"Yes: emptied it, and put it on me again."

The prisoner is examined; says he was
restless, and couldn't sleep.

"My francs kept you awake," says prosecutor,
indignant.

"No! your fleas did," retorts the prisoner.

Then prisoner, grandiloquent in the midst
of misfortune—what Frenchman is not?—
proceeds to address the gentlemen of the jury in
his defence: "Gentlemen, you see me here;
but if I had not come here till I deserved it, I
should be walking the streets at this moment,
breathing the free air of heaven. Monsieur,
this false young man says I have stolen from
him. Grand Dieu! Am I then a patent boot-
jack? I ask Monsieur the Judge; could I take
off your boots, and put them on again, while
you were asleep in bed?" (Sensation.)

"But, unhappy me, voyez-vous, I was
drunk," responds prosecutor. "I slept so
sound that I strained the ropes of my bed."

"Monsieur, you should blush to accuse me.
Your money is the coinage of a wine-heated
brain. Gentlemen, I have served in the
National Guard Mobile; had I been capable of
subtracting filthy francs from the boots of a
fellow-creature, should I not have been drummed
out?"

But prisoner is deemed guilty.

"Monsieur the Judge, a little word."

"Well."

"Do with me as you please; I am equal to
either fortune."

Not the least interesting are the political
trials; these are constantly occurring, owing to
the invincible pugnacity of French journalists
and the fondness which French editors have for
martyrdom, though it be but on a small scale.
St. Pélagic is never without guests who boast
themselves "knights of the quill;" and although
these persecuted gentlemen are usually
"dynastic opposers," once in a while we find
the too-hot adherents of the empire—Granier
de Cassagnac, for instance— incarcerated with
the rest. It requires no very subtle insight
into the Imperial Constitution to see that the
courts are wholly under the political influence
of Monsieur the Minister of the Interior, who,
being irresponsible, nods or shakes his head
after Monseigneur the Emperor. Although
the trials for political offences seldom miscarry,
and although—what fatally hurts your ordinary
drama— their dénouement is clearly foreseen at
the outset, the scenes in court are rendered
piquant by the accused themselves, who, knowing
there is no help for them, give full rein to
their wit and satire, in spite of judge, minister,
or majesty. Perhaps the trials for political
offences which take place in the remote
provinces, far from Paris, are the most interesting.
Before the right of public meeting had been
extended to its present state—and even now
it is so hedged about as to appear to the Anglo-
Saxon looker-on a mere phantom right after
all—the political passions of the people, and
the political propagandism of the Opposition
chiefs, were wont to find an outlet by means of
these very political trials. Jules Favre, and
Thiers, and Berryer, could not, without
infringing the law, address their adherents
assembled in public squares or in popular halls,
on the political issues of the day; so they
simply did it in the face of the Imperial judges,
and protected by the privileges which in
France, as elsewhere, belong to the lawyer's
robe. This mode of propagating ideas hostile
to the empire was, and still is, a formidable
one. A provincial editor writes a slashing
article, saying that "Solferino was won in
spite of bad generalship" (allusive to the
Emperor's part therein); or that "the republic
was assassinated by the existing powers. He
is forthwith indicted by the Procureur Impérial
for "exciting to hatred and contempt of the
government," or "an assault upon the person
of his Majesty." The editor expected this, and
is rejoiced to receive the summons to appear in
court. He forthwith sends to M. Jules Favre,
the modern Mirabeau, engages him as counsel,
and announces in his columns that the great
democratic advocate is to defend him. When
the day comes, great crowds of people surround
the court-house, and there is no preventing
them from pushing through the corridors, and
filling the court-room to its utmost capacity.
When the advocate arrives, and descends from
his carriage, the outside crowd greet him with
cries of "Vive Jules Favre!" "Vive la
liberté!" "A bas la tyrannie!" to all of which
the deputy blandly smiles, and bows this way
and that. His progress to the court-room is a
continued ovation.

The case comes on for trial; Monsieur the
Procureur has unfolded it with dramatic force;
the testimony is given on one side and the
other; the counsel for the prosecution "orates
and gyrates;" then it is the turn of M. Favre
to develop his defence. The crowd hangs on
his lips breathlessly; M. the Procureur, and
even M. the Judge, are slightly nervous; the
orator raises his voice. His speech is simply
and purely a political harangue, a terrible
arraignment of the empire, and a general
indictment against its career. Neither he nor
his client cares a rush how the case goes, nor
what the damages are; they are already victorious,
for they have won the right to be publicly
heard, unrestricted. An audience, sympathetic
and enthusiastic in the highest degree,
listens; the mouths of judge and prosecutor
are stopped; the orator, forgetful of his case,
inculcates his favourite doctrines unrestrained.
If the judge, finding the harangue a little too
strong, interrupt, he is met by a scathing
retort, which, if he be not a very uncommon
magistrate indeed, effectually teaches him
not to interfere again. The editor is
convicted, pays a fine (which a zealous party
subscription speedily makes up), or goes to prison
for a month or two; where he has the double
satisfaction of being a martyr, and of complacently
reflecting, that he has done more for his
cause than a hundred perfectly lawful leaders
could have done. It is well known that Berryer,
up to his death, used to, and that Favre still
does, make a regular progress through