Eleven o’clock; half-past eleven; midnight. Twice, so we hear, have M. de Valles and counsel for the prosecution and the defence been summoned to the jurors’ room, to explain certain “points.” The Tout Paris, and Henri Rochefort, are jubilant. “When the jury sends for the judge it usually means a conviction,” croaks Rochefort, rubbing his hands, and still sucking his impotent lozenges. We hear, too, that a crowd of thousands has assembled in front of the Palais de Justice; that the boulevards are wild with excitement, and——
“The judge has been summoned a third time to the jurors’ room,” we are told at twenty minutes past twelve.
“Five years’ imprisonment at least,” chuckle the ladies and fatuous gentlemen of le Tout Paris.
“Ten years—fifteen—twenty, I hope. She was in the pay of the Dreyfusards, and killed Félix Faure,” mutters Rochefort.
“The Court enters; the Court enters,” cry the ushers and the municipal guards, at half-past twelve.
As the jury files into the box, barristers and journalists mount their benches, and, upon those rickety supports, sway to and fro. “Silence,” shouts M. de Valles, rapping his paper-cutter for the last time. His question to the foreman of the jury is inaudible. But the reply rings out firmly, vigorously:
“Before God and man, upon my honour and conscience, the verdict on every count of the indictment is: Not Guilty.”
For a few seconds, silence. Then a shrill cry (from one of the brown-haired, blue-eyed, very charming lady barristers) of “Acquitted!” And after that, enthusiastic uproar. Rocking and swaying to and fro on their rickety benches, the barristers applaud, cheer, fling their black képis into the air. Up, too, go the caps of their fascinating, brown-haired colleagues, as they cry: “Bravo.” More shouts and bravoes from the journalists. (One of them—an Englishman—cheers so frantically that half-an-hour later his voice is as hoarse as Henri Rochefort’s.) And so the din continues, increases, until the demonstrators suddenly perceive the dock is empty. Again, for a second or two, silence, followed by exclamations of astonishment, alarm. M. de Valles, the two assistant judges, and the jurors lean forward. Maître Aubin looks anxious. Where is the “Tragic Widow”? Is she ill? Is she——? But at last the small door at the back of the dock opens, and Madame Steinheil, livid, held by either arm by a municipal guard, staggers forward. She has not yet heard the verdict, but the renewed wild cheering (which drowns the judge’s voice as he addresses her) tells her what it is. Dazed, half-fainting in the doorway, she looks around the Court. For the first time throughout the ten days’ trial she smiles—heavens, the relief, the gratitude, the softness of that smile! And then amidst shouts of “Vive Madame Steinheil,” and of “Vive la Justice,” the “Tragic Widow” falls unconscious into the arms of the Gardes Municipaux and is carried out backwards through the narrow doorway of the dock.
Paris, too, demonstrates excitedly. Cheers are given by the vast crowd assembled outside the Law Courts for Madame Steinheil, Maître Aubin and the jury. M. Trouard-Riolle, the public prosecutor, leaves the Palais de Justice by a side door, followed by Henri Rochefort, yellower than ever in the face, his eyes blazing with vindictive fury. Almost encircling the Palais are the 60 and 90 h.p. motors of the Yellow Reporters, still bent on pursuing and persecuting the “Tragic Widow.” But she evades them; passes what remains of the night in the Hotel Terminus; speeds off in an automobile to a doctor’s private nursing-home at Vésinet next morning.