"Call the next witness," directed the judge, and the clerk of the court sang out:
"Paul Coquenil!"
A murmur of sympathy and surprise ran through the room as the small door opened, just under the painting of justice, and a gaunt, pallid figure appeared, a tall man, wasted and weakened. He came forward leaning on a cane and his right hand was bandaged.
"I would like to add, your Honor," said Dr. Duprat, "that M. Coquenil has risen from a sick bed to come here; in fact, he has come against medical advice to testify in favor of this young prisoner."
The audience was like a powder mine waiting for a spark. Only a word was needed to set off their quivering, pent-up enthusiasm.
"What is your name?" asked the judge as the witness took the stand.
"Paul Coquenil," was the quiet answer.
It was the needed word, the spark to fire the train. Paul Coquenil! Never in modern times had a Paris courtroom witnessed a scene like that which followed. Pussy Wilmott, who spent her life looking for new sensations, had one now. And Kittredge manacled in the dock, yet wildly happy! And Alice outside, almost fainting between hope and fear! And De Heidelmann-Bruck with his brave eyeglass and groveling soul! They all had new sensations!
As Coquenil spoke, there went up a great cry from the audience, an irresistible tribute to his splendid bravery. It was spontaneous, it was hysterical, it was tremendous. Men and women sprang to their feet, shouting and waving and weeping. The crowd, crushed in the corridor, caught the cry and passed it along.
"Coquenil! Coquenil!"