“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.