THE TRIAL.
The day at last arrived, after long investigations, when the judgment
of the court was to be pronounced. All the accused had been removed to
the Conciergerie, to be in readiness to appear when called on. Oliva
continued to be frank and timid; Cagliostro, tranquil and indifferent;
Reteau, despairing, cowardly, and weeping; and Jeanne, violent,
menacing, and venomous. She had managed to interest the keeper and his
wife, and thus obtain more freedom and indulgences.
The first who took his place on the wooden stool, which was
appropriated for the accused, was Reteau, who asked pardon with tears
and prayers, declared all he knew, and avowed his crimes. He interested
no one; he was simply a knave and a coward. After him came Madame de la
Motte. Her appearance produced a great sensation; at the sight of the
disgraceful seat prepared for her, she, who called herself a Valois,
threw around her furious looks, but, meeting curiosity instead of
sympathy, repressed her rage. When interrogated, she continued, as
before, to throw out insinuations, stating nothing clearly but her own
innocence. When questioned as to the letters which she was reported to
have said passed between the queen and the cardinal, she answered that
she did not wish to compromise the queen, and that the cardinal was
best able to answer this question himself. “Ask him to produce them,”
said she; “I wish to say nothing about them.” She inspired in nearly
all a feeling of distrust and anger. When she retired, her only
consolation was the hope of seeing the cardinal in the seat after her;
and her rage was extreme when she saw it taken away, and an armchair
brought for his use. The cardinal advanced, accompanied by four
attendants, and the governor of the Bastile walked by his side. At his
entrance he was greeted by a long murmur of sympathy and respect; it
was echoed by loud shouts from without—it was the people who cheered
him. He was pale, and much moved. The president spoke politely to him,
and begged him to sit down. When he spoke, it was with a trembling
voice, and a troubled and even humble manner. He gave excuses rather
than proofs, and supplications more than reasons, but said little, and
seemed to be deserted by his former eloquence. Oliva came next. The
wooden stool was brought back for her. Many people trembled at seeing
this living image of the queen sitting there as a criminal. Then
Cagliostro was called, but almost as a matter of form, and dismissed
immediately. The court then announced that the proceedings were
concluded, and the deliberations about to begin. All the prisoners were
locked for the night in the Conciergerie. The sentence was not
pronounced till the following day. Jeanne seated herself early at the
window, and before long heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd
collected to hear the sentence. This continued for some time, when she
distinctly heard a passer-by say, “A grand day for the cardinal!” “For
the cardinal,” thought Jeanne; “then he is acquitted;” and she ran to
M. Hubert, the keeper, to ask, but he did not know. “He must be
acquitted!” she said; “they said it was a grand day for him. But I——”
“Well, madame,” said he, “if he is acquitted, why should you not be
acquitted also?”
Jeanne returned to the window. “You are wrong, madame,” said Madame
Hubert to her; “you only become agitated, without perfectly
understanding what is passing. Pray remain quiet until your counsel
comes to communicate your fate.”
“I cannot,” said Jeanne, continuing to listen to what passed in the
street.
A woman passed, gaily dressed, and with a bouquet in her hand. “He
shall have my bouquet, the dear man!” said she. “Oh, I would embrace
him if I could!”
“And I also,” said another.
“He is so handsome!” said a third.
“It must be the cardinal,” said Jeanne; “he is acquitted.”
And she said this with so much bitterness that the keeper said, “But,
madame, do you not wish the poor prisoner to be released?”
Jeanne, unwilling to lose their sympathy, replied, “Oh, you
misunderstand me. Do you believe me so envious and wicked as to wish
ill to my companions in misfortune? Oh no; I trust he is free. It is
only impatience to learn my own fate, and you tell me nothing.”
“We do not know,” replied they.
Then other loud cries were heard. Jeanne could see the crowd pressing
round an open carriage, which was going slowly along. Flowers were
thrown, hats waved; some even mounted on the steps to kiss the hand of
a man who sat grave and half frightened at his own popularity. This was
the cardinal. Another man sat by him, and cries of “Vive Cagliostro!”
were mingled with the shouts for M. de Rohan. Jeanne began to gather
courage from all this sympathy for those whom she chose to call the
queen’s victims; but suddenly the thought flashed on her, “They are
already set free, and no one has even been to announce my sentence!”
and she trembled. New shouts now drew her attention to a coach, which
was also advancing, followed by a crowd; and in this Jeanne recognized
Oliva, who sat smiling with delight at the people who cheered her,
holding her child in her arms. Then Jeanne, seeing all these people
free, happy, and fêted, began to utter loud complaints that she was not
also liberated, or at least told her fate.
“Calm yourself, madame,” said Madame Hubert.
“But tell me, for you must know.”
“Madame.”
“I implore you! You see how I suffer.”
“We are forbidden, madame.”
“Is it so frightful that you dare not?”
“Oh no; calm yourself.”
“Then speak.”
“Will you be patient, and not betray us?”
“I swear.”
“Well, the cardinal is acquitted.”
“I know it.”
“M. de Cagliostro and Mademoiselle Oliva are also acquitted, M. Reteau
condemned to the galleys——”
“And I?” cried Jeanne, furiously.
“Madame, you promised to be patient.”
“See—speak—I am calm.”
“Banished,” said the woman, feebly.
A flash of delight shone for a moment in the eyes of the countess; then
she pretended to faint, and threw herself into the arms of Madame
Hubert. “What would it have been,” thought she, “if I had told her the
truth!”
“Banishment!” thought Jeanne; “that is liberty, riches, vengeance; it
is what I hoped for. I have won!”