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.”