That voice belonged to Monsieur Leddin, formerly a clock maker, but now of the Service Auxiliare, and on whom devolved the policing of our entire little group, simply because of his uniform.
His observations, however, have but little effect. People come straggling along, yawning from having been awakened in their first sleep, and almost all of them is hugging a bundle or parcel containing his most precious belongings.
It is invariably an explosion which finally livens their gait, and they hurry into the stairway. A slight jam is thus produced.
"No pushing there! Order!" cries another stentorian voice, belonging to Monsieur Vidalenc, the coal dealer.
"Here! here!" echo several high pitched trebles. "Très bien, très bien. Follow in line—what's the use of crowding?"
Monsieur Leddin makes another and still shriller effort, calling from above:
"Be calm now. Don't get excited."
"Who's excited?"
"You are!"
"Monsieur Leddin, you're about as fit to be a soldier as I to be an Archbishop," sneered the butcher's wife. "You'd do better to leave us alone and hold your peace."