Andre-Louis looked on, and grew afraid.  Marat’s pamphlet had impressed him.  It had expressed what himself he had expressed more than half a year ago to the mob at Rennes.  This crowd, he felt must be restrained.  That hot-headed, irresponsible stutterer would have the town in a blaze by night unless something were done.  The young man, a causeless advocate of the Palais named Camille Desmoulins, later to become famous, leapt down from his table still waving his sword, still shouting, “To arms!  Follow me!” Andre-Louis advanced to occupy the improvised rostrum, which the stutterer had just vacated, to make an effort at counteracting that inflammatory performance.  He thrust through the crowd, and came suddenly face to face with a tall man beautifully dressed, whose handsome countenance was sternly set, whose great sombre eyes mouldered as if with suppressed anger.

Thus face to face, each looking into the eyes of the other, they stood for a long moment, the jostling crowd streaming past them, unheeded.  Then Andre-Louis laughed.

“That fellow, too, has a very dangerous gift of eloquence, M. le Marquis,” he said.  “In fact there are a number of such in France to-day.  They grow from the soil, which you and yours have irrigated with the blood of the martyrs of liberty.  Soon it may be your blood instead.  The soil is parched, and thirsty for it.”

“Gallows-bird!” he was answered.  “The police will do your affair for you.  I shall tell the Lieutenant-General that you are to be found in Paris.”

“My God, man!” cried Andre-Louis, “will you never get sense?  Will you talk like that of Lieutenant-Generals when Paris itself is likely to tumble about your ears or take fire under your feet?  Raise your voice, M. le Marquis.  Denounce me here, to these.  You will make a hero of me in such an hour as this.  Or shall I denounce you?  I think I will.  I think it is high time you received your wages.  Hi!  You others, listen to me!  Let me present you to... "

A rush of men hurtled against him, swept him along with them, do what he would, separating him from M. de La Tour d’Azyr, so oddly met.  He sought to breast that human torrent; the Marquis, caught in an eddy of it, remained where he had been, and Andre-Louis’ last glimpse of him was of a man smiling with tight lips, an ugly smile.

Meanwhile the gardens were emptying in the wake of that stuttering firebrand who had mounted the green cockade.  The human torrent poured out into the Rue de Richelieu, and Andre-Louis perforce must suffer himself to be borne along by it, at least as far as the Rue du Hasard.  There he sidled out of it, and having no wish to be crushed to death or to take further part in the madness that was afoot, he slipped down the street, and so got home to the deserted academy.  For there were no pupils to-day, and even M. des Amis, like Andre-Louis, had gone out to seek for news of what was happening at Versailles.