official read in a
shrill voice. The scene had now changed, and the spectators listened
wearily and somewhat impatiently, as, for weeks past, the newspapers had
related all that the indictment set forth. At present not a corner of the
court remained unoccupied, there was scarcely space enough for the
witnesses to stand in front of the bench. The closely packed throng was
one of divers hues, the light gowns of ladies alternating with the black
gowns of advocates, while the red robes of the judges disappeared from
view, the bench being so low that the presiding judge's long face
scarcely rose above the sea of heads. Many of those present became
interested in the jurors, and strove to scrutinise their shadowy
countenances. Others, who did not take their eyes off the prisoner,
marvelled at his apparent weariness and indifference, which were so great
that he scarcely answered the whispered questions of his counsel, a young
advocate with a wide-awake look, who was nervously awaiting the
opportunity to achieve fame. Most curiosity, however, centred in the
table set apart for the material evidence. Here were to be seen all sorts
of fragments, some of the woodwork torn away from the carriage-door of
the Duvillard mansion, some plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, a
paving-stone which the violence of the explosion had split in halves, and
other blackened remnants. The more moving sights, however, were the
milliner's bonnet-box, which had remained uninjured, and a glass jar in
which something white and vague was preserved in spirits of wine. This
was one of the poor errand girl's little hands, which had been severed at
the wrist. The authorities had been unable to place her poor ripped body
on the table, and so they had brought that hand!

At last Salvat rose, and the presiding judge began to interrogate him.
The contrast in the aspect of the court then acquired tragic force: in
the shrouding shade upon one hand were the jurors, their minds already
made up beneath the pressure of public terror, while in the full, vivid
light on the other side was the prisoner, alone and woeful, charged with
all the crimes of his race. Four gendarmes watched over him. He was
addressed by M. de Larombiere in a tone of contempt and disgust. The
judge was not deficient in rectitude; he was indeed one of the last
representatives of the old, scrupulous, upright French magistracy; but he
understood nothing of the new times, and he treated prisoners w