Full Download Test Bank For Criminal Procedure 4th Edition Matthew Lippman PDF Full Chapter
Full Download Test Bank For Criminal Procedure 4th Edition Matthew Lippman PDF Full Chapter
Full Download Test Bank For Criminal Procedure 4th Edition Matthew Lippman PDF Full Chapter
4. Which of the following best describes the criminal justice system objective of
equality?
A. All defendants guilty of the same offense should receive equal punishment.
B. All defendants should receive the same quality of justice.
C. All defendants should receive the same quality of attorneys.
D. All defendants should receive equal time in court.
Ans: B
Cognitive Domain: Application
Answer Location: The Objectives of Criminal Procedure
Difficulty Level: Medium
5. Which of the following objectives refers to defendants having the opportunity for
representation by lawyers at crucial points in the criminal justice process?
A. equality
B. appeals
C. participation
D. adversarial
Ans: D
Cognitive Domain: Application
Answer Location: The Objectives of Criminal Procedure
Difficulty Level: Medium
6. All of the following were identified as objectives of criminal procedure except ______.
A. participation
B. justice
C. respect
D. loyalty
Ans: D
Cognitive Domain: Application
Answer Location: The Objectives of Criminal Procedure
Difficulty Level: Medium
7. If a police officer decides not to file a charge, they are exercising ______.
A. discretion
B. probable cause
C. fairness
D. loyalty
Ans: A
Cognitive Domain: Application
Answer Location: The Criminal Justice Process
Difficulty Level: Medium
8. All of the following are examples of the use of discretion except ______.
A. a prosecutor not filing a charge
Lippman, Criminal Procedure, 4e
SAGE Publishing, 2020
10. What level of proof must be established for a police officer to make an arrest?
A. beyond a reasonable doubt
B. preponderance of the evidence
C. probable cause
D. reasonable suspicion
Ans: C
Cognitive Domain: Comprehension
Answer Location: Arrest
Difficulty Level: Easy
11. Which of the following phases involves recording information regarding the arrestee
and taking a mug shot and fingerprints?
A. arrest
B. postarrest
C. the criminal charge
D. sentencing
Ans: B
Cognitive Domain: Application
Answer Location: Postarrest
Difficulty Level: Medium
12. Which actor in the criminal justice system has the responsibility of deciding whether
to formally charge a suspect?
A. the prosecution
B. the judge
C. the grand jury
D. the lead police investigator
Ans: A
Lippman, Criminal Procedure, 4e
SAGE Publishing, 2020
13. A ______ determines whether there was probable cause to arrest and to detain the
suspect.
A. trial de novo
B. precedent
C. first impression
D. Gerstein hearing
Cognitive Domain: Knowledge
Answer Location: The Criminal Charge
Difficulty Level: Easy
14. A ______ refers to a lawyer appointed by a district court judge for an 8-year term.
A. prosecutor
B. magistrate
C. bailiff
D. jury
Ans: B
Cognitive Domain: Knowledge
Answer Location: The Criminal Charge
Difficulty Level: Easy
15. When a prosecutor declines to prosecute a criminal defendant, what type of motion
will he file?
A. an indictment
B. nolle prosequi
C. requests for production
D. interrogatories
Ans: B
Cognitive Domain: Knowledge
Answer Location: Pretrial
Difficulty Level: Easy
17. All of the following are examples of pretrial motions that can be filed by defense
Lippman, Criminal Procedure, 4e
SAGE Publishing, 2020
19. All of the following are standard sentences following a criminal conviction except
______.
A. incarceration
B. probation
C. fines
D. restitution
Ans: D
Cognitive Domain: Application
Answer Location: Sentencing
Difficulty Level: Medium
21. All of the following Amendments to the U.S. Constitution address issues of criminal
procedure except ______.
A. First
B. Sixth
C. Eighth
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Robespierre
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and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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Title: Robespierre
the story of Victorien Sardou's play adapted and novelized
under his authority
Language: English
Credits: Al Haines
Robespierre
The Story of Victorien Sardou's Play
Adapted and Novelized under
his authority
BY
ANGE GALDEMAR
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1899
Copyright, 1899,
BY ANGE GALDEMAR.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
[Transcriber's note: The chapter titles below do not all match the titles at
the chapters.]
