Good God! I am writing this as though he were dead, and my heart is beating louder than the great clock in this silent Court Room!
Warren is not a handsome man, honey. You must not picture any Prince Charming in his person. He has—he has red hair. There—one would think I was making a confession. How he would laugh at me! He always says I try to make him out an Adonis when he’s about as ugly an animal as ever walked upright. This is nonsense, of course. He is not handsome, but his features are strong, and when he smiles, his eyes light up the whole face and he is splendid.
But it is the mind of the man that has always fascinated me. His ideas are so clean—his breadth of view so comprehensive—his intellect so keen and his purpose so high.
If I could only have told the jury about the man himself!—But all this is “outside the record.” Do you understand, dear?
Never have I known a more sunny disposition or a more even temper in anyone. But he could get angry. Half a dozen times I have seen him lose control of himself, but, awful though his passion was, it always rose in some cause that made me think the better of him as a man.
Once I remember he overheard a foul-mouthed fellow repeating a filthy story in the presence of a little child. In an instant his face utterly changed, and before I could prevent him he struck the man a fearful blow, and I shall never forget the torrent of invective he hurled at the offender. I had not believed him capable of such tongue-lashing. (Little did I then dream how this would be used against him.)
It was on that day I first noted that, as long as Warren’s anger lasted, Fantine kept on growling. When I spoke of it he smiled and answered,
“Fantine recognized the cur, I fancy.”
I have written that Warren was my oldest and dearest friend, but I have not claimed to be his.