Instantly lads and men began to climb the young trees and tear down the branches. Each bough was seized upon before it touched the ground, and the foliage was torn off by eager hands. Some of the leaves were trampled under foot, and more were clamoured for. The crowd had been gathering thicker every moment, pouring in from the streets, and the whole garden was densely packed with men and women. The words of the orator were flung along the mob, from voice to voice; the mob swayed and roared, and cheered, like one living body, not as an assemblage of individuals each with a will and thoughts of his own.
In half an hour the trees of the Palais Royal were stripped of their leaves and looked bare and wintry.
From a modeller's shop opening on the gardens, a wax bust of the popular ex-minister was produced, and was passed along above the heads of the crowd. Some one flung a black crape veil over it.
'Forth into the streets,' was called. And the multitude rolled out into the Rue de Richelieu. Suddenly, with a cry of exultation, Madame Louison pounced upon her spouse, and carried him off to her shop. Nicholas caught a glimpse of him ineffectually struggling, like a white moth in a spider's clutches, as the lady drew him down into the hole he usually inhabited. Nicholas drew Gabrielle's arm through his, and she clung to him, otherwise she would have been swept away.
'We must escape as soon as possible,' said the young man; 'do not let go your hold, Gabrielle—I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle André. You must excuse me if I squeeze your arm, but I am so afraid of losing you.'
'Where is Madeleine?'
'Madeleine can take care of herself.'
'But where is she?'
'There—a little ahead of us; she has been drifted forward, we must try to reach her and link her on to us; it will not do to separate.'