Contents
CHAPTER
I The Discovery
IV The Arrest
IX Hours of Anguish
X The Tumbrils
MARLY-LE-ROI.
Robespierre
CHAPTER I
THE DISCOVERY
Enclosed in high walls thickly clad with ivy, dark and mysterious as a
prison, the Hôtel de Pontivy had all the aspect of some chill cloister apart
from men and movement. And yet behind those shutters, where life seemed
to pause, wrapped in slumber, some one is keeping watch—the master of
the house, Monsieur Jacques Bernard Olivier de Pontivy, Councillor to the
King's Parliament, sits late at his work, taking no count of time.
But Monsieur de Pontivy has at last decided; he raises his eyes to the
clock.
"Twenty past two!" he exclaims. "I really cannot wake that poor
fellow!"
Through the deep stillness of the vast room, with blinds and curtains
drawn, a stillness enhanced by the glare of candelabra lighted up, as if in
broad day, the heavy, green-repp armchairs, and bookshelves of massive
oak ornamented with brass rose-work, passing a litter of cardboard boxes
and waste-paper basket, and in the centre the ministerial desk overladen
with books and bundles, the councillor makes his way towards a bureau that
he has not yet opened.
Now and again a ray of joy lit up his countenance, as he thought he had
found the missing paper, and as disappointment followed he renewed the
search with unabated ardour.
For more than half an hour he went on thus, seeking the lost document,
a lawyer's opinion recently received, which would assist him in elucidating
a difficult point which was to be secretly debated the next day in
Parliament, before judgment was delivered. He had thoughtlessly let his
young secretary retire without asking him the whereabouts of this
document, which he alone could find.
Having returned home sooner than usual that afternoon, the fancy had
seized him to advance the dinner-hour, but learning that his daughter had
not returned, he was obliged to forego his whim. This hour was rarely
changed, the regulations of the house being rigorous to a degree, but
Monsieur de Pontivy in the excess of his despotic authority was none the
less displeased, being early himself, to find no one awaiting him. So when
he heard the rumbling of the heavy coach which brought back Clarisse and
her governess, Mademoiselle Jusseaume, he sought for a pretext to vent his
ill-humour on them.
It was Clarisse.
"Already here?" she asked, and her voice fell on the silence like an
angelus.
The smile died on the child's lips. She murmured, disconcerted and
abashed—
The young girl was accustomed to sermons, but had not expected one of
that kind just then. She stood irresolute, hesitating whether to advance or
retire.
But at table she was supposed only to reply to her father, and he, lost in
meditation, did not question her that day. And so passed all the meals she
partook of with her father and young de Robespierre, Monsieur de Pontivy's
secretary, whom the councillor made welcome every day at his table, glad
to have so near at hand one whose memory and aid were easily available.
Timid at first, confining himself to the points put to him, the young
secretary had gradually become bolder, and sometimes, to Clarisse's great
delight, would lead the conversation on to subjects of literature and art,
opening out a new world before her, and shedding rays of thought in her
dawning mind. She found a similar source of pleasure on Sundays in the
reception-room, while Monsieur de Pontivy's attention was absorbed by his
dull and solemn friends in interminable games of whist, and Robespierre
entertained her apart, quickening her young dreams by the charm of an
imagination at once brilliant and graceful. It was as dew falling from
heaven on her solitude.
Alas, how swiftly those hours flew! Clarisse was just sixteen. She could
not remember one day of real joy. Her mother she had lost long ago; her
brother Jacques, two years younger than herself, was always at school at the
College de Navarre, and she saw him only once a fortnight, at lunch, after
mass, on Sunday. At four o'clock an usher fetched him, when he had
submitted his fortnight's school-work for the inspection of his father, who
more often than not found fault with his efforts, so that the lad frankly
confessed to his sister that, upon the whole, he preferred those Sundays on
which he remained at school.
