The lifeless, yellow
faces expressed nothing. The sickly, the fat, or the extremely
lean, motionless dead spots all grew dimmer and dimmer in the dull
ennui that filled the hall. The words of the prosecuting attorney
spurted into the air like a haze imperceptible to the eye, growing
and thickening around the judges, enveloping them more closely in
a cloud of dry indifference, of weary waiting. At times one of
them changed his pose; but the lazy movement of the tired body did
not rouse their drowsy souls. The oldest judge did not stir at all;
he was congealed in his erect position, and the gray blots behind
the eyeglasses at times disappeared, seeming to spread over his
whole face. The mother realized this dead indifference, this
unconcern without malice in it, and asked herself in perplexity,
"Are they judging?"
The question pressed her heart, and gradually squeezed out of it her
expectation of the horrible. It pinched her throat with a sharp
feeling of wrong.
The speech of the prosecuting attorney snapped off unexpectedly.
He made a few quick, short steps, bowed to the judges, and sat down,
rubbing his hands. The marshal of the nobility nodded his head to
him, rolling his eyes; the city mayor extended his hand, and the
district elder stroked his belly and smiled.
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