LITMIR.BIZ

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at the lower end of the square, some persons cried out:

      “Down with Guizot!”

      “Down with Pritchard!”

      “Down with the sold ones!”

      “Down with Louis Philippe!”

      The crowd swayed to and fro, and, pressing against the gate of the courtyard, which was shut, prevented the professor from going further. He stopped in front of the staircase. He was speedily observed on the lowest of three steps. He spoke; the loud murmurs of the throng drowned his voice. Although at another time they might love him, they hated him now, for he was the representative of authority. Every time he tried to make himself understood, the outcries recommenced. He gesticulated with great energy to induce the students to follow him. He was answered by vociferations from all sides. He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and plunged into the passage. Martinon profited by his situation to disappear at the same moment.

      “What a coward!” said Frederick.

      “He was prudent,” returned the other.

      There was an outburst of applause from the crowd, from whose point of view this retreat, on the part of the professor, appeared in the light of a victory. From every window, faces, lighted with curiosity, looked out. Some of those in the crowd struck up the “Marseillaise;” others proposed to go to Béranger’s house.

      “To Laffitte’s house!”

      “To Chateaubriand’s house!”

      “To Voltaire’s house!” yelled the young man with the fair moustaches.

      The policemen tried to pass around, saying in the mildest tones they could assume:

      “Move on, messieurs! Move on! Take yourselves off!”

      Somebody exclaimed:

      “Down with the slaughterers!”

      This was a form of insult usual since the troubles of the month of September. Everyone echoed it. The guardians of public order were hooted and hissed. They began to grow pale. One of them could endure it no longer, and, seeing a low-sized young man approaching too close, laughing in his teeth, pushed him back so roughly, that he tumbled over on his back some five paces away, in front of a wine-merchant’s shop. All made way; but almost immediately afterwards the policeman rolled on the ground himself, felled by a blow from a species of Hercules, whose hair hung down like a bundle of tow under an oilskin cap. Having stopped for a few minutes at the corner of the Rue Saint-Jacques, he had very quickly laid down a large case, which he had been carrying, in order to make a spring at the policeman, and, holding down that functionary, punched his face unmercifully. The other policemen rushed to the rescue of their comrade. The terrible shop-assistant was so powerfully built that it took four of them at least to get the better of him. Two of them shook him, while keeping a grip on his collar; two others dragged his arms; a fifth gave him digs of the knee in the ribs; and all of them called him “brigand,” “assassin,” “rioter.” With his breast bare, and his clothes in rags, he protested that he was innocent; he could not, in cold blood, look at a child receiving a beating.

      “My name is Dussardier. I’m employed at Messieurs Valincart Brothers’ lace and fancy warehouse, in the Rue de Cléry. Where’s my case? I want my case!”

      He kept repeating:

      “Dussardier, Rue de Cléry. My case!”

      However, he became quiet, and, with a stoical air, allowed himself to be led towards the guard-house in the Rue Descartes. A flood of people came rushing after him. Frederick and the young man with the moustaches walked immediately behind, full of admiration for the shopman, and indignant at the violence of power.

      As they advanced, the crowd became less thick.

      The policemen from time to time turned round, with threatening looks; and the rowdies, no longer having anything to do, and the spectators not having anything to look at, all drifted away by degrees. The passers-by, who met the procession, as they came along, stared at Dussardier, and in loud tones, gave vent to abusive remarks about him. One old woman, at her own door, bawled out that he had stolen a loaf of bread from her. This unjust accusation increased the wrath of the two friends. At length, they reached the guard-house. Only about twenty persons were now left in the attenuated crowd, and the sight of the soldiers was enough to disperse them.

      Frederick and his companion boldly asked to have the man who had just been imprisoned delivered up. The sentinel threatened, if they persisted, to ram them into jail too. They said they required to see the commander of the guard-house, and stated their names, and the fact that they were law-students, declaring that the prisoner was one also.

      They were ushered into a room perfectly bare, in which, amid an atmosphere of smoke, four benches might be seen lining the roughly-plastered walls. At the lower end there was an open wicket. Then appeared the sturdy face of Dussardier, who, with his hair all tousled, his honest little eyes, and his broad snout, suggested to one’s mind in a confused sort of way the physiognomy of a good dog.

      “Don’t you recognise us?” said Hussonnet.

      This was the name of the young man with the moustaches.

      “Why — — ” stammered Dussardier.

      “Don’t play the fool any further,” returned the other. “We know that you are, just like ourselves, a law-student.”

      In spite of their winks, Dussardier failed to understand. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts; then, suddenly:

      “Has my case been found?”

      Frederick raised his eyes, feeling much discouraged.

      Hussonnet, however, said promptly:

      “Ha! your case, in which you keep your notes of lectures? Yes, yes, make your mind easy about it!”

      They made further pantomimic signs with redoubled energy, till Dussardier at last realised that they had come to help him; and he held his tongue, fearing that he might compromise them. Besides, he experienced a kind of shamefacedness at seeing himself raised to the social rank of student, and to an equality with those young men who had such white hands.

      “Do you wish to send any message to anyone?” asked Frederick.

      “No, thanks, to nobody.”

      “But your family?”

      He lowered his head without replying; the poor fellow was a bastard. The two friends stood quite astonished at his silence.

      “Have you anything to smoke?” was Frederick’s next question.

      He felt about, then drew forth from the depths of one of his pockets the remains of a pipe — a beautiful pipe, made of white talc with a shank of blackwood, a silver cover, and an amber mouthpiece.

      For the last three years he had been engaged in completing this masterpiece. He had been careful to keep the bowl of it constantly thrust into a kind of sheath of chamois, to smoke it as slowly as possible, without ever letting it lie on any cold stone substance, and to hang it up every evening over the head of his bed. And now he shook out the fragments of it into his hand, the nails of which were covered with blood, and with his chin sunk on his chest, his pupils fixed and dilated, he contemplated this wreck of the thing that had yielded him such delight with a glance of unutterable sadness.

      “Suppose we give him some cigars, eh?” said Hussonnet in a whisper, making a gesture as if he were reaching them out.

      Frederick had already laid down a cigar-holder, filled, on the edge of the wicket.

      “Pray take this. Goodbye! Cheer up!”

      Dussardier flung himself on the two hands that were held out towards him. He pressed them frantically, his voice choked with sobs.

      “What? For me! — for me!”

      The two friends tore themselves away from the effusive display of gratitude which he made,

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