The trial lasted for ten days, and the career of Bruneau was clearly traced from his very childhood. As revelation after revelation was made, and the history of crime after crime was disclosed, his interruptions became more and more frequent and violent, until his very accomplices shrank from him in horror, protesting that it he had presented himself to them in the same guise when he first proclaimed his pretensions, they would not have been seduced by him. Their advocates pleaded on their behalf that they were dupes and not confederates, and the plea served to exculpate the Abbé, Madame Dumont, and Tourly. The impostor himself was condemned to five years' imprisonment, three thousand francs fine, and a further imprisonment of two years for his offences against the dignity of justice and the public morality committed in open court. He was further condemned to remain at the after-disposal of the government, and to pay three-fourths of the expenses of the trial. Branzon, his literary friend, was sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and to pay a fourth of the expenses. When that part of the sentence was pronounced, which referred to the cost of the proceedings, Bruneau burst into an insulting laugh, and informed the judges that he would take care to defray the heavy responsibility laid upon him as soon as he was able. But, as the saying is, he laughed without his host. The subscriptions of his dupes were lying at the Bank of France, were confiscated by the state, and, amply served to pay the pecuniary penalty. After his imprisonment had expired Bruneau disappeared from public view.
NAÜNDORFF--_SOI-DISANT_ LOUIS XVII. OF FRANCE.
One evening, while Napoleon I. was still reigning at the Tuileries and guiding the destinies of France, a stranger appeared in the market-place of Brandenburg, in Prussia. He had travelled far, was very tired, and sat him down to rest. But the Prussian police had then, and have still, a deep dislike to weary tramps; and the poor wayfarer had not been long seated when he was accosted, by the guardians of the peace, who demanded his papers. The stranger told them he had none, that he was very weary, that he liked the town, and that he had resolved to take up his abode in it. The police were astounded by his coolness, and continued to ply him with questions. They asked what his station in life was, when he seemed a little confused; but ultimately said he was a watchmaker. They demanded his name, and he said it was Naündorff, but whence he had come he refused to tell; and his sole worldly possession was a seal, which, he said, had belonged to Louis XVI. of France. The police kept the seal, and, finding that they could elicit no further information from the mysterious being who had thrust himself so unceremoniously into their dull town, permitted him to settle down quietly in Brandenburg.