The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had the accused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question, 'Have you anything to add to your defence?
' The man did not appear to understand, as he stood there, twisting in his hands a terrible cap which he had. The President repeated the question. This time the man heard it. He seemed to understand.
He made a motion like a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him, stared at the audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jury, the court, laid his monstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench, took another look, and all at once, fixing his glance upon the district-attorney, he began to speak.
It was like an eruption. It seemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth,—incoherent, impetuous, pell-mell, tumbling over each other,—as though they were all pressing forward to issue forth at once. He said:— 'This is what I have to say.
That I have been a wheelwright in Paris, and that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade.
In the wheelwright’s trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards, under sheds when the masters are good, never in closed workshops, because space is required, you see.
In winter one gets so cold that one beats one’s arms together to warm one’s self; but the masters don’t like it; they say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice between the paving-stones is hard work. That wears a man out quickly.
One is old while he is still quite young in that trade. At forty a man is done for. I was fifty-three. I was in a bad state. And then, workmen are so mean! When