It is over. Warren's fate is in the hands of the jury. I have done the
little I could, but the strain has been almost too much for me.
Even now, my heart sinks at the thought that I may have left something
undone or failed to see some trap of the District Attorney.
For more than two hours I have been sitting here fighting it all through
again.
You have not known what this case means to me, and doubtless have often
found me a dull companion and neglectful lover during the past months.
But I will not cry "peccavi," my Lady, unless you pronounce me guilty
after reading what I write. See how confident I am--not of myself but of
you!
The Court Room is quiet now, for it is ten o'clock at night. Only a few
reporters and officials have lingered, and these yawn over the
protracted business. Think of it! This is merely a matter of business to
them--the life of this man. I cannot blame them, yet the thought of such
indifference to what is so terribly vital to me, crushes with its awful
significance.
Godfrey Warren is only a name to you, or at most only the name of one of
my clients. You have not known that he is my oldest and dearest friend.
How hard it has been to keep this from you! But it was his wish that you
should not know it--and, if I do not send this letter, you never will.
Warren and I have been friends from boyhood. We attended the same school
where we "raised the devil in couples" after a manner bad to record but
good to remember. So inseparable were we that our families planned to
send us to different Universities, thinking, I suppose, that our
continued intimacy would be at the expense of a broader knowledge of
mankind. But their purpose, whatever it was, came to nothing, for we
flatly rejected any college education upon such terms.
As a result we entered Yale together and left there four years later
with our boyish affection welded in a friendship such as comes into the
lives of but few men.
Warren showed, even as a lad, those characteristics which have since
marked him as a man apart. He was quick at his studies and slow in his
friendships. But his judgment of men, though slow, was sure. A more
accurate reader of character never lived. But of late years, whenever I
remarked on this, he would laugh and say the credit did not belong to
him but rather to Fantine, who told him all he knew.
This brings me to another striking trait in the man--his devotion to
animals and their worship of him. Dogs were his for his whistle, and
horses once touched by his hand would whinny a welcome if he only neared
the stable door. When he held a moment's silent conference with a cat,
it behooved the owner to watch lest pussy followed the charmer, and the
way birds looked at him was positively uncanny.
Good God! I am writing this as though he were dead, and my heart is
beating louder than the great clock in this silent Court Room!
Warren is not a handsome man, honey. You must not picture any Prince
Charming in his person. He has--he has red hair. There--one would think
I was making a confession. How he would laugh at me! He always says I
try to make him out an Adonis when he's about as ugly an animal as ever
walked upright. This is nonsense, of course. He is not handsome, but his
features are strong, and when he smiles, his eyes light up the whole
face and he is splendid.
But it is the mind of the man that has always fascinated me. His ideas
are so clean--his breadth of view so comprehensive--his intellect so
keen and his purpose so high.
If I could only have told the jury about the man himself!--But all this
is "outside the record." Do you understand, dear?
Never have I known a more sunny disposition or a more even temper in
anyone. But he could get angry. Half a dozen times I have seen him lose
control of himself, but, awful though his passion was, it always rose in
some cause that made me think the better of him as a man.
Once I remember he overheard a foul-mouthed fellow repeating a filthy
story in the presence of a little child. In an instant his face utterly
changed, and before I could prevent him he struck the man a fearful
blow, and I shall never forget the torrent of invective he hurled at the
offender. I had not believed him capable of such tongue-lashing. (Little
did I then dream how this would be used against him.)
It was on that day I first noted that, as long as Warren's anger lasted,
Fantine kept on growling. When I spoke of it he smiled and answered,
"Fantine recognized the cur, I fancy."
I have written that Warren was my oldest and dearest friend, but I have
not claimed to be his.