With the gathering night came a cyclone.  Against Pauline Vaison there could be no accusation, no matter what the prisoner Bruslart had said, she was the darling of the mob; but for the others, the deputy, the aristocrat, and the American, there could be no mercy.  Somewhere in Paris the American was hiding, he would be found presently.  Latour had slunk away that day, many had seen him go; it was a pity he had not been stopped then, the hunt for him must begin at once.  As for the woman, this emigre, they knew where she was.  Pauline Vaison had suggested the place, so had the prisoner Bruslart.  Forward, citizens!  Here are the officers who will arrest her; patriots may well go with them and rejoice.  There will be no mistake this time.

Dancing, singing, filling the roadway and making the night hideous, the mob passed along the Rue Valette, fought and struggled through the narrow passage by the little baker’s shop, and burst into the courtyard beyond.  The officers went up the stairs, straight on to the second floor, and as many of the crowd as could squeeze up the stairway, followed them.  The door was locked.

“Open, in the name of the Nation!”

Neither the loud knocking, nor the command, brought any answer.

“Burst it open!” came a roar of voices.

It was a poor, common door, and splintered inwards almost at the first blow.  A rush of feet crossed the threshold, officers, and dirty men and women, marking the floor, kicking aside rug and strip of carpet.  A dainty apartment, white paint, white curtains over the windows and the bed, prints hanging on the walls, a faint fragrance in the air.  She was here not long since.  See the woman’s things upon the table!  There were her clothes upon the bed, a coarse dress; but these other garments!  Look at them, citizens!  Here’s lace and fine linen!  One hag, twisting her bony fingers into a garment, rent it in pieces, while a second, wrapping another garment round her dirty rags, began to dance to an accompaniment of ribald laughter.  The aristocrat was here, and not long ago, but she had gone!  The curtains were torn from the windows and from the bed, soiled in a moment and trampled on; the prints were wrenched from the walls; the bottles on the toilet table were hurled to the floor and broken; the furniture was shattered.  The nest which had been so carefully prepared was quickly a heap of ruins.

With curses and blasphemy the crowd hurled itself down the stairs to the floor below.  Here lived Deputy Latour, who had slunk into hiding.  There may be papers in his room; if not, they can break it up as they have done the room above.  Burst open this door too.

The officers knocked loudly.  “Open, in the name of the Nation!”

It was a loud summons, no answer expected, yet at once the lock shot back and Raymond Latour stood in the doorway.

“What do you want with me, citizens?”