Thus none of the stations toward his Calvary could the brother of Charlotte avoid. He was about to come in contact with this impassible machinery of justice, which does not stop, which cannot stop on account of human sensibility. He must seat himself in the witness chamber, and recall the scene which had passed there between his father and the mother of Greslon, then enter the hall of assize. He could see the bare wall with the image of the crucified which overlooked this hall, the heads turned toward him in supreme attention, the president among his judges, and the attorney-general, all in their red robes; the jurors on the left of the court. Robert Greslon was on the right on the prisoner’s bench, his arms folded, livid but impassible, and everybody crowded everywhere, behind the magistrates, in the tribunes. On the witness bench André recognized his father and his white hairs. Ah! how this sight cut him to the heart--the heart which did not falter however, when the president, after asking the counsel and attorney-general if they did not object to hearing the witness, asked him to state his name and title and take oath according to the formula. The magistrates who assisted at this scene are unanimous in declaring that they never experienced an emotion in court at all comparable to that which seized the audience and themselves when this man, whose heroic past all were acquainted with through the articles published in the journals, began in a firm voice, but one which betrayed excruciating grief: “Gentlemen of the jury: I have only a few words to say. My sister was not assassinated, she killed herself. The night before her death she wrote me a letter in which she announced her resolution to die, and why. Gentlemen, I believe that I had the right to conceal this suicide, I burned this letter. If the man whom you have before you,” and he indicated Greslon with his left hand--“did not give the poison, he has done worse. But this is not for your justice to consider, and he ought not to be convicted as an assassin. He is innocent. In default of material proof which I can no longer give, I bring you my word.” These sentences fell one by one, amid the anguish of the whole audience. There was a cry followed by groans. “He is mad,” said a voice, “he is mad, do not listen to him.” “No, my Father,” replied Count André, who recognized the voice of the marquis, and who turned toward the old man, who lay back, crushed, on his bench. “I am not mad. I have done what honor compelled. I hope, monsieur the president, that I may be spared from saying any more.” There was entreaty in his voice, the voice of this proud man, as he uttered this last sentence, and it so affected the hearers that a murmur ran through the crowd when the president replied: