Arrived before the Hôtel de Ville, M. de la Rivière with difficulty drew Berthier out of the vehicle. The unfortunate man was sick, faint, and dizzy, and he probably would have been unable to walk, had it been required of him, but a compact body of guards surrounding him bore him forward into the great hall of S. John.
Without being conscious of where he was, or what was being done, he felt himself forced before the bar.
Silence was enforced, and then the procureur, recently appointed by the people, began to speak.
Berthier raised his hand, and all noticed how it shook.
'I am tired,' he said; 'I have not shut my eyes for two or three nights. Let me have a little repose, I pray you.'
'No; no repose for you, till you have been sentenced,' cried the assistants.
'At least give me a chair.'
One was handed to him, and he fell into it, the picture of wretchedness. His eyes were lustreless, his complexion dull and dingy, and his hair limp. His great cheeks hung down like the dewlaps of a cow. He had not shaved for a week, and his mouth and chin were covered with a coarse growth of short hair. When he put up his shaking hand to wipe his eyes, he exposed a dirty hand, and ruffles at his wrist draggled and soiled.
'What is the charge you bring against him?' asked M. Duveyrier.