At last order was established in the court, and the Procureur opened the proceeding by reciting the act of my accusation, in which all the circumstances already mentioned by my advocate were dwelt and commented on with the habitual force and exaggeration of bar oratory. The address was short, however,--scarcely fifteen minutes long; and by the tone of the speaker, and the manner of the judges, I guessed that my case excited little or no interest to the prosecution, either from my own humble and insignificant position, or the certainty they felt of my conviction. My advocate rose to demand a delay, even a short one, pleading most energetically against the precipitancy of a proceeding in which the indictment was but made known the day previous. The President interrupted him roughly, and with an assurance that no circumstance short of the necessity to produce some important evidence not then forthcoming, would induce him to grant a postponement. M. Baillot replied at once, “Such, sir, is our case; a witness, whose evidence is of the highest moment, is not to be found; a day or two might enable us to obtain his testimony. It is upon this we ground our hope, our certainty, of an acquittal. The court will not, I am certain, refuse its clemency in such an emergency as this.” “Where is this same witness to be found? Is he in Paris? Is he in France?” “We hope in Paris, Monsieur le President.” “And his name?” “The Abbé d'Ervan.” A strange murmur ran along the bench of judges at the words; and I could see that some of them smiled in spite of their efforts to seem grave, while the Procureur-Général did not scruple to laugh outright. “I believe, sir,” said he, addressing the President, “that I can accommodate my learned brother with this so-much desired testimony perhaps more speedily, I will not say than he wishes, but than he expects.” “How is this?” said my advocate, in a whisper to me. “They have this Abbé then. Has he turned against his party?” “I know nothing of him,” said I, recklessly; “falsehood and treachery seem so rife here, that it can well be as you say.” “The Abbe d'Ervan!” cried a loud voice; and with the words the well-known figure moved rapidly from the crowd and mounted the steps of the platform. “You are lost!” said Baillot, in a low, solemn voice; “it is Mehée de la Touche himself!” Had the words of my sentence rung in my ears I had not felt them more, that name, by some secret spell, had such terror in it. “You know the prisoner before you, sir?” said the President, turning towards the Abbé. Before he could reply, my advocate broke in:--