And now, half-past ten o’clock at night on Saturday, the 13th of November.—I have passed over the address to the jury of M. Trouard-Riolle, the Public Prosecutor—a mere repetition of the judge’s savage cross-examination of the “Tragic Widow” on the first two days of the trial; and I have also passed over Maître Aubin’s long, eloquent speech for the defence. And the last scenes I have now to describe rise up so vividly before me, that I adopt the present tense. The jury have retired to an upstairs room to consider their verdict. Madame Steinheil, watched by municipal guards, is waiting—deadly pale, green shadows under her blue eyes, exhausted, a wreck—in the “Chambre des Accusés.” And in the stifling Court of Assizes, and in the cold marble corridors of the Palais de Justice, barristers, journalists and a few ornaments of _le Tout Paris_ (who, somehow or other, have at last obtained admittance to the Law Courts) are frantically speculating upon the fate of Madame Steinheil. Most barristers say: “There are no proofs whatsoever. Therefore, acquittal.” The _Tout Paris_ cries: “She should be imprisoned for life.” (And here, in yet another parenthesis, let us suggest that the _Tout Paris’_ mocking, vindictive attitude towards Madame Steinheil is provoked by malevolent jealousy. Madame la Comtesse, lively Pauline Boum, stout Baronne Goldstein cannot forgive the “Tragic Widow” for having been _une femme ultra-chic_—the favourite of the late President Félix Faure. Yet, as we all know in Paris, the life of these ladies is very far from exemplary. How terrifically would our great, kindly, satirical Thackeray have laid bare the true causes of the bitter hostility directed against the “Tragic Widow” by French Vanity Fair!) Eleven o’clock; half-past eleven; midnight. Twice, so we hear, have M. de Valles and counsel for the prosecution and the defence been summoned to the jurors’ room, to explain certain “points.” The _Tout Paris_, and Henri Rochefort, are jubilant. “When the jury sends for the judge it usually means a conviction,” croaks Rochefort, rubbing his hands, and still sucking his impotent lozenges. We hear, too, that a crowd of thousands has assembled in front of the Palais de Justice; that the boulevards are wild with excitement, and—— “The judge has been summoned a third time to the jurors’ room,” we are told at twenty minutes past twelve. “Five years’ imprisonment at least,” chuckle the ladies and fatuous gentlemen of _le Tout Paris_. “Ten years—fifteen—twenty, I hope. She was in the pay of the Dreyfusards, and killed Félix Faure,” mutters Rochefort. “The Court enters; the Court enters,” cry the ushers and the municipal guards, at half-past twelve.