The arrangements which had been made in transforming this gloomy hall into a tribunal, attested the precipitancy of the judges and their determination to finish their work promptly and mercilessly.
The arrangements denoted an absence of all form; and one could divine at once the frightful certainty of the result.
Three large tables taken from the mess-room, and covered with horse-blankets instead of tapestry, stood upon the platform. Some unpainted wooden chairs awaited the judges; but in the centre glittered the president’s chair, a superbly carved and gilded fauteuil, sent by the Duc de Sairmeuse.
Several wooden benches had been provided for the prisoners.
Ropes stretched from one wall to the other divided the chapel into two parts. It was a precaution against the public.
A superfluous precaution, alas!
The abbe and Maurice had expected to find the crowd too great for the hall, large as it was, and they found the chapel almost unoccupied.
There were not twenty persons in the building. Standing back in the shadow of the wall were perhaps a dozen men, pale and gloomy, a sullen fire smouldering in their eyes, their teeth tightly clinched. They were army officers retired on half pay. Three men, attired in black, were conversing in low tones near the door. In a corner stood several country-women with their aprons over their faces. They were weeping bitterly, and their sobs alone broke the silence. They were the mothers, wives, or daughters of the accused men.
Nine o’clock sounded. The rolling of the drum made the panes of the only window tremble. A loud voice outside shouted, “Present arms!” The military commission entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu and several civil functionaries.
The duke was in full uniform, his face a little more crimson, and his air a trifle more haughty than usual.