At this moment Danville re-entered the court; and, advancing to the table, placed himself close by the chief agent’s side. They looked each other steadily in the face for an instant.
“He has recovered from the shock of Trudaine’s answer,” thought Lomaque, retiring. “His hand trembles, his face is pale, but I can see regained self-possession in his eye, and I dread the consequences already.”
“Citizen president,” began Danville, “I demand to know if anything has transpired affecting my honor and patriotism in my absence?”
He spoke apparently with the most perfect calmness, but he looked nobody in the face. His eyes were fixed steadily on the green baize of the table beneath him.
“The female prisoner has made a statement, referring principally to herself and her brother,” answered the president, “but incidentally mentioning a previous attempt on your mother’s part to break existing laws by emigrating from France. This portion of the confession contains in it some elements of suspicion which seriously affect you—”
“They shall be suspicions no longer—at my own peril I will change them to certainties!” exclaimed Danville, extending his arm theatrically, and looking up for the first time. “Citizen president, I avow it with the fearless frankness of a good patriot; I was privy to my mother’s first attempt at escaping from France.”
Hisses and cries of execration followed this confession. He winced under them at first; but recovered his self-possession before silence was restored.
“Citizens, you have heard the confession of my fault,” he resumed, turning with desperate assurance toward the audience; “now hear the atonement I have made for it at the altar of my country.”
He waited at the end of that sentence, until the secretary to the tribunal had done writing it down in the report book of the court.
“Transcribe faithfully to the letter!” cried Danville, pointing solemnly to the open page of the volume. “Life and death hang on my words.”