They threw themselves into the crowd, which was slowly dispersing, all palpitating yet with the excitement of the day.
A strange reaction was already beginning to set in,—a reaction perfectly illogic, and yet intelligible, and by no means rare under similar circumstances.
Jacques de Boiscoran, an object of general execration as long as he was only suspected, regained the sympathy of all the moment he was condemned. It was as if the fatal sentence had wiped out the horror of the crime. He was pitied; his fate was deplored; and as they thought of his family, his mother, and his betrothed, they almost cursed the severity of the judges.
Besides, even the least observant among those present had been struck by the singular course which the proceedings had taken. There was not one, probably, in that vast assembly who did not feel that there was a mysterious and unexplored side of the case, which neither the prosecution nor the defence had chosen to approach. Why had Cocoleu been mentioned only once, and then quite incidentally? He was an idiot, to be sure; but it was nevertheless through his evidence alone that suspicions had been aroused against M. de Boiscoran. Why had he not been summoned either by the prosecution or by the defence?
The evidence given by Count Claudieuse, also, although apparently so conclusive at the moment, was now severely criticised.
The most indulgent said,—
“That was not well done. That was a trick. Why did he not speak out before? People do not wait for a man to be down before they strike him.”
Others added,—
“And did you notice how M. de Boiscoran and Count Claudieuse looked at each other? Did you hear what they said to each other? One might have sworn that there was something else, something very different from a mere lawsuit, between them.”
And on all sides people repeated,—