That image did not leave him.  For a week he had been obsessed by the innocent convict, when, as he was leaving his cook-shop, he saw a crowd of citizens entering a public-house in which a public meeting was going on.  He went in.  The meeting was disorderly; they were yelling, abusing one another and knocking one another down in the smoke-laden hall.  The Pyrotists and the Anti-Pyrotists spoke in turn and were alternately cheered and hissed at.  An obscure and confused enthusiasm moved the audience.  With the audacity of a timid and retired man Bidault-Coquille leaped upon the platform and spoke for three-quarters of an hour.  He spoke very quickly, without order, but with vehemence, and with all the conviction of a mathematical mystic.  He was cheered.  When he got down from the platform a big woman of uncertain age, dressed in red, and wearing an immense hat trimmed with heroic feathers, throwing herself into his arms, embraced him, and said to him: 

“You are splendid!”

He thought in his simplicity that there was some truth in the statement.

She declared to him that henceforth she would live but for Pyrot’s defence and Colomban’s glory.  He thought her sublime and beautiful.  She was Maniflore, a poor old courtesan, now forgotten and discarded, who had suddenly become a vehement politician.

She never left him.  They spent glorious hours together in doss-houses and in lodgings beautified by their love, in newspaper offices, in meeting-halls and in lecture-halls.  As he was an idealist, he persisted in thinking her beautiful, although she gave him abundant opportunity of seeing that she had preserved no charm of any kind.  From her past beauty she only retained a confidence in her capacity for pleasing and a lofty assurance in demanding homage.  Still, it must be admitted that this Pyrot affair, so fruitful in prodigies, invested Maniflore with a sort of civic majesty, and transformed her, at public meetings, into an august symbol of justice and truth.

Bidault-Coquille and Maniflore did not kindle the least spark of irony or amusement in a single Anti-Pyrotist, a single defender of Greatauk, or a single supporter of the army.  The gods, in their anger, had refused to those men the precious gift of humour.  They gravely accused the courtesan and the astronomer of being spies, of treachery, and of plotting against their country.  Bidault-Coquille and Maniflore grew visibly greater beneath insult, abuse, and calumny.

For long months Penguinia had been divided into two camps and, though at first sight it may appear strange, hitherto the socialists had taken no part in the contest.  Their groups comprised almost all the manual workers in the country, necessarily scattered, confused, broken up, and divided, but formidable.  The Pyrot affair threw the group leaders into a singular embarrassment.  They did not wish to place themselves either on the side of the financiers or on the side of the army.  They regarded the Jews, both great and small, as their uncompromising opponents.  Their principles were not at stake, nor were their interests concerned in the affair.  Still the greater number felt how difficult it was growing for them to remain aloof from struggles in which all Penguinia was engaged.