“Vive le roi!” shouting wildly like one who is drunk.
He was hatless, and his clothes were saturated with moisture. He tried to pass, but crossed bayonets barred the way. Still he shouted:
“Vive le roi!” and “A bas la republique!”
“Allons! the fellow is drunk!” said one of the soldiers.
Armand fought like a madman; he wanted to reach that gate. He shouted, he laughed, and he cried, until one of the soldiers in a fit of rage struck him heavily on the head.
Armand fell backwards, stunned by the blow; his foot slipped on the wet pavement. Was he indeed drunk, or was he dreaming? He put his hand up to his forehead; it was wet, but whether with the rain or with blood he did not know; but for the space of one second he tried to collect his scattered wits.
“Citizen St. Just!” said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Then, as he looked round dazed, feeling a firm, pleasant grip on his arm, the same quiet voice continued calmly:
“Perhaps you do not remember me, citizen St. Just. I had not the honour of the same close friendship with you as I had with your charming sister. My name is Chauvelin. Can I be of any service to you?”