roi. Benedetto was thus for ever lost in public opinion before the sentence of the law could be pronounced.
Andrea paid no attention to the successive charges which were brought against him. Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who no doubt practiced upon him all the psychological studies he was accustomed to use, in vain endeavored to make him lower his eyes, not withstanding the depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the deed was read.
"Accused," said the president, "your name and surname?"
Andrea rose.
"Excuse me, M. le Président," he said, in a clear voice, "but I see you are going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot follow you. I have an idea, which I will justify by-and-by, of being an exception to ordinary criminals. Allow me, then, if you please, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all."
The astonished president looked at the jury, who themselves looked upon the procureur du roi. The whole assembly manifested great surprise; but Andrea appeared quite unmoved.
"Your age?" said the president: "will you answer that question?"
"I will answer that question, as well as the rest, M. le Président, but in its turn."
"Your age?" repeated the president.
"I am twenty-one years old; or rather I shall be in a few days, as I was born the night of the 27th of September, 1817."
M. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head at the mention of this date.
"Where were you born?" continued the president.
"At Auteuil, near Paris."
M. de Villefort a second time raised his head, looked at Benedetto, as if he had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As for Benedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief.
"Your profession?"
"First I was a forger," answered Andrea, as calmly as possible; "then I became a thief; and, lately, have become an assassin."
A murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the assembly. The judges themselves appeared stupefied; and the jury manifested tokens of disgust for a cynicism so unexpected from a fashionable man. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at first pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly rose, and looked around as though he had lost his senses—he wanted air.
