From morning to night, the flagstones resound under
the heavy tread of the gendarmes, who accompany the prisoners. You can
scarcely recall anything but sad figures there. There are the parents or
friends of the accused, the witnesses, the detectives. In this gallery,
far from the sight of men, the judicial curriculum is gone through with.
Each one of the little doors, which has its number painted over it in
black, opens into the office of a judge of inquiry. All the rooms are
just alike: if you see one, you have seen them all. They have nothing
terrible nor sad in themselves; and yet it is difficult to enter one of
them without a shudder. They are cold. The walls all seem moist with
the tears which have been shed there. You shudder, at thinking of the
avowals wrested from the criminals, of the confessions broken with sobs
murmured there.
In the office of the judge of inquiry, Justice clothes herself in none
of that apparel which she afterwards dons in order to strike fear into
the masses. She is still simple, and almost disposed to kindness. She
says to the prisoner,--
"I have strong reasons for thinking you guilty; but prove to me your
innocence, and I will release you.
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