light of papers.

"Par la mort Dieu!" he roared, with a most indecent exhibition of temper
in one so placed. "I have had enough of your contradictions. You forget,
monsieur, your position--"

"At least," I broke in harshly, "no less than you forget yours."

The Keeper of the Seals gasped for breath at that, and his fellow
judges murmured angrily amongst themselves. Chatellerault maintained his
sardonic smile, but permitted himself to utter no word.

"I would, gentlemen," I cried, addressing them all, "that His Majesty
were here to see how you conduct your trials and defile his Courts. As
for you, Monsieur le President, you violate the sanctity of your office
in giving way to anger; it is a thing unpardonable in a judge. I have
told you in plain terms, gentlemen, that I am not this Rene de Lesperon
with whose crimes you charge me. Yet, in spite of my denials, ignoring
them, or setting them down either to a futile attempt at defence or to
an hallucination of which you suppose me the victim, you proceed to lay
those crimes to my charge, and when I deny your charges you speak of
proofs that can only apply to another.

"How shall the name of Lesperon having been found among the Duke of
Montmorency's papers convict me of treason, since I tell you that I am
not Lesperon? Had you the slightest, the remotest sense of your high
duty, messieurs, you would ask me rather to explain how, if what I
state be true, I come to be confounded with Lesperon and arrested in
his place. Then, messieurs, you might seek to test the accuracy of what
statements I may make; but to proceed as you are proceeding is not to
judge but to murder. Justice is represented as a virtuous woman with
bandaged eyes, holding impartial scales; in your hands, gentlemen, by my
soul, she is become a very harlot clutching a veil."

Chatellerault's cynical smile grew broader as my speech proceeded and
stirred up the rancour in the hearts of those august gentlemen. The
Keeper of the Seals went white and red by turns, and when I paused there
was an impressive silence that lasted for some moments. At last the
President leant over to confer in a whisper with Chatellerault. Then,
in a voice forcedly calm--like the calm of Nature when thunder is
brewing--he asked me, "Who do you insist that you are, monsieur?"

"Once already have I told you, and I venture to think that mine is a
name not easily forgotten. I am the Sieur Marcel de Saint-Pol, Marquis
of Bardelys, of Bard