With his bayonet he smashed the only globe left intact by the shell fire. There was a laugh as a shower of glass fell on the floor. Even the judge's son, the son of the tribune of law, joined in. Pilzer then ripped up the leather seat of a chair. This introductory havoc whetted his appetite for other worlds of conquest, as the self-chosen leader of the increasing crowd that poured through the doorway.
"Maybe there's food!" he shouted. "Maybe there's wine!"
"Food and wine!"
"Yes, wine! We're thirsty!"
"And maybe women! I'd like to kiss a pretty maid servant!" Pilzer added, starting toward the hall.
"Stop!" cried Hugo, forcing his way in front of Pilzer.
He was like no one of the Hugos of the many parts that his comrades had seen him play. His blue eyes had become an inflexible gray. He was standing half on tiptoe, his quivering muscles in tune with the quivering pitch of his voice: a Hugo in anger! This was a tremendous joke. He was about to regain his reputation as a humorist by a brilliant display in keeping with the new order of their existence.
"We have no right in here! This is a private house!"
But the fever of their savagery—the infectious savagery of the mob—wanted no humor of this kind.
"Out of the way, you white-livered little rat!" cried Pilzer, "or I'll prick the tummy of mamma's darling!"