As the Petit Parisien man wheezed and jostled his way to a seat on the bench just in front of me, I caught some words he flung to a friend in passing. Maitre Labori was proclaiming the innocence of the prisoner with all the fervor for which he is celebrated, and I was wondering how soon an adjournment would let us escape from the stifling heat of the room. It was the latter part of July, 1914; and true to French custom all of the windows were shut tight.
The words of the fat reporter pricked my flagging attention, "There is a panic on the Bourse."
The words caused a buzz of comment all around me. One English journalist, monocled and superior, even stopped his writing, and the financial reporter, his fat body half crowded into his seat, paused midway to add: "The Austrian note to Serbia that has got them all scared."
Another French newspaperman some seats away overheard the talk and joined in loudly. It did not matter how much we talked during the proceedings of the affaire Caillaux. Everybody talked. Often everybody talked at the same moment. This journalist prefaced his remarks by a derisive laugh.
"They are crazy on the Bourse," he said. "You may be sure that nothing matters now in France but this trial. No panic, or Austrian note, or Russian note or anything, will rival it as a newspaper story, I am certain."
The fat reporter again wheezed into speech.
"I do not know very much concerning this affaire Caillaux," he replied, "but I will bet you money that the verdict will not get a top headline."
"Why?" cried some of us, mocking and incredulous.
"Because of what I've told you. There is a panic on the Bourse."