Above all, as it was necessary to make the blind man understand the almost sacred importance of the judgment with which Heaven had invested him, a solemn oath was administered by the president of the assembly.  The old man took the oath in a truthful, earnest manner, which left no doubt of his sincerity, and the trial commenced.  Eighteen prisoners were brought up, and answered the questions proposed to them, but the old man never moved; and they, on their part, on perceiving the unknown man, evinced no sign of alarm.  At last the nineteenth prisoner was introduced.  Who shall paint his horror and stupefaction at the sight of Gervais!  His features grew contracted, his hair rose up, and a sudden faintness overpowered him, so that the turnkeys were obliged to lead him to a seat.  When he recovered a little, his involuntary and convulsive movements seemed to show the poignant remorse of a guilty and tortured soul, or perhaps the horrible regret of not having committed a second crime, and finished his work.

The presidents and judges anxiously awaited the result.  At the first words that Martel uttered, in reply to the president’s questions, the blind man, who, ignorant of his presence, had hitherto remained quiet and immovable, suddenly bent forward, listening intently; then shrinking back with horror and fear, cried out:  ’It is he!—­it is the voice that I heard on the heights of Argenteuil!’

The jailer led away Martel more dead than alive, obeying in this the president’s order, who in a loud tone had desired him to bring out another prisoner.  But this command was accompanied by a sign which the jailer understood, and some minutes after, he again introduced Martel, who was interrogated under a false name.  Fresh questions elicited fresh replies; but the blind man, shaking his head with an air of incredulity, immediately cried out:  ’No, no; it is all a feint; that is the voice which conversed with me on the heights of Argenteuil.’

At last the horrible mystery was cleared up.  The wretched, criminal, trembling, despairing, stammered out a confession, which was now almost needless, since the magistrates were fully convinced of the truth which had been wonderfully elicited by the sole witness who could declare the crime.

But a few hours passed, and Martel lay in a gloomy dungeon of the Conciergerie, whilst in a public place, not far from the prison, were made the preparations for execution; for at this period the scaffold followed the sentence so rapidly, that a condemned man never beheld the morrow’s sun.  Ere nightfall all was over.  The wretched man died penitent, confessing his crime, and denouncing the cupidity and thirst of gold which had led him on to murder.

In fifty years from this period, Laurence Bigot had been long dead.  Emerie his son had succeeded him in his office.  Etienne Pasquier had become a learned and reverend old man, with silver hair.  He was then composing his curious and interesting Recherches sur la France, and there related the almost miraculous discovery of a murder long since committed—­of which discovery he had in his youth been an eye-witness.  It is from his statement that this history is taken.