ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--I allude to no one.
M. MAGLOIRE.--You might just as well say at once, that my friends as
well as myself are all M. de Boiscoran’s accomplices; and that we have
employed him to rid us of a formidable adversary.
ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--(Continues.) Gentlemen, this is the real motive of
the crime. Hence that hatred which the accused soon is unable to conceal
any longer, which overflows in invectives, which breaks forth in threats
of death, and which actually carries him so far that he points his gun
at Count Claudieuse.
The attorney-general next passes on to examine the charges, which, he
declares, are overwhelming and irrefutable. Then he goes on,--
“But what need is there of such questions after the crushing evidence of
Count Claudieuse? You have heard it,--on the point of appearing before
God!
“His first impulse was to follow the generous nature of his heart, and
to pardon the man who had attempted his life. He desired to save him;
but, as he felt death come nearer, he saw that he had no right to shield
a criminal from the sword of justice: he remembered that there were
other victims beside himself.
“And then, rising from his bed of agony, he dragged himself here into
court, in order to tell you. ‘That is the man! By the light of the fire
which he had kindled, I saw him and recognized him. He is the man!’
“And could you hesitate after such evidence? No! I can not and will not
believe it. After such crimes, society expects that justice should be
done,--justice in the name of Count Claudieuse on his deathbed,--justice
in the name of the dead,--justice in the name of Bolton’s mother, and of
Guillebault’s widow and her five children.”
A murmur of approbation accompanied the last words of M. Gransiere, and
continued for some time after he had concluded. There is not a woman in
the whole assembly who does not shed tears.
P.--The counsel for the defence.
[Pleading.]
As M. Magloire had so far alone taken an active part in the defence, it
was generally believed that he would speak. But it was not so. M. Folgat
rises.
Our court-house here in Sauveterre has at various times reechoed the
words of almost all our great masters of forensic eloquence. We have
heard Berryer, Dufaure, Jules Favre, and others; but, even after these
illustrious orators, M. Folgat still succeeds in astonishing and moving
us deeply.
We can, of course, report here only a few of his phrases; and we must
utterly abandon all hope of giving an idea of his proud and disdainful
attitude, his admirable manner, full of authority, and especially of his
full, rich voice, which found its way into every heart.
“To defend certain men against certain charges,” he began, “would be
to insult them. They cannot be touched. To the portrait drawn by the
prosecuting attorney, I shall simply oppose the answer given by the
venerable priest of Brechy. What did he tell you? M. de Boiscoran is the
best and most honorable of men. There is the truth; they wish to make
him out a political intriguant. He had, it is true, a desire to
be useful to his country. But, while others debated, he acted. The
Sauveterre Volunteers will tell you to what passions he appealed before
the enemy, and by what intrigues he won the cross which Chausy himself
fastened to his breast. He wanted power, you say. No: he wished for
happiness. You speak of a letter written by him, the evening of the
crime, to his betrothed. I challenge you to read it. It covers four
pages: before you have read two, you will be forced to abandon the
case.”
Then the young advocate repeats the evidence given by the accused; and
really, under the influence of his eloquence, the charges seem to fall
to the ground, and to be utterly annihilated.
“And now,” he went on, “what other evidence remains there? The evidence
given by Count Claudieuse. It is crushing, you say. I say it is
singular. What! here is a witness who sees his last hour drawing nigh,
and who yet waits for the last minute of his life before he speaks. And
you think that is natural! You pretend that it was generosity which made
him keep silent. I, I ask you how the most cruel enemy could have acted
more atrociously?
“‘Never was a case clearer,’ says the prosecution. On the contrary,
I maintain that never was a case more obscure; and that, so far from
fathoming the secret of the whole affair, the prosecution has not found
out the first word of it.”
M. Folgat takes his seat, and the sheriff’s officers have to interfere
to prevent applause from breaking out. If the vote had been taken at
that moment, M. de Boiscoran would have been acquitted.
But the proceedings are suspended for fifteen minutes; and in the
meantime the lamps are lit, for night begins to fall.
When the president resumes his chair, the attorney-general claims his
right to speak.
“I shall not reply as I had at first proposed. Count Claudieuse is
about to pay with his life for the effort which he has made to place his
evidence before you. He could not even be carried home. He is perhaps
at this very moment drawing his last breath upon earth in the adjoining
room.”
The counsel for the defence do not desire to address the jury; and, as
the accused also declares that he has nothing more to say, the president
sums up, and the jurymen withdrew to their room to deliberate.
The heat is overwhelming, the restraint almost unbearable; and all faces
bear the marks of oppressive fatigue; but nobody thinks of leaving the
house. A thousand contradictory reports circulate through the excited
crowd. Some say that Count Claudieuse has died; others, on the contrary,
report him better, and add that he has sent for the priest from Brechy.
At last, a few minutes after nine o’clock, the jury reappears.
Jacques de Boiscoran is declared guilty, and, on the score of
extenuating circumstances, sentenced to twenty years’ penal labor.