have been murdered?'
'That is impossible, monsieur. The
door was fastened On the inside with
wooden bar. and had there been strug-
gle it would have awakened me as well
as our neighbors.'
"Had she been drinking?'
"She? No, monsieur; she disliked
liquor"
"Umphp ' said the official; "she must
have been a woman of nerve to cut her
throat with a razor; and you a sound
sleeper not to have been aroused by the
fall"
81 was tired from walking the streets,
monsieur, and slept heavier than usual:
The tired and hungry always sleep
sound. They are like the dead, for they
do not dream"
81 will be at the Rue Feron, No. Z,
directly"
The man, who had given his name as
Ambrose Purvois, put his ragged cap
over his tangled mass of hair and went
out. Following him, at a signal from
the commissaire, was a mouchard, in
plain clothes.
''Do not let him get beyond your
reach, SAID the commiss aire.
Within the half hour the commissaire,
with two or three of his officials and o
surgeon of police, entered the dingy Rue
Feron. To reach the abode of Purvois,
they had to pass through court, a
blind passage, and up three flights of
marrow wooden stairs. Entering the
apartment, or rather narrow room, they
beheld the victim lying in the middle OF
the floor, stark and cold, the CLASSY eyes
wide open, and enc of the hands clutch
ing the handle of the blood-smeared
razor.
On the pallet sat the husband with his
hands over his face, meaning as if af-
hicted with the most inconsolable grief.
The officials babe him stand up. He did
so. The commissaire questioned him
sharply. while the surgeon made his
customary examination of the body.
"Where were you married to this
woman?"
''In Marseilles, monsieur"
''How long ago?''
SIN March next it will be three years.
[ was in better luck then. I had money
put up, too"
"Wnat was her maiden name?"
'Lisette Camareau. She was an or
phan !"
'fHow long have you lived here?"
"Onlysix months, monsieur-we have
existed. not lived. To live is to enjoy
oneself, and be happy. Poor, poor girl
she was SO kind of heart"