“Yes; to the death!” howled a hundred frantic others, as if the great mass had given them the reply.

“To the halter! to the halter!” cried the great whole; “Vive le roi!”

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “this is droll; I should have thought it was M. Colbert who had caused them to be hung.”

There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the crowd, which stopped for a moment the march of the condemned.  The people of a bold and resolute mien, whom D’Artagnan had observed, by dint of pressing, pushing, and lifting themselves up, had succeeded in almost touching the hedge of archers.  The cortege resumed its march.  All at once, to cries of “Vive Colbert!” those men, of whom D’Artagnan never lost sight, fell upon the escort, which in vain endeavored to stand against them.  Behind these men was the crowd.  Then commenced, amidst a frightful tumult, as frightful a confusion.  This time there was something more than cries of expectation or cries of joy, there were cries of pain.  Halberds struck men down, swords ran through them, muskets were discharged at them.  The confusion became then so great that D’Artagnan could no longer distinguish anything.  Then, from this chaos, suddenly surged something like a visible intention, like a will pronounced.  The condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards, and were being dragged towards the house of L’Image-de-Notre-Dame.  Those who dragged them shouted, “Vive Colbert!” The people hesitated, not knowing which they ought to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors.  What stopped the people was, that those who cried “Vive Colbert!” began to cry, at the same time, “No halter! no halter! to the fire! to the fire! burn the thieves! burn the extortioners!” This cry, shouted with an ensemble, obtained enthusiastic success.  The populace had come to witness an execution, and here was an opportunity offered them of performing one themselves.  It was this that must be most agreeable to the populace:  therefore, they ranged themselves immediately on the party of the aggressors against the archers, crying with the minority, which had become, thanks to them, the most compact majority:  “Yes, yes:  to the fire with the thieves! Vive Colbert!”

“Mordioux!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this begins to look serious.”

One of the men who remained near the chimney approached the window, a firebrand in his hand.  “Ah, ah!” said he, “it gets warm.”  Then, turning to his companion:  “There is the signal,” added he; and he immediately applied the burning brand to the wainscoting.  Now, this cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame was not a very newly built house, and therefore, did not require much entreating to take fire.  In a second the boards began to crackle, and the flames arose sparkling to the ceiling.  A howling from without replied to the shouts of the incendiaries.  D’Artagnan, who had not seen what passed, from being engaged at the window, felt, at the same time, the smoke which choked him and the fire that scorched him. “Hola!” cried he, turning round, “is the fire here?  Are you drunk or mad, my masters?”