From her cradle Clarisse had been given over to nurses and chamber-
maids, and at the age of eight she was confided to the care of nuns, just
when she was emerging from the long torpor of childhood. Here she
remained until the day when Monsieur de Pontivy, whose paternal
solicitude had, up to then, been limited to taking her to the country for the
holidays, claimed her, and installed her in his town residence under the
charge of a governess. But Clarisse had only changed convents. For going
out but seldom, except to mass and vespers on Sundays, at St. Paul's
Church, or on fine days for a drive in the great coach with her governess,
she continued to grow like a hot-house plant, closed in by the high walls of
the house where nothing smiled, not even the garden uncultivated and
almost abandoned, nor the courtyard where a few scattered weeds pushed
their way between the stones.
It is true the young girl fully made up for this in the country, during the
summer months at the Château de Pontivy, two miles from Compiègne,
where her father spent his holidays. But they were so short, those precious
holidays! The autumn roses had scarcely unfolded when she was compelled
to return with her father to Paris; and all the charm and sweetness of
September, with the tender tints of its dying leaves, were unknown to her,
though a semblance of its grace crept into her room sometimes in the Rue
des Lions-Saint-Paul, and stole like melancholy into her young soul, but
new-awakened to the ideal, arousing a regret for joys denied.
All her suppressed tenderness and affection, which asked nothing better
than to overflow, were concentrated on her governess, Mademoiselle
Jusseaume, an excellent creature, upright and generous, but impulsive,
inconsequent, and without authority. She was a good Catholic, and saw that
her charge scrupulously observed her religious duties. She kept her place,
was submissive, discreet, and always contented; and this was more than
enough to satisfy Monsieur de Pontivy, who classed all womankind in one
rank, and that the lowest.
Of his two children the one in whom Monsieur de Pontivy took the
greater interest was his son, the heir to his name, and to whom would
descend later on the office of councillor. But as this was as yet a distant
prospect, he contented himself with superintending his education as much
as possible, absorbed as he was in high functions which he fulfilled with
that perseverance and assiduity, that desire to give incessant proofs of
staunch fidelity, which arise from an immeasurable pride.
The two women understood each other instinctively, almost without the
aid of words, living as they did that sequestered existence, in constant
communion, both losing themselves in the same vague dreams, trembling
on the borders of the unknown; each leaning on the other, with this only
difference that Clarisse with an indefinable feeling of dawning force took
the lead.
The same dim future smiled on both, the same far-off paradise of
delusive hopes in which they would gladly lose themselves, until
Mademoiselle Jusseaume, suddenly conscious of responsibility, would
rouse herself, blushing and trembling, as if at some guilty thought. For in
their day-dreams Monsieur de Pontivy had no part, did not exist. Was he to
disappear? Was he to die? In any case he was always absent from these
speculations, and Mademoiselle Jusseaume, the soul of righteousness, felt
that this was altogether wrong.
"You must love your father," she would say, as if stirred by some secret
impulse, and the remark fell suddenly and unexpectedly on the silence of
the little room where the two were apparently deeply absorbed in the mazy
dancing of the flies.
She was, indeed, convinced of it, poor child! Filial love beamed in her
eyes, love for her father: a mixture of respect for his age and position, and
of gratitude for his rare kindnesses, while he did not realise the gulf that
separated him from his daughter, a gulf which a little tenderness, an
occasional response, a smile however slight, might have sufficed to bridge.
He did not realise the riches of this mine, or seek its treasures of youth, of
grace, and of love abounding in every vein. He had but to bend down, look
into her large blue eyes, those eyes where the dreams floated, to find a
world of love.
"I can recommend him," said the Abbé, "as intelligent, industrious, and
of an excellent character; one of the best pupils of Louis-le-Grand, and
recently chosen as most worthy the honour of welcoming the King and
Queen, who visited the college on their way to the Pantheon."
"Maximilien de Robespierre."
"And may I ask your lordship's reason for the particular interest taken in
this young man?"
