Then turning to me he asked, “Will you go with me? It will be a change from your studies.”
It was one of those fine moonless nights of July when the stars seem to hang low from the dark dome of heaven, like suspended lamps. We reached the square of the City Hall, which was black with people, all the air resounding with the one cry,
“Resign! Resign!”
We were at the back of the crowd, which was stamping and vociferating before the fast-closed municipal building. There were groups of citizens gathered from the cafés, into which the news had doubtless spread, and there were also many family groups, with children in their arms, the women more excited than the men, some of them demanding that the mayor should be ducked in the fountain. To say truth, such an act would have required considerable good will. To my mind, all those Chinese shadows gesticulating in the uncertain light appeared supremely ridiculous. Absorbed in my own interior life, I took not the slightest interest in their goings on.
Suddenly a light shone forth from a room of the City Hall which opened upon a balcony. Mayor Baboulin had decided to reassure his constituency. But it was in vain that he essayed to make himself heard; epithets of all sorts were flying through the air at him, prisoner, traitor, knave, and others less elegant but even more sonorous.
Another man appeared beside him. My old friend Deputy Martinod, trusting to his popularity and his gifts of speech, came forward. But the hulla-baloos continued, while vituperations even more familiar and offensive were showered upon him. In the gaslight I recognised near me the inseparable Gallus and Merinos conscientiously reviling their old friend.
“You see,” said my father, making no attempt, to moderate his voice, “what to expect of the populace. Yesterday they were hurrahing for them; to-day they insult them.”
I confess that I was surprised to hear him express himself so freely, in that strong, ringing voice which always so disturbed grandfather. Only a few hours ago, as we were driving from the station, hadn’t the populace hooted at him, too? What if they should begin again? We were not behind the shelter of walls nor under the protection of the police. Just at that moment one of the demonstrators turned, crimson-faced and open-mouthed. A light was reflected full upon him; it was Tem Bossette, in person, facing us, full and overflowing like a wine-bottle, gesticulating even more vigorously than the others. The moment he saw us he cried aloud:
“Long live Rambert!”
All around him uprose a great tumult, and to my stupefaction every one was crying, “Long live Rambert!” at the top of his lungs. Father touched me on the shoulder, whispering,