of our attorneys and solicitors-general. At
the opening of criminal trials, the procureur
proceeds to read a long and minute narrative
of the previous life, habits, and character of
the accused, which has been collected with
great care. He relates the career of the prisoner
with a dramatic force worthy of a
novelist, and seems as anxious to construct an
interesting story as to produce a practical
impression on the minds of the jury. The
theatrical character of the scene is kept up by the
French custom of questioning the prisoner as
well as the witnesses, hearing his statements,
allowing him to interrogate the witnesses, or to
explain away their evidence, and not very
sternly checking him when he indulges in
pathetic appeals, in untimely jokes, or energetic
recriminations. The judge for his part makes
remarks very freely, does not stick at a pun or
a joke with the counsel, or even with the
prisoner, and engages in altercations with both.

The French are so sensitive to anything droll;
they are so quick to seize the ludicrous aspect
of any matter and make the most of it, that no
opportunity for amusement is allowed to pass,
no matter how serious the trial or the circumstances.
Some two years ago a trial took place
at Melun, near Fontainebleau, which excited a
keen interest throughout France. One Madame
Frigard, a sprightly woman of forty, the mother
of a family, was arraigned for the murder of a
Madame Mertens. The two were very intimate
friends. Mertens was young, pretty, of loose
morals, and possessed of money; they went for a
day's excursion into the forest of Fontainebleau.
Frigard returned to Paris in the evening alone;
for some time the friends of Mertens were
puzzled to know what had become of her. In
a week her body was found lying in the depths
of the forest. Meanwhile Frigard was found
in possession of some funds belonging to her
friend. The greatest excitement prevailed
during the trial of Frigard for her life. But the
gravity which might be expected in a murder
trial was wholly wanting; to read the reports
in the newspapers, you would have thought
that a comedy was being enacted in the snug
Melun Palais de Justice. The spectators were
kept in continual high spirits by the witty
sallies of the judge and the lawyers, and the
bright naïve responses of the fair accused. Her
repartees were greeted with roars of applause
and laughter; and some of the dialogues which
took place might have made Feuillet envious,
and furnished Sardou with a stock of fresh
piquancy and wit. The trial ended in the
conviction of Frigard, and her condemnation to
hard labour for life; yet on hearing the sentence
she tossed her head, said something pertly
humorous to the judge as she left the dock,
and went smiling and flippant to her doom.

The smaller courts in the towns, where lighter
every-day offences are tried, are usually the
most interesting to the foreign visitor. These
courts are usually situated either in the
basement of the Palais de Justice, or in some
obscure street. You are free to enter, and
find yourself in a small, close, not sweet smelling
room. You take up your position, standing,
behind some railings— for spectators are
seldom accorded the privilege of seats. At a
square raised desk, over which appears the
Imperial escutcheon, is seated the presiding judge,
He wears a long puffy gown of silk, with a
broad white cravat, while his head is adorned
by a singular hat, large and square, broader
at the top than at the bottom, and lined—
as well as you can see—with some lace, not
of the finest. On the judge's right is another
smaller raised desk, at right angles with
that of the judge; this is the place occupied by
the procureur. Below the judge are the clerks,
and in a semicircle in front of the clerks sit
the avocats, avoués, and notaries— the barristers
and attorneys. The prisoner is placed on a
chair in a small enclosed space, his counsel
sitting by him; the jury is at the side, seated on
long narrow benches. There is a witness-stand
near the judge, as in England.

The judge takes his seat, the court is formally
opened, and the witnesses and prisoners are
called in. The first prisoner put into the dock
is a pretty, lively, flashily-dressed, saucy-
looking grisette. She takes her place with a little
shrug of the shoulders and a grimace, and looks
about coquettishly. The judge eyes her sharply
for a moment, and then asks what she is charged
with. "Mademoiselle, Monsieur le Juge, is
charged with stealing a fifty-franc note from
her most intimate and confidential friend."
Information as to mademoiselle's antecedents and
position is at once forthcoming. Mademoiselle's
name is Adrienne Petitbouche; she
trims bonnets for the great Madame Picot by
day; she flirts with her mignon Jacques by
twilight; she literally "shakes a foot," and a
lithe little body too, every night at the Bal de
la Terpsichore Divine—admission, one franc.
On the whole, barring her daily task, she has
a very careless, merry, wicked, delirious life of
it. Her money melts like snow in a furnace;
she often finds herself minus the cash for a new
dancing-skirt, and, unhappily, Jacques is too
poor to supply it. She, therefore, quietly slips
into her darling Philomène's room—opposite to
her own, and quietly abstracts the fifty-franc
note which Philomène has just received as her
monthly wages, and has stowed away in her
trunk. Philomène catches her coming out of
the door, misses her fifty francs, and has dear
Adrienne brought up before the court.

Philomène is the first witness, and skips to
the witness-box, brisk, prompt, and pert.
Questioned indiscriminately by judge, jury,
procureur, counsel, and prisoner, she answers
smartly, with tosses of the head. She says she
saw Mademoiselle Adrienne coming out of the
room; her trunk was open; on the floor near
it was Mademoiselle Adrienne's new silver
thimble. Here the prisoner breaks in:

"Yes, the hussy borrowed it of me the day
before yesterday."

"It's a lie! I didn't—you know I didn't!"

"Monsieur the Judge —— "

"Now, hush, hush, hush!" (from the judge).
"Go on, witness."