The sick man made an effort to rise; but his strength failed him; he fell back exhausted on the mattress.  A sudden movement took place among the crowd, the stretcher was overturned, the old man and his companion were trodden underfoot, and their groans were drowned in the cries of “Death to the body-snatchers!” The yells were renewed with fresh fury, but the ferocious band, who respected nothing in their savage fury, were soon after obliged to open their ranks to several workmen, who vigorously cleared the way for two of their friends carrying in their arms a poor artisan.  He was still young, but his heavy and already livid head hung down upon the shoulder of one of them.  A little child followed, sobbing, and holding by one of the workmen’s coats.  The measured and sonorous sound of several drums was now heard at a distance in the winding streets of the city:  they were beating the call to arms, for sedition was rife in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.  The drummers emerged from under the archway, and were traversing the square, when one of them, a gray-haired veteran, suddenly slackened the rolling of his drum, and stood still:  his companions turned round in surprise—­he had turned green; his legs gave way, he stammered some unintelligible words, and had fallen upon the pavement before those in the front rank had time to pause.  The overwhelming rapidity of this attack startled for a moment the most hardened among the surrounding spectators; for, wondering at the interruption, a part of the crowd had rushed towards the soldiers.

At sight of the dying man, supported in the arms of two of his comrades, one of the individuals, who, concealed under the arch, had watched the beginning of the popular excitement, said to the drummers:  “Your comrade drank, perhaps, at some fountain on the road?”

“Yes, sir,” replied one; “he was very thirsty; he drank two mouthfuls of water on the Place du Chatelet.”

“Then he is poisoned,” said the man.

“Poisoned?” cried several voices.

“It is not surprising,” replied the man, in a mysterious tone; “poison is thrown into the public fountains; and this very morning a man was massacred in the Rue Beaubourg who was discovered emptying a paper of arsenic into a pot of wine at a public-house."[38]

Having said these words, the man disappeared in the crowd.  This report, no less absurd than the tales about the poisoning of the Hospital patients, was received with a general burst of indignation.  Five or six ragged beings, regular ruffians, seized the body of the expiring drummer, hoisted it upon their shoulders, in spite of all the efforts of his comrades to prevent them, and paraded the square exhibiting the dismal trophy.  Ciboule and the quarryman went before, crying:  “Wake way for the corpse!  This is how they poison the people!”