“Comrades, we are going to see whether you have blood in your veins.  What we have got to do is to slaughter, disembowel, and brain all the Republicans.”

This speech let loose such a thunder of applause that the old shed rocked with it, and a cloud of acrid and thick dust fell from its filthy walls and worm-eaten beams and enveloped the audience.

A resolution was carried vilifying the government and acclaiming Chatillon.  And the audience departed singing the hymn of the liberator:  “It is Chatillon we want.”

The only way out of the old market was through a muddy alley shut in by omnibus stables and coal sheds.  There was no moon and a cold drizzle was coming down.  The police, who were assembled in great numbers, blocked the alley and compelled the Dracophils to disperse in little groups.  These were the instructions they had received from their chief, who was anxious to check the enthusiasm of the excited crowd.

The Dracophils who were detained in the alley kept marking time and singing, “It is Chatillon we want.”  Soon, becoming impatient of the delay, the cause of which they did not know, they began to push those in front of them.  This movement, propagated along the alley, threw those in front against the broad chests of the police.  The latter had no hatred for the Dracophils.  In the bottom of their hearts they liked Chatillon.  But it is natural to resist aggression and strong men are inclined to make use of their strength.  For these reasons the police kicked the Dracophils with their hob-nailed boots.  As a result there were sudden rushes backwards and forwards.  Threats and cries mingled with the songs.

“Murder!  Murder! . . .  It is Chatillon we want!  Murder!  Murder!”

And in the gloomy alley the more prudent kept saying, “Don’t push.”  Among these latter, in the darkness, his lofty figure rising above the moving crowd, his broad shoulders and robust body noticeable among the trampled limbs and crushed sides of the rest, stood the Prince des Boscenos, calm, immovable, and placid.  Serenely and indulgently he waited.  In the mean time, as the exit was opened at regular intervals between the ranks of the police, the pressure of elbows against the chests of those around the prince diminished and people began to breathe again.

“You see we shall soon be able to go out,” said that kindly giant, with a pleasant smile.  “Time and patience . . .”

He took a cigar from his case, raised it to his lips and struck a match.  Suddenly, in the light of the match, he saw Princess Anne, his wife, clasped in Count Clena’s arms.  At this sight he rushed towards them, striking both them and those around with his cane.  He was disarmed, though not without difficulty, but he could not be separated from his opponent.  And whilst the fainting princess was lifted from arm to arm to her carriage over the excited and curious crowd, the two men still fought furiously.  Prince des Boscenos lost his hat, his eye-glass, his cigar, his necktie, and his portfolio full of private letters and political correspondence; he even lost the miraculous medals that he had received from the good Father Cornemuse.  But he gave his opponent so terrible a kick in the stomach that the unfortunate Count was knocked through an iron grating and went, head foremost, through a glass door and into a coal-shed.