The throng without the gates had waited there two hours, during which time the sound of hammers indicated that within the great hall they were hastily completing their mysterious preparations.  At length the archers laboriously turned upon their hinges the heavy gates opening into the street, and the crowd eagerly rushed in.  The young Cinq-Mars was carried along with the second enormous wave, and, placed behind a thick column, stood there, so as to be able to see without being seen.  He observed with vexation that the group of dark-clad citizens was near him; but the great gates, closing, left the part of the court where the people stood in such darkness that there was no likelihood of his being recognized.  Although it was only midday, the hall was lighted with torches; but they were nearly all placed at the farther end, where rose the judges’ bench behind a long table.  The chairs, tables, and steps were all covered with black cloth, and cast a livid hue over the faces of those near them.  A seat reserved for the prisoner was placed upon the left, and on the crape robe which covered him flames were represented in gold embroidery to indicate the nature of the offence.  Here sat the accused, surrounded by archers, with his hands still bound in chains, held by two monks, who, with simulated terror, affected to start from him at his slightest motion, as if they held a tiger or enraged wolf, or as if the flames depicted on his robe could communicate themselves to their clothing.  They also carefully kept his face from being seen in the least degree by the people.

The impassible countenance of M. de Laubardemont was there to dominate the judges of his choice; almost a head taller than any of them, he sat upon a seat higher than theirs, and each of his glassy and uneasy glances seemed to convey a command.  He wore a long, full scarlet robe, and a black cap covered his head; he seemed occupied in arranging papers, which he then passed to the judges.  The accusers, all ecclesiastics, sat upon the right hand of the judges; they wore their albs and stoles.  Father Lactantius was distinguishable among them by his simple Capuchin habit, his tonsure, and the extreme hardness of his features.  In a side gallery sat the Bishop of Poitiers, hidden from view; other galleries were filled with veiled women.  Below the bench of judges a group of men and women, the dregs of the populace, stood behind six young Ursuline nuns, who seemed full of disgust at their proximity; these were the witnesses.

The rest of the hall was filled with an enormous crowd, gloomy and silent, clinging to the arches, the gates, and the beams, and full of a terror which communicated itself to the judges, for it arose from an interest in the accused.  Numerous archers, armed with long pikes, formed an appropriate frame for this lugubrious picture.

At a sign from the President, the witnesses withdrew through a narrow door opened for them by an usher.  As the Superior of the Ursulines passed M. de Laubardemont she was heard to say to him, “You have deceived me, Monsieur.”  He remained immovable, and she went on.  A profound silence reigned throughout the whole assembly.