The Deed of Accusation
THE judges took their places in the midst of the most profound silence; the jury took their seats; Villefort, the object of unusual attention, and we had almost said of general admiration, sat in the arm-chair, and cast a tranquil glance around him. Every person looked with astonishment on that grave and severe face, the calm expression of which fraternal griefs had been unable to disturb; and the aspect of a man who was a stranger to all human emotions excited a kind of terror.
“Gendarmes!” said the president, “lead in the accused.”
At these words the public attention became more intense, and all eyes were turned toward the door through which Benedetto was to enter. The door soon opened, and the accused appeared.
The same impression was experienced by all present; and no one was deceived by the expression of his countenance. His features bore no sign of that deep emotion which stops the beating of the heart and blanches the cheek. His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the other in the opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all tremulous; his eye was calm, and even brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the hall, when he glanced at the whole body of magistrates and assistants: his eye rested longer on the president, and still more so on the procureur du roi.
By the side of Andrea was placed the lawyer who was to conduct his defense, and who had been chosen by the court; for Andrea disdained to pay any attention to those details, to which he appeared to attach no importance. The lawyer was a young man with light hair, and whose face expressed a hundred times more emotion than that which characterized the prisoner.
The president called for the deed of accusation, drawn up, as we know, by the clever and implacable pen of de Villefort. During the reading of this, which was long, and would have crushed any one else, the public attention was continually drawn toward Andrea, who bore the burden with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had never been so concise and eloquent: the crime was represented under the liverliest colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation, a review of his life from the earliest period, were set forth with all the talent that a knowledge of human life could furnish to a mind like that of the procureur du roi. Benedetto was thus for ever lost in public opinion before the sentence of the law could be pronounced.
Andrea paid no attention to the successive charges which were brought against him. Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who no doubt practiced upon him all the psychological studies he was accustomed to use, in vain endeavored to make him lower his eyes, notwithstanding the depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the deed was read.
“Accused,” said the president, “your name and surname?”
Andrea rose.
“Excuse me, M. le President,” he said, in a clear voice, “but I see you are going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot follow you. I have an idea, which I will justify by-and-by, of being an exception to ordinary criminals. Allow me, then, if you please, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all.”
The astonished president looked at the jury, who themselves looked upon the procureur du roi. The whole assembly manifested great surprise; but Andrea appeared quite unmoved.
“Your age?” said the president: “will you answer that question?”
“I will answer that question, as well as the rest, M. le President, but in its turn.”
“Your age?” repeated the president.
“I am twenty-one years old; or rather I shall be in a few days, as I was born the night of the 27th of September, 1817.”
M. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head at the mention of this date.
“Where were you born?” continued the president.
“At Auteuil, near Paris.’
M. de Villefort a second time raised his head, looked at Benedetto, as if he had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As for Benedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief.
“Your profession?”
“First I was a forger,” answered Andrea, as calmly as possible; “then I became a thief; and, lately, have become an assassin.”
A murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the assembly. The judges themselves appeared stupefied; and the jury manifested tokens of disgust for a cynicism so unexpected from a fashionable man. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at first pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly rose, and looked around as though he had lost his senses – he wanted air.
“Are you looking for anything, M. le Procureur du Roi?” asked Benedetto, with his most pleasing smile.
M. de Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or rather threw himself down again upon his chair.
“And now, will you consent to tell your name?” said the president. “The brutal affectation with which you have enumerated and classified your crimes, which you call a profession, calls for a severe reprimand on the part of the court, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due to humanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor, and it may be for this reason you have delayed acknowledging your name. You wished it to be preceded by all these titles.”