But while she gazed with her soul in her eyes, the door which had been partly opened fell shut again, and disappointed her. At the same moment there was a general movement and rustling round her, an uprising in every part of the chamber. In bewilderment, almost in impatience, she turned towards the judges and found that they had risen too. Then through a door behind them she saw six gentlemen file in, with a flash and sparkle of colour that lit up the sombre bench. The first was the king. Louis was about thirty-five years old at this time--a dark, sallow man, wearing black, with a wide-leafed hat, in which a costly diamond secured a plume of white feathers. He carried a walking cane, and saluted the judges as he entered, Three gentlemen--two about the king's age, the third a burly, soldierly man of sixty--followed him, and took their places behind the canopied chair placed for him. The fifth to enter--but he passed behind the judges and took a chair which stood on their left--wore a red robe trimmed with fur, and a small red cap. He was a man of middle height and pale complexion, keen Italian features and bright piercing eyes, and so far was not remarkable. But he had also a coal-black moustache and chin tuft, and milk-white hair; and this contrast won him recognition everywhere. He was Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke and Cardinal Richelieu, soldier, priest, and playwriter, and for sixteen years the ruler of France. Madame gazed at them with a beating heart, with wild hopes that would rise, despite herself. But, oh God! how coldly their eyes met hers! With what a stony stare! With what curiosity, indifference, contempt! Alas, they had come for that. They had come to stare. This was their Christmas show--part of their Christmas revels. And she--she was a woman on her trial, a poisoner, a murderess, a vile thing to be questioned, tortured, dragged to a shameful death! For a moment or two the king talked with the judges. Then he sat back in his chair. The President made a sign, and an usher in a sonorous voice cried, "Solomon Nôtredame! Let Solomon Nôtredame stand forth!" CHAPTER X. TWO WITNESSES. Madame de Vidoche heard the name and braced herself again, turning towards the door as others turned, and waiting with dry lips and feverish eyes for the man who was to save her--to save her in spite of king and court. Would he never come? The door stood open, remained open. She could see through it the passage with its bare walls and dusky ceiling, and hear in the hushed silence a noise of shuffling feet. Gradually the noise grew louder; though it still seemed a thing by itself, and so distant that in the court where they waited, with every eye expectant, the slightest sound, the lowest whisper was audible. When the usher cried again, "Solomon Nôtredame, stand forward!" more than one glanced at him angrily. He balked their expectation.