And the enemies of the people were those who dared raise their voices against their Chosen, their Fetich, the great, incomprehensible Mystery.
Citizen Rateau was once more rendered helpless by a tearing fit of coughing.
But from afar, down the street, there came one or two assenting cries.
"Well spoken, young man! As for me, I never trusted that bloodhound!"
And a woman's voice added shrilly: "His hands reek of blood. A butcher, I call him!"
"And a tyrant!" assented the original spokesman. "His aim is a dictatorship, with his minions hanging around him like abject slaves. Why not Versailles, then? How are we better off now than in the days of kingship? Then, at least, the streets of Paris did not stink of blood. Then, at least——"
But the speaker got no farther. A hard crust of very dry, black bread, aimed by a sure hand, caught him full in the face, whilst a hoarse voice shouted lustily:
"Hey there, citizen! If thou'lt not hold thy tongue 'tis thy neck that will be recking with blood o'er soon, I'll warrant!"
"Well said, citizen Rateau!" put in another, speaking with his mouth full, but with splendid conviction. "Every word uttered by that jackanapes yonder reeks of treason!"
"Shame!" came from every side.