"Bah--all put on--to soften the jury." It was our fiery one of the
table d'hote who had wedged his way toward us.

"And why not? A woman must make use of what weapons she has at hand--"

_"Silence! Silence! messieurs!"_ The _huissier_ brought down his staff
of office with a ring. The clatter of sabots over the wooden floor of
the tribune and the loud talking were disturbing the court.

This French court, as a court, sat in strange fashion, it seemed to us.
The bench was on wonderfully friendly terms with the table about which
the clerks sat, with the lawyers, with the foreman of the jury, with
even the _huissiers_. Monsieur le President was in his robes, but he
wore them as negligently as he did the dignity of his office. He and
the lawyer for the defence, a noted Coutances orator, openly wrangled;
the latter, indeed, took little or no pains to show him respect; now
they joked together, next a retort flashed forth which began a quarrel,
and the court and the trial looked on as both struggled for a mastery
in the art of personal abuse. The lawyer made nothing of raising his
finger, to shake it in open menace in the very teeth of the scarlet
robes. And the robes clad a purple-faced figure that retorted
angrily, like a fighting school-boy.

But to Coutances, this, it appears, was a proper way for a court to
sit.

"_Ah, D'Alencon--il est fort, lui. C'est lui qui agace toujours
monsieur le president_--"