ral, had produced a tremendous sensation. Frequenting the Cafe de
Paris, the Boulevard de Gand, and the Bois de Boulogne, during his
brief career of splendor, the false Cavalcanti had formed a host of
acquaintances. The papers had related his various adventures, both as
the man of fashion and the galley-slave; and as every one who had been
personally acquainted with Prince Andrea Cavalcanti experienced a
lively curiosity in his fate, they all determined to spare no trouble in
endeavoring to witness the trial of M. Benedetto for the murder of his
comrade in chains. In the eyes of many, Benedetto appeared, if not
a victim to, at least an instance of, the fallibility of the law. M.
Cavalcanti, his father, had been seen in Paris, and it was expected that
he would re-appear to claim the illustrious outcast. Many, also, who
were not aware of the circumstances attending his withdrawal from Paris,
were struck with the worthy appearance, the gentlemanly bearing, and
the knowledge of the world displayed by the old patrician, who certainly
played the nobleman very well, so long as he said nothing, and made no
arithmetical calculations. As for the accused himself, many remembered
him as being so amiable, so handsome, and so liberal, that they chose
to think him the victim of some conspiracy, since in this world large
fortunes frequently excite the malevolence and jealousy of some unknown
enemy. Every one, therefore, ran to the court; some to witness the
sight, others to comment upon it. From seven o'clock in the morning
a crowd was stationed at the iron gates, and an hour before the trial
commenced the hall was full of the privileged. Before the entrance of
the magistrates, and indeed frequently afterwards, a court of justice,
on days when some especial trial is to take place, resembles a
drawing-room where many persons recognize each other and converse if
they can do so without losing their seats; or, if they are separated by
too great a number of lawyers, communicate by signs.

It was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends for a short
summer; the clouds which M. de Villefort had perceived at sunrise
had all disappeared as if by magic, and one of the softest and most
brilliant days of September shone forth in all its splendor.

Beauchamp, one of the kings of the press, and therefore claiming the
right of a throne everywhere, was eying everybody through his monocle.
He perceived Chateau-Renaud and Debray, who had just