‘Heideck! Heideck!’

As he crossed the forecourt of the Palais de Justice, Anton heard his name called by a familiar voice, one that took him back at once to a jungle and the rasp of Emerald’s broom.

‘I saw you on the other side of the court, but I couldn’t catch your eye,’ said Maxwell, shaking Anton’s hand, puffing, beaming.

‘An unexpected pleasure. How are you?’

‘What a circus. Dear God. Where are you dining tonight?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve only been here a couple of days.’

‘Come with us. With me and Thompson, the man from Reuters. We’re going to a place in the rue Victor-Massé.’

‘All right.’

‘Thompson swears by it. Do you like French food?’

Anton pictured Delphine’s noisettes de veau aux champignons in cream and cider sauce. ‘Yes, I do.’

First, they crossed the river and went to a bar on the rue des Halles, where a handful of reporters had taken to gathering after the day’s proceedings and comparing notes.

‘Don’t bother with the man from Le Figaro,’ said Maxwell, ‘the fellow over there with the long face. We know what they’re going to say. Cold-blooded murder. Guilty as charged.’

He handed Anton a glass of white wine. ‘They keep their own barrels in the cellar. It never makes it into a bottle. The patron has a share of a vineyard in Macon. Cheers, old man. Very good to see you.’

‘Santé.’

‘You speak French?’

‘Yes. Don’t you?’

‘Hmm … Not really. Stick close to me, Heideck.’

The noise in the bar began to increase, as regular customers on their way home from work joined the journalists from the trial.

‘This would never happen in England, of course,’ said Maxwell. ‘We have something called “contempt of court”. It means the press can’t pass any comment on proceedings.’

‘None at all?’

‘Not while it’s going on. Because what you say might prejudice the outcome if it’s read by a juror. You can only give a verbatim account of what’s said in court. But the French press had run their own trial before the poor woman even took to the witness box. Half the papers calling for her head, half of them screaming for her to be acquitted.’

‘It’s certainly outspoken,’ said Anton.

‘It’s typical,’ said Maxwell. ‘The defence is trying to get her off on the old crime passionnel. Prove she wasn’t in her right mind. Plus some newfangled stuff about her unconscious urges taking over her conscious willpower. So it wasn’t really our Henriette who pulled the trigger, but some force from outside. Or inside. I’m not quite clear which. But you’d understand all this guff. Being Austrian.’

‘Oh yes. Psychology is a Viennese speciality. Like schnitzel and prostitution. We’ve discovered the existence of “the unconscious”, which, they say, makes up nine-tenths of our mind.’

Maxwell laughed uneasily. ‘The other thing that’s on trial is French manhood. They want their men to be warriors and their women to stay at home in nice dresses. Trouble is, Napoleon was defeated by Wellington and then they were trounced by the Prussians at Sedan. Then another revolution in Paris, the Commune and more bloodletting. So they’re feeling emasculated. Ungovernable. Like perennial losers. They hate the idea of women taking over. They don’t want to give them a vote. They want our Henriette to be a girl with a fit of the vapours. What they’re terrified of is what they call an “hommesse” – a woman with a whatnot.’