Desmahis had not a word to say, and she hugged herself over the triumph of having reduced her witty admirer to silence.
At the corner of the Rue de la Loi they heard singing and shouting and saw shadows flitting round a brazier of live coals. It was a band of young bloods who had just come out of the Théâtre Français and were burning a guy representing the Friend of the People.
In the Rue Honoré the coachman struck his cocked hat against a burlesque effigy of Marat swinging from the cord of a street lantern.
The fellow, heartened by the incident, turned round to his fares and told them how, only last night, the tripe-seller in the Rue Montorgueil had smeared blood over Marat's head, declaring: "That's the stuff he liked," and how some little scamps of ten had thrown the bust into the sewer, and how the spectators had hit the nail on the head, shouting:
"That's the Panthéon for him!"
Meanwhile, from every eating-house and restaurateur's voices could be heard singing:
Peuple français, peuple de frères!...
"Good-bye," said Élodie, jumping out of the cabriolet.
But Desmahis begged so hard, he was so tenderly urgent and spoke so sweetly, that she had not the heart to leave him at the door.
"It is late," she said; "you must only stay an instant."