He rose slowly, his
ferrety eyes upon her.
"How many children have you had?" he rasped, sardonic, his tone a
slur, an insult.
Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed,
disdainful, as she answered coldly:
"Have I not stated that I am not married?"
A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete the
impression he sought to convey, and he sat down again.
It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate instructed
to defend her. But what defence was possible? And Chauveau had
been intimidated. He had received a note from the jury ordering
him to remain silent, another from the President bidding him
declare her mad.
Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech is admirable;
it satisfied his self-respect, without derogating from his
client. It uttered the whole truth.
"The prisoner," he said, "confesses with calm the horrible crime
she has committed; she confesses with calm its premeditation; she
confesses its most dreadful details; in short, she confesses
everything, and does riot seek to justify herself. That, citizens
of the jury, is her whole defence. This imperturbable calm, this
utter abnegation of self, which displays no remorse even in the
very presence of death, are contrary to nature.
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