He was dead--the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate, whose
irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France.
Advocates, young counselors, judges had saluted, bowing low in token of
profound respect, remembering that grand face, pale and thin, illumined
by two bright, deep-set eyes.
He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak.
Swindlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to
read in the recesses of their souls their most secret thoughts.
He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and
followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red breeches had
escorted him to the tomb, and men in white cravats had shed on his
grave tears that seemed to be real.
But listen to the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the
desk where the judge had kept filed the records of great criminals! It
was entitled: