This enraged crowd cried:
"It is he! Death to the assassin! It is Guespin! See him!"
And the wretch, inspired by an immense fright, continued to struggle.
"Help!" shouted he hoarsely. "Leave me alone. I am innocent!"
He had posted himself against the drawing-room door, and they could not force him forward.
"Push him," ordered the mayor, "push him."
It was easier to command than to execute. Terror lent to Guespin enormous force. But it occurred to the doctor to open the second wing of the door; the support failed the wretch, and he fell, or rather rolled at the foot of the table at which the judge of instruction was seated. He was straightway on his feet again, and his eyes sought a chance to escape. Seeing none—for the windows and doors were crowded with the lookers-on—he fell into a chair. The fellow appeared the image of terror, wrought up to paroxysm. On his livid face, black and blue, were visible the marks of the blows he had received in the struggle; his white lips trembled, and he moved his jaws as if he sought a little saliva for his burning tongue; his staring eyes were bloodshot, and expressed the wildest distress; his body was bent with convulsive spasms. So terrible was this spectacle, that the mayor thought it might be an example of great moral force. He turned toward the crowd, and pointing to Guespin, said in a tragic tone:
"See what crime is!"
The others exchanged surprised looks.
"If he is guilty," muttered M. Plantat, "why on earth has he returned?"