“Look, compere,” cried Miton, “at what is passing.”

M. Friard, following the direction of his friend’s finger, saw them closing yet another door, while a party of Swiss placed themselves before it.  “How! more barriers!” cried he.

“What did I tell you?” said Miton.

At the sight of this new precaution, a long murmur of astonishment and some cries of discontent proceeded from the crowd.

“Clear the road!  Back!” cried an officer.

This maneuver was not executed without difficulty; the people in carts and on horseback tried to go back, and nearly crushed the crowd behind them.  Women cried and men swore, while those who could escape, did, overturning the others.

“The Lorraines! the Lorraines!” cried a voice in the midst of this tumult.

“Oh!” cried Miton, trembling, “let us fly.”

“Fly! and where?” said Friard.

“Into this inclosure,” answered Miton tearing his hands by seizing the thorns of the hedge.

“Into that inclosure, it is not so easy.  I see no opening, and you cannot climb a hedge that is higher than I am.”

“I will try,” returned Miton, making new efforts.

“Oh! take care, my good woman,” cried Friard, in a tone of distress; “your ass is on my feet.  Oh, monsieur, take care, your horse is going to kick.”

While M. Miton was vainly trying to climb the hedge, and M. Friard to find an opening through which to push himself, their neighbor quietly opened his long legs and strode over the hedge with as much ease as one might have leaped it on horseback.  M. Miton imitated him at last after much detriment to his hands and clothes; but poor Friard could not succeed, in spite of all his efforts, till the stranger, stretching out his long arms, and seizing him by the collar of his doublet, lifted him over.

“Ah! monsieur,” said he, when he felt himself on the ground, “on the word of Jean Friard, you are a real Hercules; your name, monsieur? the name of my deliverer?”

“I am called Briquet—­Robert Briquet, monsieur.”

“You have saved me, M. Briquet—­my wife will bless you.  But apropos; mon Dieu! she will be stifled in this crowd.  Ah! cursed Swiss, only good to crush people!”

As he spoke, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and, looking round and seeing that it was a Swiss, he took to flight, followed by Miton.  The other man laughed quietly, then turning to the Swiss, said: 

“Are the Lorraines coming?”

“No.”

“Then why do they close the door.  I do not understand it.”

“There is no need that you should,” replied the Swiss, laughing at his own wit.

CHAPTER II.

What passed outside the Porte st. Antoine.

One of the groups was formed of a considerable number of citizens.  They surrounded four or five of a martial appearance, whom the closing of the doors annoyed very much, as it seemed, for they cried with all their might, “The door! the door!”