In the sixteenth century, the great hall of audience of the Norman parliament was renowned for its beauty.  The ceiling was of ebony, studded with graceful arabesques in gold, azure, and vermilion.  The tapestry worked in fleurs-de-lis, the immense fireplace, the gilded wainscot, the violet-coloured dais, and, above all, the immense picture in which were represented Louis XII., the father of his people, and his virtuous minister and friend, the good Cardinal d’Amboise—­all united to give the great hall an aspect at once beautiful and imposing.  The effect was increased when, on days of judicial solemnity, a hundred and twenty magistrates were seated in judgment there, with their long white beards and scarlet robes, having at their head the presidents, attired in ermine mantles, above whom was a painting depicting the legislator Moses and the four evangelists.

It was in this magnificent hall that the parliament assembled, by a special convocation, on Christmas-eve, in the year 16—.  But this time they were attired in black robes, and their serious countenances showed they had a rigorous office to perform.  This secret meeting of parliament excited great curiosity throughout the whole town.  The murder of the merchant of Lucca, the arrest of the presumed criminal, the discovery of the body of his supposed victim, the unhoped-for testimony given by a blind man at Argenteuil, furnished an inexhaustible subject of discussion for the crowd that thronged the avenues of the palace.  Every one agreed that the day was come which would liberate an innocent man, or dismiss a murderer to the scaffold.

The parliament, after many long debates, had decided that the blind man of Argenteuil should be heard.  Gervais appeared before them.  His frank and circumstantial deposition made a deep impression; but some doubt still remained.  It was a fearful thing to place a man’s life at the mercy of the fugitive reminiscences of a blind man, who could only trust to his hearing.  It seemed almost impossible that Gervais should recognise faithfully a voice which he had heard but once only.  The parliament determined to prove him, and to bring before him successively all the prisoners of the Conciergerie, Martel among the rest.  If, after having heard them speak, the blind man spontaneously, and without once hesitating, should recognise the voice which had struck him so powerfully, this evidence, united to others, should be held conclusive.  It was not without design that Christmas-eve was chosen for this strange trial, unheard-of in the annals of justice.  To have brought up the prisoners together on an ordinary day, would have awakened their suspicions, perhaps suggested to them various stratagems, and thus left the success of this novel experiment to chance.  On Christmas-eve the order excited no surprise, as it was customary on the eve of high festivals to bring all the prisoners of the Conciergerie before the parliament, who sometimes, out of respect to the day, liberated those criminals who had been imprisoned for trifling offences.