“And that is,” continued the old gentleman, “what you call justice!”
“Alas!” sighed M. Seneschal, “it is useless to deny it: trials by jury
are a lottery.”
M. de Chandore, driven nearly to madness by his despair, interrupted
him,--
“In other words, Jacques’s honor and life depend at this hour on a
chance,--on the weather on the day of the trial, or the health of a
juror. And if Jacques was the only one! But there is Dionysia’s life,
gentlemen, my child’s life, also at stake. If you strike Jacques, you
strike Dionysia!”
M. Folgat could hardly restrain a tear. M. Seneschal, and even the
doctor, shuddered at such grief in an old man, who was threatened in all
that was dearest to him,--in his one great love upon earth. He had
taken the hand of the great advocate of Sauveterre, and, pressing it
convulsively, he went on,--
“You will save him, Magloire, won’t you? What does it matter whether he
be innocent or guilty, since Dionysia loves him? You have saved so many
in your life! It is well known the judges cannot resist the weight of
your words. You will find means to save a poor, unhappy man who once was
your friend.”
The eminent lawyer looked cast-down, as if he had been guilty himself.
When Dr. Seignebos saw this, he exclaimed,--
“What do you mean, friend Magloire? Are you no longer the man whose
marvellous eloquence is the pride of our country? Hold your head up: for
shame! Never was a nobler cause intrusted to you.”