It was true, for Monsieur de Pontivy with his manifold occupations was
at the moment without a secretary, and anxious to fill up the post so soon as
he could find a worthy candidate. The offer of the Abbé was doubly
acceptable to him as an opportunity to oblige a Rohan, and to enlist in his
service a young man who had been chosen before all his fellow-students as
most worthy to welcome the King and Queen.
The next day Robespierre was installed at the Hôtel de Pontivy. After
some preliminary questions as to his parentage, his studies, his college life,
Monsieur de Pontivy had adroitly brought the conversation to bear on the
visit of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette. The young man gave a detailed
account, standing in a respectful attitude, his eyes lowered, and with an
appearance of modesty, which to a mind less vain than that of Monsieur de
Pontivy's would have suggested more self-sufficiency than was desirable.
"Their majesties did not speak to me," said the young man, rather
confused.
The young man hesitated, but drawing himself up resolutely under the
searching glance of the Councillor, he answered—
But he was not telling the truth, for the Queen's thoughts had been bent
all the time on hastening her departure. Monsieur de Pontivy examined the
young man critically. He was dressed with the utmost simplicity, but a
certain air of distinction was apparent in his whole person and manners.
Spruce and neat in appearance, sprightly and brisk in manner, and at the
same time respectful, decision of character and firm will were written on his
brow; his eyes of a pale green were restless and piercing, though their
gleam under the gaze of others was veiled, and so subdued as to lend to the
whole countenance an unexpected tenderness.
"The young man is not so bad after all," mused Monsieur de Pontivy,
and he thought he was justified in admitting him to his table now and again.
Had he not been honoured with a royal glance? He could by no means be
looked upon as a chance comer.
For, after all, who were the de Robespierres? The tangled narrative of
the young man had but half satisfied Monsieur de Pontivy. There was, first
and foremost, his father, who left his four children, when mad with grief at
the loss of his wife, and disappeared in Germany in most mysterious
fashion. But was young Robespierre responsible for all this misty past?
That which pleased Monsieur de Pontivy most in his young secretary
were his orderly habits and his method of classifying and arranging
everything to hand. So continuing that evening to look for the report he
wanted, he had hesitated to wake him. He had seemed so sleepy before
going to bed, and it was the first time a document had not been
forthcoming. The Councillor had looked everywhere—on the files, under
the blotters, and even in the waste-paper basket. Had the young fellow
thrown it in the fire by mistake? Naturally distrustful, suspicions began
gradually to form in his mind. Had Robespierre made use of it? Had he
given it to an attorney? Once doubting Monsieur de Pontivy did not rest.
Had he sold it? Yes, perhaps sold it to the counsel for the adverse party!
Everything is possible! One is never sure.... At any rate he would ease his
mind and ascertain at once. Monsieur de Pontivy looked at his watch.
"Three o'clock! So you have kept me up till this hour, my fine fellow!
Now it is your turn!"
"He sleeps soundly enough," he muttered; "at that age it comes easy."
The Councillor was on the point of returning. After all, it would be time
enough to speak of the paper at breakfast, and already day was beginning to
break. But again those subtle, insinuating suspicions crept into his mind.
Yes! he must assure himself at once! And he knocked again, this time
almost pushing the door. It was not fastened, and gave way, disclosing an
empty room and a bed untouched. With a rapid glance he searched the
room. All was in order.
Monsieur de Pontivy again looked at the bed. No, it had not been slept
in. Other details struck him: the coat and vest hanging up, and the frilled
waistcoat carefully folded on a chair. It was enough,—the young man had
not gone out.
He left the room agitated but resolved. It was very simple. To-morrow
she would be discharged the first thing, and he also should be turned out,
the hypocrite who, with all his smiling, respectful airs, defiled his roof. He
did well to get himself protected by priests, and Monsieur de Rohan, a nice
present he had made!
All the young man's qualities, all the satisfaction he had given him,
disappeared before this one brutal fact. He would not be sorry, either, to be
able to say to the Abbé de Saint-Vaast—
"You know the young man you recommended me. Well, I surprised him
in the garret with a servant-maid, and I turned him out like a lackey. But
even lackeys respect my house."
