When the count was again alone, he began to walk up and down, as the evening before, while Pourat with the valet of M. de Jussat, cleared away the table. These two men have since declared that their master had never seemed so violently uneasy, as during the thirty minutes that they were busy in the room. Their astonishment was very great when he asked to have his uniform got ready.
In a quarter of an hour he was dressed and left the hotel. One detail made the brave Pourat shiver. He stated that the officer took his revolver with him which had been placed for two nights on the nightstand. The soldier communicated his fears to his companion.
“If this Greslon is acquitted,” said he, “the captain is the man to blow his brains out on the spot.”
“We ought to follow him, perhaps?” responded the valet-de-chambre.
While the two servants were deliberating, the count followed the main street which led to the Palais de Justice. He knew it, for he had often been to Riom in his childhood. This old parliamentary city, with its large hotels with the high windows, built in black Volvic stone, seemed more empty, more silent, more dead than usual as the brother of Charlotte walked toward the court.
Near the approaches to Palais there was a dense crowd which filled the narrow Rue Saint-Louis by which one reaches the hall of assize. The Greslon case had attracted all who had an hour to spare. André could scarcely force his way through the mass of people, composed of countrymen and small shopkeepers who were conversing with passionate animation.
He arrived at the steps which lead to the vestibule. Two soldiers guarded the door, charged to keep back the crowd. The count seemed to hesitate, then, instead of entering, he pushed on to the end of the street. He reached a terrace, which, situated between the sinister walls of the central building and the dark mass of the Palais, gave a view of the immense plain of the Limagne.
A fountain charmed the silence of this spot, and the sound of its murmuring could be heard even above the noise of the crowd in the neighboring street. André sat down on a bench near the fountain. He was never able to tell why he remained there more than half an hour, nor the exact reason why he arose, walked toward the Palais, wrote his name and some words on a card, and gave this card to a soldier to be carried by the bailiff to the president.
He had the very distinct feeling that he must act, almost in spite of himself, and as in a dream. His resolution nevertheless was taken and he felt that he should not weaken again, although he apprehended with horrible anguish the meeting with his father, who was over there, beyond those people whose heads were bent forward, their shoulders curved.
He felt in his agony the only solace he could experience when the bailiff came for him. For, instead of introducing him at once into the hall, this man led him through a passage to a small room which was, without doubt, the office of the president. Some packets were lying on the table. An overcoat and a hat hung on a peg. Arrived there, his guide said to him: