speak in public), marched with us through
the streets of St. Eloi, led us into the court of
the Palais de Justice, left my biped to shift
for himself, but put me into a seat where I
could both see and hear well; and then disappeared
into his own proper Salle de Délibération,
or deliberating room.

As a French court of justice differs materially
from an English one, while the official
personages are putting on their robes, I will
describe that at St. Eloi—which, generalised,
will give an idea of the rest. Outside, the
building is plain Ionic; inside, Roman Doric,
as far as bastard and unpretending architecture
can be specified. The aspect of the
room is something composite between a theatre,
a concert-room, and a catholic church.
Where the altar would be, are the seats of
the president, with those of the judges on
either side. Behind the president, by way of
altar-piece, hangs a large picture of the
Saviour on the cross, apparently intended to
look the witnesses full in the face at the
moment when they come forward to be
sworn. Further to the president's right, is
the seat and writing-table of the greffier,
secretary, or clerk of the court; further to
his left are the same articles of furniture
belonging to the procureur-imperial, the
nearest English for which official is,
attorney-general. All these may be considered as
placed within the sacred precincts and as
appertaining to the altar itself. Dismiss now
the idea of a church, and think of a stage; or
combine the two by imagining the scene to be
an ecclesiastical interior looking towards the
altar. The wings on the imperial procureur's
side are entirely occupied by the jury, in two
rows, half-a-dozen in each, one above the
other, with schoolboys' writing-desks before
them, furnished with pens, ink, and paper.
The procureur may thus easily play the part
of a pedagogue; he can keep an eye upon
their motions, frown them into good behaviour
—give them a scolding, which he often
does—and even administer a severe beating,
not to them—that would not do—but to
his own manly breast, the balustrade before
him, the piles of documents on his table,
or the crown of his own black gold-laced
bonnet. On the opposite side are, at the
back, the bench of the accused, entered
by a mysterious door from the interior of
the building. At the end of that sad seat,
nearest the audience, is a chair for the brigadier
of gendarmes, who sits to watch his
subordinates and the supposed criminals
under their charge. In front of the bench of
the accused is the bar, seats, and desks for
the avoués and avocats, the attorneys and
counsel, concerned in the case on either side,
both for defence and prosecution; but not, as
with us, affording room for all the members
of the bar belonging to the circuit. Where
the foot-lights would be is a step or two
separating the stage from the audience part
of the house. On the stage itself, one of the
most conspicuous objects is an isolated armchair,
raised on two or three steps like a
throne, and in the very centre, in about the
spot which a prima donna chooses to warble
the grand bravura of the evening. This chair
is the witness-chair. But though Amina,
Norma, Rosina, and the rest of them, invariably
turn their faces to the pit—notwithstanding
that their singing is supposed to be
addressed to a chorus of peasants, a Roman
legion, or a party of Spanish nobles- the
witness-chair turns its back on the public,
to the great advantage of the parties most
concerned, the accused, the advocates, the
jury, and the president, and to the equal disadvantage
of the respectable mob who come
into court simply for amusement, not to mention
the difficulty occasioned to reporters,
who have to listen close to catch the flood of
syllables that sometimes gush forth from the
lips of Gallic volubility. The orchestra is a
row of pew-like seats, with stuffed cushions,
to receive witnesses who have been examined,
unemployed advocates, and such like. What
would be the pit boxes is an open passage
leading to the witnesses' waiting-room, which
takes the place of a refreshment-saloon or
cloak-room. The orchestra stalls, gained by
a door inscribed "Entrée privée," are open
to any well-dressed, well-behaved persons.
The pit, to which you are admitted by the
"Entrée publique" (literally, a parterre, or
on the ground), has no seats, like Shakespeare's
Globe Theatre and the existing one
at Rouen, where the "groundlings" had and
have to stand during the performance. This
compartment is the usual resort of men in
blouses, mechanics, and common soldiers.
Here let me mention a bit of etiquette.
During the trial, the president called out to
some soldiers there to take off their caps,
which they instantly obeyed; only those
on duty, he said, had the right to keep them
on. These sentinels, acting as door-keepers,
are characteristic of the military spirit
of the nation; while the rest of the costumes
tell at a glance that we have crossed
to the south side of the Channel. Our
own pacific blue-bottle policemen, are replaced
by severe, respectable, military gendarmes,
in cocked hats, light-blue trousers,
and yellow bands across their breasts. There
are huissiers flitting to and fro—a superior
sort of sheriffs-officers—officials casting important
glances over the tops of their white
cravats, otherwise clad throughout in black,
with short stuff cloaks, like the cut-down
gowns of fast collegians, or the mantles of noble
seducers in melodramas. There are the avocats
on either side, with their long, crimped,
cravat-bands, high-crowned black caps, and
full-sleeved gowns; the procureur-imperial,
with a sky-blue silk sash beneath his robe;
the black-robed judges, with high silver-laced
caps, which they scrupulously keep on, to
show their dignity; and between them the
president, in open scarlet robe, leaving fully