“Here follows a blank. How the accused lived in Paris, to which he had returned after his release, is not known. Did he resort to mean cheating, or to improper enterprises, in order to satisfy his passions? The prosecution is reduced to conjectures, since Crochard has refused to give details, and only makes very general statements as to these years.
“This fact only is established, that every thing he took with him when he left Paris was new,—his tools, the linen in his valise, the clothes he wore, from the cap on his head to his shoes. Why were they all new?”
As the magistrate had now reached the last line on the first sheet, the surgeon rose, bowed low, and said,—
“Upon my word, sir, I surrender; and I do begin to hope that Lieut. Champcey may still be avenged.”
A smile of pleased pride appeared for a moment on the lips of the lawyer; but assuming his mask of impassiveness instantly again, as if he had been ashamed of his weakness, he said with delicate irony,—
“I really think human justice may this time reach the guilty. But wait before you congratulate me.”
The old surgeon was too candid to make even an attempt at concealing his astonishment.
“What!” he said, “you have more evidence still?”
The magistrate gravely shook his head, and said,—
“The biography which I have just read establishes nothing. We do not succeed by probabilities and presumptions; however strong they are in convincing a jury. They want and require proof, positive proof, before they condemn. Well, such proof I have.”