Besides, even the least observant among those present had been struck by the singular course which the proceedings had taken.  There was not one, probably, in that vast assembly who did not feel that there was a mysterious and unexplored side of the case, which neither the prosecution nor the defence had chosen to approach.  Why had Cocoleu been mentioned only once, and then quite incidentally?  He was an idiot, to be sure; but it was nevertheless through his evidence alone that suspicions had been aroused against M. de Boiscoran.  Why had he not been summoned either by the prosecution or by the defence?

The evidence given by Count Claudieuse, also, although apparently so conclusive at the moment, was now severely criticised.

The most indulgent said,—­

“That was not well done.  That was a trick.  Why did he not speak out before?  People do not wait for a man to be down before they strike him.”

Others added,—­

“And did you notice how M. de Boiscoran and Count Claudieuse looked at each other?  Did you hear what they said to each other?  One might have sworn that there was something else, something very different from a mere lawsuit, between them.”

And on all sides people repeated,—­

“At all events, M. Folgat is right.  The whole matter is far from being cleared up.  The jury was long before they agreed.  Perhaps M. de Boiscoran would have been acquitted, if, at the last moment, M. Gransiere had not announced the impending death of Count Claudieuse in the adjoining room.”

M. Magloire and M. Folgat listened to all these remarks, as they heard them in the crowd here and there, with great satisfaction; for in spite of all the assertions of magistrates and judges, in spite of all the thundering condemnations against the practice, public opinion will find an echo in the court-room; and, more frequently than we think, public opinion does dictate the verdict of the jury.

“And now,” said M. Magloire to his young colleague, “now we can be content.  I know Sauveterre by heart.  I tell you public opinion is henceforth on our side.”

By dint of perseverance they made their way, at last, out through the narrow door of the court-room, when one of the ushers stopped them.

“They wish to see you,” said the man.

“Who?”

“The family of the prisoner.  Poor people!  They are all in there, in M. Mechinet’s office.  M. Daubigeon told me to keep it for them.  The Marchioness de Boiscoran also was carried there when she was taken ill in the court-room.”

He accompanied the two gentlemen, while telling them this, to the end of the hall; then he opened a door, and said,—­

“They are in there,” and withdrew discreetly.

There, in an easy-chair, with closed eyes, and half-open lips, lay Jacques’s mother.  Her livid pallor and her stiff limbs made her look like a dead person; but, from time to time, spasms shook her whole body, from head to foot.  M. de Chandore stood on one side, and the marquis, her husband, on the other, watching her with mournful eyes and in perfect silence.  They had been thunderstruck; and, from the moment when the fatal sentence fell upon their ears, neither of them had uttered a word.