He had now crossed the corridor and was descending the stairs, still
rehearsing the scene in his mind. Smarting under his wounded self-love, he
exaggerated everything. Had they not forgotten the respect due to him,
Monsieur de Pontivy, to his house, and worse still, had they not mockingly
set him at defiance? He smiled grimly at the thought. He had now reached
the last step of the second staircase, and was turning into the corridor of the
ground floor.
The truth, all the awful, maddening truth, the endless shame and
dishonour, rushed on Monsieur de Pontivy in a moment, and stunned him
like a blow.
The young man swayed with the shock, his knees, bent under him.
"Hurting you! Hurting you! did you say? What if I kill you, knock out
your cursed brains with this"—brandishing the bronze candlestick—"yes,
kill you, wretch, for bringing dishonour on my house...."
But just then Monsieur de Pontivy felt a hand laid on his arm arresting
the blow.
But she lay lifeless on the floor. He bent down, lifted her in his arms,
and carried her to her room; exhausted by her weight, he laid her on the first
armchair.
The young girl regained consciousness. She opened her eyes and
recognised her father, and a sob rose in her throat, suffocating her. She
could not speak, but a word she had not pronounced for ten years, a word
from her far-off childhood, came to her lips, and she murmured softly
through her tears, "Papa! papa!"
CHAPTER II
Or had they both been the puppets of Destiny, of blind Chance which at
so tender an age had brought them together under the same roof, in an
intimacy of daily intercourse, increased by the sadness of their cloistered
existence, so that they had been the victims of their extreme youth, of the
attraction they unconsciously exercised over each other, both carried away
by the strong currents of life.
He, suddenly stirred during the first few days of his residence in the
Hôtel Rue des Lions; never for a moment thinking of the distance which
separated him from the daughter of Monsieur de Pontivy. Think? How
could he think, thrilling under the first revelation of love disclosed to him
with the eloquence of Rousseau in la Nouvelle Héloïse, that romance of
burning passion then in vogue? He had commenced to read the novel, by
stealth, at Louis-le-Grand, and finished it in three nights of mad insomnia,
in his little room on the third floor at the Hôtel de Pontivy. All the sap of his
youth beat at his temples and throbbed in his veins at that flaming rhetoric;
every phrase burned like kisses on his lips.
He recited verses to her, pastorals, such as were then upon men's lips,
mythologic madrigals made for rolling round a bonbon. She found them
charming, and sought to learn them by heart. He copied them and gave
them to her. This was a dangerous game. He became bolder, copied love-
letters, then wrote them himself and compared them with Rousseau's. She
read them, delighted at first, then trembling, and when she trembled it was
too late.
"Every girl who reads this book is lost," Rousseau had written at the
beginning of la Nouvelle Héloïse. And she had done far worse. Alone,
given up to her own devices, just awakening to the mystery of existence,
pure, innocent, and guileless, she had imbibed its insidious poison from the
lips of one she had learned to love. And now she had fallen from these
dizzy heights, dazed and crushed, lonelier than ever, for Monsieur de
Pontivy had turned Robespierre out of the house soon after the fatal
discovery.
"Of course, it is understood that what passed between us last night shall
go no further," Monsieur de Pontivy had said to the young secretary, called
to the Councillor's study at breakfast-time. "You can seek some pretext to
treat me disrespectfully at table before the servants, and I shall beg you to
leave my house."
The young man listened respectfully.
Could he have read the future of the young man he would not have
acted otherwise, and yet that young man was destined to become one of the
masters of France—but at what a price and under what conditions!
Nineteen years had passed since then, nineteen years in which events
succeeded each other with a rapidity and violence unparalleled in the
previous history of Europe. The excesses of an arbitrary government, added
to universal discontent, had led to the Revolution. But this act of
deliverance and social regeneration was unhappily to develop even worse
excesses. The Reign of Terror was now raging. Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette had perished on the scaffold, followed by a large number of
nobles and priests, victims of the tempest now at flood, and drowning in its
crimson tide numberless victims with no respect of persons. The whole
nation, in the country and in Paris, was perishing in the iron grasp of a new
and more despotic government. Terror, monstrous parody of liberty, ruled
the State, which was adrift without rudder on the storm, while all its people
were driven to distraction by wild advocates of the guillotine.
