But Fouchette did not mind the laughter; she had found a good place from which to view whatever was to be seen. She did not have to wait long.
"À bas le sabre!" shouted a man.
"À bas les traitres!" yelled the students in unison.
One of the latter leaped at the man and felled him with a blow.
The frantic crowd of young men attempted to jump upon this victim of public opinion, but as others rushed at the same time to his rescue, all came together in a tumultuous, struggling heap.
The angry combatants surged this way and that,—the score soon became an hundred, the hundred became a thousand. It was a mystery whence these turbulent elements sprang, so quickly did the mob gather strength.
The original offender got away in the confusion. But the struggle went on, accompanied by shouts, curses, and groans. One platoon of police agents charged down upon the fighters, then another platoon.
Friends struck friends in sheer excess of fury. The momentarily swelling roar of the combat reverberated in the Rue Royale and echoed and re-echoed from the garden of the Tuileries.
The police agents struggled in vain. They were unable to penetrate beyond the outer rows of the mob. And these turned and savagely assaulted the agents.
Then the massive grilles of the Tuileries swung upon their hinges and a squadron of cuirassiers slowly trotted into the Place de la Concorde. They swept gracefully into line. A harsh, rasping sound of steel, a rattle of breastplates as the sabres twinkled in the sunshine, and the column moved down upon the snarling horde of human tigers.