Then all at once the judge began to mop his brow. The jury, to a man,
mopped theirs. The witnesses and lawyers each brought forth their big
silk handkerchiefs. All the court was wiping its brow.

"It's the heat," cried the judge. "_Huissier_, call the _concierge_;
tell her to open the windows."

The _concierge_ reappeared. Flushed this time, and with anger in her
eye. She pushed her way through the crowd; she took not the least pains
in the world to conceal her opinion of a court as variable as this one.

"_Ah mais_, this is too much! if the jury doesn't know its mind better
than this!"--and in the fury of her wrath she well-nigh upset the
crooked little old gentleman and his three-legged stool.

"That's right--that's right. I'm not a fine lady, tip me over. You open
and shut me as if I were a bureau drawer; _continuez_--_continuez_--"

The _concierge_ had reached the windows now. She was opening and
slamming them in the face of the judge, the jury, and _messieurs les
huissiers_, with unabashed violence. The court, except for that one
figure in sombre draperies, being men, suffered this violence as only
men bear with a woman in a temper. With the letting in of the fresh
air, fresh energy in the prosecution manifested itself. The witnesses
were being subjected to inquisitorial torture; their answers were still
glib, but the faces were studies of the passions held in the leash of
self-control. Not twenty minutes had ticked their beat of time when
once more the jury, to a man, showed signs of shivering. Half a dozen
gravely took out their pocket-handkerchiefs, and as gravely covered
their heads. Others knotted the square of linen, thus making a closer