“This will shorten our task, for, in case we adopt this course, there will be but two judgments to be pronounced,” he said. “This will not, of course, prevent each individual from defending himself.”
The lawyers protested against this. A judgment in a lump, like that suggested by the duke, would destroy all hope of saving a single one of these unfortunate men from the guillotine.
“How can we defend them,” the lawyers pleaded, “when we know nothing of the situation of each of the prisoners? we do not even know their names. We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their coats and by the color of their hair.”
They implored the tribunal to grant them a week for preparation, four days, even twenty-four hours. Futile efforts! The president’s proposition was adopted.
Consequently, each prisoner was called to the desk according to the place which he occupied upon the benches. Each man gave his name, his age, his abode, and his profession, and received an order to return to his place.
Six or seven prisoners were actually granted time to say that they were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that they had been arrested while conversing quietly upon the public highway. They begged to be allowed to furnish proof of the truth of their assertions; they invoked the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them.
M. d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the others, was not summoned to the desk. He would be interrogated last.
“Now the counsel for the defence will be heard,” said the duke; “but make haste; lose no time! It is already twelve o’clock.”
Then began a shameful, revolting, and unheard-of scene. The duke interrupted the lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent, questioning them, or jeering at them.
“It seems incredible,” said he, “that anyone can think of defending such wretches!”