Political trials are all much alike, and this of Fanfar was no exception. On the day that it was to take place the pretended assassin and his pretended accomplice (that is to say Fanfar), were led to the court-room, where the magistrates, in their red robes and ermine, were seated. The newspapers, while attacking Fanfar furiously, had not omitted to mention that the accused was excessively handsome. This naturally brought a large number of women to the trial, and when the prisoner appeared, there was a low hum of admiration and surprise. Fanfar's companion, the man of whom Fanfar had made, it was said, a tool, excited neither admiration nor sympathy. Fanfar looked at him once and turned away in disgust.

It is now the proper time to say that this man, whom Cyprien had chosen to play the part of regicide, was none other than Fanfar's former enemy, Robeccal himself, who had been found in the closet and liberated by Cyprien.

This man had fallen so low that it mattered little to him what he did. The lacquey Cyprien profited by this mood, and in a short time obtained the result he desired.

To the declaration of the accused, who had been found secreted in the Tuileries, Fanfar replied with contempt. He told who this man was, and the crimes of which he had been guilty. All this, however, by no means proved that he himself was innocent of participation in the crime. Fanfar had not mentioned the affair of the deserted house, for he did not wish his sister's name to appear. This was a great relief to Robeccal, who, in spite of the manner in which he had been treated by La Roulante, did not wish to get her into trouble.

The trial took its course. Robeccal wept and expressed great penitence, said that he loved the king, etc. All this produced an excellent effect on the jury, who considered the fellow a little simple.

Then came Fanfar's turn. He stood with arms folded on his breast, and once turned and looked toward the end of the court-room. He probably saw what he wished, for he smiled, and a light came into his eyes. Then he looked again at the President, and waited. In reality there was no other charge against him than the persistent declaration of Robeccal, but this was by the judges considered quite proof enough of his culpability.

"You belong to a secret association, do you not?" asked the judge.

"I am a Frenchman," answered Fanfar, "and like others of this heroic nation claim liberty of thought and action. Do you call France a secret society?"

The President reproved Fanfar for this speech, and called him in his anger an assassin. The young man replied, in a voice of great feeling:

"Only those," he said, "should be called assassins who have cut the throat of France and plucked a blood-stained crown from the men!"

There was a great tumult. "Bravo! Fanfar," said a voice among the audience.

Naturally a dozen innocent men were accused of uttering this incendiary exclamation, while Gudel, in a quiet livery, was not interfered with. IrÈne de Salves never moved her eyes from Fanfar. Finally, quiet was restored.

"Mr. President," said Fanfar, "my father fell in the French frontier, fighting against the Cossacks and the emigrÉs. There are no assassins in our family!"

From this moment the trial went on rapidly. The sentence was a foregone conclusion.

Robeccal was condemned to death. Fanfar, under the name of Jacques FougÈre, was sentenced to the galleys for life.

But just as the sentenced was pronounced, a singular event occurred. Fanfar rose and opened his lips as if to speak, extended his arm, and fell full length on the floor. Cries of astonishment arose from the crowd.

"He has killed himself!" cried some.

"He has been poisoned!" said others.

IrÈne hastened to find Gudel. She had seen him near the door, but he had vanished. The crowd departed, saying to each other, sadly:

"He is dead!"

Robeccal was carried off more dead than alive. His sentence had frightened him. Perhaps he had not unbounded confidence in the honest people who had employed him.