"The concierge saw her going into my room
just before."

"Aha, m'amie!" breaks in the judge; "what
do you say to that?"

"I went in there," says the prisoner,
shortly, "because I thought somebody was
there. I heard a noise."

Judge: "Yes— a rustle of fifty-franc notes!"
(Great laughter.)

A witness deposes that, next day,
Mademoiselle Adrienne bought a handsome new
bonnet.

"And where, m'amie," said the judge, "did
you get all the money for that?"

"One has friends."

"Come, come, where did you get it?"

"Parbleu! it was Jacques."

"And who, pray, is Jacques?"

"My Jacques— my friend, monsieur."

"O, your lover, n'est-ce pas?"

"Ah, well, yes, Monsieur the Judge!"

"And so Jacques is rich, is he?"

"No, but he gave it to me."

"Has his rich aunt just died?" (General
amusement.)

For all her bright eyes and pretty little
shrugs, poor Adrienne is clearly guilty. The
judge, after stating the fact, proceeds to
sentence her, somewhat after this manner:

"Now, ma jolie petite fille, I must send you
to lodgings where fine bonnets are wholly
needless; you must go to the workhouse for a
little month. You won't want any of Jacques's
money for that. And I warn you not to mind
whatever noises you may hear, or run after
them; for you see what a position you are in
from being too anxious about noises in your
neighbour's room."

With this sally the trial ends, and the
proceedings are concluded in the pleasantest of
humours. Mademoiselle trips, with another
shrug, out of the box; gives the disconsolate
Jacques, who is by, a hearty kiss, bobs her
head saucily at the judge, and surrenders
herself gracefully to her fate.

But the scenes which take place in the French
courts are as various as the traits and
impulses of the French themselves—only having
this in common, that they are seldom without
a dramatic tinge. Some months ago the
following incident took place in one of the smaller
Paris police-courts. A young man—one
Mignoneau—was brought before the judge accused
of having received some money from a veteran,
by name Monsieur Leger, on false pretences.
The trial began, and the injured gentleman was
called upon to take the witness-stand. A robust,
hale old man forthwith separated himself from
the crowd of spectators, advanced promptly to
the stand, made an exceedingly courtly bow to
Monsieur the Judge, and awaited the interrogatory.
His testimony, delivered in a clear voice
and with great frankness, was worth noting.

"What is your age?" sharply demands the
judge.

"Ninety-eight and a half years," replies the
old man, slowly and emphatically.

"You express yourself so distinctly, you
seem so healthy, your colour is so fresh, your
eyes are so bright, and your step is so firm,
that I must have misunderstood you."

"No. What I say is accurate. Count and
see. I was born in May, 1770; a year and a
half, Monsieur le Judge, will complete my
century."

"What is your occupation?"

"I was formerly valet to Monsieur Saint Prix,
comedian to the king, at the Théâtre de la
Nation."

"You were then very young. You must
have served others since?"

Leger, drawing himself up proudly: "Never,
monsieur. M. Saint Prix left me enough to live
on. When a man has had such a master, he
does not need a second."

"Now, as to this case. Do you recognise
the young man in the dock?"

"I recollect him, yes. He did an act which
was not at all delicate. He pretended he had
come from my marble cutter, and claimed thirty
francs for a railing round my wife's tomb."

"Your wife?"

"I had the misfortune to lose her, monsieur,
a few months since."

"She was doubtless much younger than
yourself?"

"Very little, Monsieur the Judge; only
fifteen months. I used to say to her, 'Wait a
little for me, and we will go together.' But
she wearied of the world before me."

"You paid this young man what he
demanded?"

"Yes; but I did not bring him here. I hope
you will not punish him too severely. Perhaps
he will turn from his wicked ways, and give
me back my money. Such a thing has
happened within my own knowledge. M. Saint
Prix had a cook who stole from him; he
pardoned her, and she became honest."

A genial correspondent has depicted a scene
which occurred not long ago in one of the Paris
courts, so thoroughly characteristic that it
affords an irresistible opportunity for quotation.
A young workman of jovial disposition
got tipsy at a little buvette; while there, he
picked up a fascinating stranger, whom he
generously invited to partake of his humble
couch for the night. The fascinating stranger
accepted with rapture; next day the stranger
is invited to appear at court, to answer a
charge of having stolen certain moneys from
his host's boots. The confiding young man was
examined.

"I went to bed in my clothes."

"Ah, you were regularly drunk?"

"Truly, monsieur."

"So drunk, that you could not undress?"

"Well—yes; I have been drunker, however."

"Where did you leave your money?"

"In my left boot, with my handkerchief on
it, and then put it on."

"And he robbed you while you were
asleep?"

"Yes: he took all but half a franc."

"He took off your boot without your knowing
it?"