Now, I tell you, that so dramatic was this Assembly by reason of the deadliness of purpose that characterised it, that one, though a prisoner, almost resented the flippant coxcombry of the three sightless busts standing on brackets above the bench. For these--Brutus, Marat, St Fargeau (his gods quit the indignant Roman of responsibility for entertaining such company)--being jauntily decorated with a red bonnet apiece and a grimy cockade of the tricolour, jarred hopelessly in the context, and made of the bloodiest tragedy a mere clownish extravaganza. And, behold! of this extravaganza Fouquier-Tinville, when he gave reins to his humour, discovered himself to be the very Sannio--the rude powerful buffoon, with a wit only for indecency. Yet he did not at a first glance figure altogether unprepossessing. Livid-skinned though he was, with a low forehead, which his hair, brushed back and stiffly hooked at its ends, seemed to claw about the middle like a black talon, there was yet little in his countenance that bespoke an active malignancy. His large eyes had that look of good-humoured weariness in them that, superficially, one is apt to associate with unvindictive long-sufferingness. His brows, black also and thick, were set in the habitual lift of suspense and inquiry. His whole expression was that of an anxious dwelling upon the prisoner’s words, lest the prisoner should incriminate himself; and it was only when one marked the tigerish steadiness of his gaze and the _sooty_ projection of his under-lip over a strongly cleft chin that one realised how the humour of the man lay all upon the evil side. For the rest--as each detail of his personality was hammered into me by my pulses--his black clothes had accommodated themselves to his every ungainly habit of movement, his limp shirt was caught up about his neck with a cravat like a rag of dowlas, and over his shoulders hung a broad national ribbon ending in a silver medallion, with the one word _Loi_ imprinted on it like a Judas kiss. Thus the man, as he stood scrutinising me after an abstracted fashion, his left arm bent, the hand of it knuckled upon the table, the Lachesis thumb of it--flattened from long kneading of the yarn of life--striding over a form of indictment. The atmosphere of the court was frowzy as that of a wine-shop in the early hours of morning. It repelled the freshness of the latter and communicated its influence to public and tribunal alike. Over all hung a slackness and a peevish unconcern as to business. Bench and bar yawned, and exchanged spiritless commonplaces of speech. True enough, a gudgeon was an indifferent fish with which to start the traffic of the day. At length the Public Accuser slightly turned and nodded his head. “_Maître Greffier_,” said he, in quite a noiseless little voice, “acquaint us of the charge, I desire thee, against this _patte-pelu_.” _Nom de Dieu!_ here was a fine _coup d’archet_ to the overture. My heart drummed very effectively in response.