“The people are with us,” the pious Agaric used to say.

However, men, women, and children, when leaving their factories, used to shout with one voice: 

     A bas Chatillon! 
     Hou!  Hou! la calotte!

As for the government, it showed the weakness, indecision, flabbiness, and heedlessness common to all governments, and from which none has ever departed without falling into arbitrariness and violence.  In three words it knew nothing, wanted nothing, and would do nothing.  Formose, shut in his presidential palace, remained blind, dumb, deaf, huge, invisible, wrapped up in his pride as in an eider-down.

Count Olive advised the Dracophils to make a last appeal for funds and to attempt a great stroke while Alca was still in a ferment.

An executive committee, which he himself had chosen, decided to kidnap the members of the Chamber of Deputies, and considered ways and means.

The affair was fixed for the twenty-eighth of July.  On that day the sun rose radiantly over the city.  In front of the legislative palace women passed to market with their baskets; hawkers cried their peaches, pears, and grapes; cab horses with their noses in their bags munched their hay.  Nobody expected anything, not because the secret had been kept but because it met with nothing but unbelievers.  Nobody believed in a revolution, and from this fact we may conclude that nobody desired one.  About two o’clock the deputies began to pass, few and unnoticed, through the side-door of the palace.  At three o’clock a few groups of badly dressed men had formed.  At half past three black masses coming from the adjacent streets spread over Revolution Square.  This vast expanse was soon covered by an ocean of soft hats, and the crowd of demonstrators, continually increased by sight-seers, having crossed the bridge, struck its dark wave against the walls of the legislative enclosure.  Cries, murmurs, and songs went up to the impassive sky.  “It is Chatillon we want!” “Down with the Deputies!” “Down with the Republicans!” “Death to the Republicans!” The devoted band of Dracophils, led by Prince des Boscenos, struck up the august canticle: 

     Vive Crucho,
     Vaillant et sage,
     Plein de courage
     Des le berceau!

Behind the wall silence alone replied.

This silence and the absence of guards encouraged and at the same time frightened the crowd.  Suddenly a formidable voice cried out: 

“Attack!”

And Prince des Boscenos was seen raising his gigantic form to the top of the wall, which was covered with barbs and iron spikes.  Behind him rushed his companions, and the people followed.  Some hammered against the wall to make holes in it; others endeavoured to tear down the spikes and to pull out the barbs.  These defences had given way in places and some of the invaders had stripped the wall and were sitting astride on the top.  Prince des Boscenos was waving