It was about eleven o'clock in the morning when an elegant carriage stopped in front of the court-house. A gentleman stepped out, and was about to ascend the broad steps of the building, when he suddenly stood still. He clapped his monocle to his eye, and loudly exclaimed:
"Ah, Chateau-Renaud!"
"Beauchamp," came back the answer; and the two friends cordially shook hands.
"Really," said Chateau-Renaud, laughing, "I must be grateful to chance, which threw me in your way."
"What brings you here?"
"The trial of his highness Prince Benedetto de Cavalcanti, of course."
"I'm here for the same reason. I also wish to see the concluding act of the drama which has interested Paris so long. Do you think the poor devil has a chance of escaping the hangman's noose?"
"Hardly—but here we are. Why, the hall is about empty," exclaimed Beauchamp, wonderingly.
"Does that astonish you? Paris has always been ungrateful, and has long since forgotten that the Benedetto affair was once an important topic," replied Chateau-Renaud in a tone of indifference.