The Trial of the Century

The Grand'Chambre of the Parlement of Paris was more than a court; it was a hall of laws. Vaulted stone ceilings soared into shadows, and walls flowed with ancient tapestries depicting biblical visions of judgment: Solomon, Daniel, the scales of justice suspended in the heavens. The room was crowded on this morning: every inch was occupied. The public galleries swarmed with a feverish, jostling crowd of merchants, lawyers, and artisans. The benches reserved for the nobles were a sea of powdered wigs and silk, silent army called together in anticipation of the final act of their political play.

Vergennes sat in the front row, serene and untroubled, a small enigmatic smile playing on his lips. Beside him sat several other dukes and princes of the Old Guard with unmasked smugness. They had been summoned for the kill. Across the aisle was a smaller anxious delegation: Marie Antoinette, face white but set, accompanied by the Princesse de Lamballe. She was there as a silent but potent manifestation of devotion toward her husband.

Art was not involved. Protocol had prevented the king from gracing such a proceeding. He was at Versailles, walking up and down in his study like a caged lion, expecting the dispatches which would reach him in half-hourly couriers.

In court, the atmosphere was tense. The prosecution had been exhaustively, many would say tediously, re-hearing its arguments. The mood was getting lethargic. Then the lead prosecutor, a stern-faced man named Lebrun who was intensely loyal to Necker, rose from his seat.

"The prosecution's last witness appears before the court," he stated, his voice booming through the chamber. "Jean-Pierre Dubois."

A wave of confusion and shocked murmurs went through the court. Who? The name was meaningless. Then from a side room came the old huntsman, accompanied by a bailiff. Wearing his Sunday finest, a simple but neat dark wool coat, he was small and extremely out of his element in the opulent, intimidating room.

Vergennes's smile fell. He leaned forward and raved at an aide in a voice barely above a whisper. That was no name on any list they had made as possible witnesses. That was a variable unknown, and Vergennes did not like variables.

Lebrun handled his star witness in a gentle, almost fatherly way. His direct was a painfully slow building of credibility. He had Jean-Pierre state his name, his age, and his former occupation.

"And how long have you had the honor of serving his late Majesty, King Louis XV?" Lebrun asked.

"Forty-one years, sir," said Jean-Pierre in a rough but clear voice. "Since the day I was a young man of sixteen until the day he passed on. I was a kennelman and finished up as the Capitaine des Chasses."

He was guided by Lebrun through his work, his task, placing before the court the old man's depth, institutional knowledge of the King's ways and the unshakable pride he had in serving. Then he went to the heart of the matter.

"Monsieur Dubois, go back in your mind to a specific day. October 12th, 1771. Do you remember this day?"

Jean-Pierre nodded. "I do, sir. Very well."

In clear, simple, direct description he told of the rainy day of the unsuccessful hunt at Rambouillet. He spoke of the rainy air which had prevented the hounds from holding a scent, the ill humor of the King, the specific grievances the monarch had had with his boots and the wine at lunch. His story was credible not because it was inflammatory, but because it was rich in the little true and mundane details of a real recollection. He gave the impression he had spent the entire day from before dawn until late at night at the hunting lodge.

When Lebrun was finished, the court was silent, transfixed by the story of the old servitor. The elder defense attorney, a famously callous aristocrat named Maître d'Éprémesnil, a man with a sharp mind and a superior distaste for the common folk, rose. His evil smile was already in position on his lips. This, his face said, was going to be sport.

"Monsieur Dubois," he said in a condescending voice. "What a great memory you have. Absolutely phenomenal. Let me see now. What did you eat for breakfast last week on the Tuesday?"

The court chuckled. Jean-Pierre went red in the face. "I... I don't recollect, sir."

"Of course not," d'Éprémesnil smiled. "And still you recollect, in this clear-as-glass acuity, the mood and discourse of one unimportant day nigh on nine years ago? Seems convenient."

"It was no ordinary day, sir," replied Jean-Pierre in stern tones. "When the King's hunt goes astray, it is a day a huntsman never forgets. A black mark on his record."

The lawyer shifted ground. "You were a servant, weren't you? You had obligations towards the stables, the kennels, the grounds. Is it not just within the bounds of possibility that his late Majesty, a man whose extracurricular life was on the whole infamous. Could have slipped out for a few hours? That he could have had a private appointment with the Baron in his own personal tent for audience when you were attending the dogs?"

Jean-Pierre rose from his position, his dignity hurt. "Sir, you don't understand. When the King was outside the palace walls, he was in the protection of his household and his guardsmen. His person was my sworn responsibility as my Capitaine des Chasses. He was never out of my sight or the sight of my outriders. It is falsehood to say the opposite; it is to say I was in dereliction of my duty toward my King. I was never in dereliction of my duty."

D'Éprémesnil's smile grew wider. He caught a whiff of blood. He went in for the kill, his voice hard and aggressive. "A most eloquent speech regarding duty, old man. Well, this is a court of law, not a play for sentiment. Let us speak about more tangible things. Has the Crown, this new king, offered you something in exchange for your... vivid recollection of affairs? A larger pension, perhaps, to console you in your dotage? A title for your son? A purse of gold to calm your memory?"

The bribe charge, the perjury charge, hung in the room, oppressive and lethal. That was the last predictable attack. That was where the old man would collapse in accordance with the foretelling of Beaumarchais, would dissolve in rage at refusals or in tears at inability.

But Jean-Pierre Dubois did not collapse. He rose upright. The agitated cringing servant had vanished; in his stead stood a man of large and ancient dignity. He shifted his vivid blue eyes from the lawyer and fixed them on the panel of noble judges.

"Sirs," he said in the room with a raw, indignant righteousness which no actor could possibly fake. "I am Jean-Pierre Dubois. I possess no land. No title. I am even unable to read the philosophical books you gentlemen read."

He lifted a shaking, work-roughened hand and extended it straight at the Baron de Clugny, who winced as if he had been struck.

"I have served my king, Louis XV, for forty-one years. I was with the king in his triumphs and in his sickness. I was with the king in passion and in kindness. I was fond of the king as a son is fond of a parent. My oath toward the king, and my loyalty toward the French Crown, was my life. I am standing before you today not for money, in which I am not interested at all, but in defense of the honor of my late master, an honor which the said man," his finger did not tremble, instrument of reproach, "has defiled in the mire through his lies in trying to save his own life."

He withdrew his hand and looked back at the dismayed lawyer. "My word is my own. That is all a man like I has. And I swear by my immortal soul, and by the honor of the dead King I served, that what I have said before this court is true."

A stillness fell over the court. A stillness thick with awe and a terrible, palpable weight. The defense attorney was speechless for the first time in his long career. He had tried to mock the old man's stance and in the process had been paid back in loyalty and honor so unblemished it was absolutely destructive. He had paid for the huntsman's testimony and been paid back in loyalty and honor so unblemished it was absolutely destructive. He had lost, and he knew he had.

"No more questions," d'Éprémesnil rasped out, and fell back into his chair, his face white. The duel was over.