The lawyer for the defence had ended. A murmur went through the wide court of the assizes, the galleries of which were crammed with spectators.
If the accused did not spoil the effect of the brilliant speech by an imprudent word he was saved.
The president’s answer resounded unheard.
And now the eye-glasses and opera-glasses began to click. All eyes were directed to the pale, simply-clad man who was sitting in the same dock where, eight years ago, the vicious servant had sat.
The president asked whether the accused had anything more to add to strengthen the proof of his innocence.
“Silence! silence!” was murmured through the court.
But Paul rose and spoke—first, low and hesitatingly, then every moment with greater firmness.
“I am heartily sorry that the trouble my defender has taken to save me should have been useless; but I am not as innocent of the deed as he represents.”
The judges looked at each other. “What is he at? He is going to speak against himself.”
He said: “Anxiety made me nearly unconscious. I then acted in a kind of madness which at that moment rendered me incapable of calculation.”