Monseigneur, the city fathers, the Mayor—every one on La Bretèque, in fact—gasped with horror. How dared these abominable agitators mar the beauty of this affecting ceremony? Monseigneur went forward, leaned over the balustrade in order to try and ascertain who it was who was trying to create a disturbance. He saw de Landas down below in the midst of the throng, vaguely wondered what the young commandant was doing there, when his place was up on La Bretèque amongst those of his own rank. Anyway, he spoke to de Landas, shouted himself hoarse to make the young man hear, for an unpleasant turmoil had followed that first cry of 'Spanish spy'—people were shouting and gesticulating and the call 'Down with him!' came repeatedly from several points in the rear of the crowd.
De Landas looked up, but he pretended not to hear, laughed and shrugged his shoulders, as if the matter did not concern him. And yet there was no mistaking the persistence with which that ominous cry 'Spanish spy!' was taken up again and again, nor the disturbing effect which it had upon the crowd.
Monseigneur then tried to harangue the mob, to point out to them the evil of their ways. Had they forgotten that they were out to enjoy themselves, to forget their troubles, to forget the very fact that the words 'Spaniard' and 'Spanish' existed in their lexicon. But Messire de Landas' paid agents would not let him speak. They had been paid to create a disturbance, not to let the people stand about placidly, listening to windy harangues.
So, the moment Monseigneur opened his mouth, the whole gang of them took up the provocative cry: 'A Spanish spy! Take care, Madame Jacqueline!' until it was repeated over and over again by numberless voices, hoarse with excitement and with spite. The crowd oscillated as if driven by a sudden blast; ominous murmurs came from those points where women and men stood in compact and sullen groups.
'Spanish spy! Beware!' rang out again and again.
Monseigneur the governor was in a wild state of agitation. He could not understand what it was that had set some rowdy malcontents to disturb the peaceful serenity of this eventful morning. Unable to make himself heard, he turned in helpless bewilderment to Gilles.
'Monseigneur,' he began, in a voice quivering with consternation. 'I do entreat you...'
But he got no further. Above this peroration, above the shuffling and the mutterings of his friends on the balcony, above the cries and murmurs down below, there had suddenly resounded the dull boom of distant cannon. The crowd gave one terrific, full-throated roar of terror:
'The Spaniards! They are on us!'
And in the seething mass of humanity on the Grand' Place could be seen just that awful, ominous swaying which precedes a stampede. Already the women screamed and some men shouted: 'Sauve qui peut!'