I might indeed get hold of a lawyer who has studied the circonstances atténuantes, as we used to say at Paris; but what’s the good, when the stupid bench don’t understand them? Civilisation is at such a low ebb in this land of ours. Quite otherwise over there. I attended a trial in France ... a woman who had committed the sottise of hacking her child to pieces, chopping it up small, and cooking it ... what further could you have? It would have been a bad look-out for her in this country. Over there, she simply had to take the precaution of providing circonstances atténuantes, ... and she got off all right. That’s what I call philanthropy—civilisation! Just look for civilisation here! there’s nothing of the sort. Everything is taken ill here. If your scales or your weights are not quite right, they take it ill of you! If you call a man a thief or a scoundrel, in the friendliest way in the world, and can’t produce your proofs on the spot, they take it ill of you! Just as if those were not the biggest scoundrels of all against whom nothing can be proved! If you happen to swear falsely, they take that ill too! Why, not long ago I heard of a man undergoing very unpleasant treatment in public, because he—it seems incredible—because he had set his own house on fire! Stupid nation this! Not the faintest notion of the universal rights of mankind! The house belonged to him; what business was it of people’s what he did with it? Why shouldn’t he make a bonfire of it as soon as smoke this “light brown”? (Good cigar, too!) Yes, they say, but ... his next-door neighbour! Stuff and nonsense! Am I not to illuminate, because somebody else prefers to sit in darkness? If my next-door neighbour has cat’s eyes, he had better go and live somewhere else.
No, no,—that delicate feeling,—that tact,—that talent for making black white with all the facility in the world, and without fear of contradiction,—and above all, the glorious circonstances atténuantes,—all these you find only in France!
Splendid invention, those circonstances atténuantes! They are the lightning-conductor of the Procureur du Roi’s wrath, as we used to say at Paris. They are galvanism applied to the Code Napoléon. They are ... in short, they are anything you please.
Oh, pleasant France! beloved France! When I say France, I mean Paris. Paris, with its bals-musard! Paris, with its rendezvous on the Boulevards and in the Bois de Boulogne! Paris, with its limonadières, fruitières, bouquetières, and all other ières!
[Begins to recite, with exaggerated action.]
“O France! O precious land! O paradise o’ the world!
I greet thee, though the marsh and mud ... marsh and mud....”
... well, never mind; I shall hit it some other time. How is one to find a rhyme to “world”? I ought to have begun differently. But what I mean is, that if ever I find myself mixed up in this fâcheuse affaire of the cheques, I shall at once make my native country a present of my citizenship, and take shares in France. Then I shall have the right of being attended to by a French court, take a few circonstances atténuantes with me, and Frans is all right—quits the court without a stain on his character!
A greater fool than that young Huser I never saw in all my born days. Who ever heard of a man letting himself be ill-treated in the place of another? I never could understand that story. The imbecile! I wish I knew where to find him; I should go to him, and say, “Huser, my dear boy, we’ve made a mistake again about a signature or two; do make yourself responsible for the error—there’s a good fellow.” I believe, upon my soul! the man would be fool enough to do it over again. I can’t explain the matter, but I dare swear that Huser, in spite of his sour face, was the most faithful chum in the world. I would bet something that he had been brought up at Paris, or at least had a French nurse or a Swiss bonne. Sacrifices like that it would be vain to look for elsewhere ... [A knock at the door.] Ho, hey! entrez.
[Sits down on a chair in the middle of the stage, stretching his legs straight out in front of him.]