Prominent among these fanatics, raised to power by the very suddenness
of events, was Maximilien de Robespierre, once the young secretary of
Monsieur de Pontivy, now styled simply Robespierre, President of the
National Assembly, or Convention, the most powerful and most dreaded of
the twelve conventionnels who, under the name of members of the
Committee of Public Safety, ruled the destinies of France.
However signal his success, the course of events left him unchanged.
During the slow accession of a man to the summit of human aspiration, his
deficiences are sometimes dwarfed and his powers developed and
strengthened; but the foundation remains the same—just as trees which ever
renew their leaves, and absorb from the same soil a perennial flow of life.
He had come there to seek inspiration for the speech he was to deliver
on the Place de la Révolution at the approaching festival in honour of the
Supreme Being, a ceremony instituted and organised under his direction,
and which had been suggested to him by the spiritualistic theories of
Rousseau.
It was Friday, the 6th of June, 1794, or, to use the language of the time,
the 20th prairial of the second year of the Republic. Robespierre, having
left Paris the evening before, had come down to sleep in that quiet and
flowery retreat, built at the entrance of the forest of Montmorency, like a
nest hidden in the under branches of a tree. Rousseau's Ermitage, which
became State property after the Revolution, had been secretly sublet to him
by a friend and given over to the care of a gardener, who also acted as sole
domestic during his visits, which were very frequent. For he often fled from
Paris secretly, seeking solitude and calm, and a little of that poetry of nature
in which the fiercest Revolutionists, his peers in crime, loved sometimes to
refresh themselves in the short pauses of their fratricidal and sanguinary
struggles.
That morning he had awakened earlier than usual, beset with ideas for
his forthcoming speech, the first that he was to deliver at a public ceremony,
whose anticipated success would, like an apotheosis, deify him in the eyes
of the people, and set a decisive and brilliant seal to that supremacy of
power which was the goal of his boundless ambition. It was important that
he should finish before noon, when he had arranged an interview in the
forest, a political interview of the highest importance, which would perhaps
effect a change in the foreign policy of France.
Robespierre had slept in the very room which Rousseau had occupied
on the first floor, and in which were gathered all the furniture and
possessions of the great man, left behind in the haste of removal, after his
famous quarrel with the fair owner of l'Ermitage. The bed was Rousseau's,
as were two walnut cabinets and a table of the same rich wood, the very
table on which the philosopher wrote the first part of la Nouvelle Hèloïse;
then a small library, a barometer, and two pictures, one of which, by an
English painter, represented "The Soldier's Fortune," and the other "The
Wise and Foolish Virgins." In these surroundings Robespierre seemed to
breathe more intimately the spirit of the master for whom he had such an
ardent admiration.
He threw open the three windows of his room, which looked out on the
garden. A whiff of fresh air fanned his face, charged with all the sweet
perfumes of the country. Day had scarcely dawned, and the whole valley of
Montmorency was bathed in pale, uncertain light, like floating mist. He
remained at one of the windows, gazing long and earnestly out on
awakening nature, watching the dawn as it slowly lifted the veil at the first
smiles of morning. Then he seated himself at the little table prepared for
work, with sheets of paper spread about, as if awaiting the thoughts of
which they were to be the messengers. He slipped his pen in an inkstand
ornamented with a small bust of Rousseau, and commenced.
Jotting down some rough notes and sentences, he stopped to look out of
the window in a dreamy, absent manner, apparently without thought. Thirty-
five years ago, amid the same surroundings, in that same room, on that very
table, Rousseau had written those burning pages of romance under whose
influence Robespierre had stammered forth his first love tale on the
shoulder of Clarisse. Did he ever think of that drama of his youth, of that
living relic of his sin wandering about the world perhaps, his child, the fruit