"It is serious this time," cried the marquis. "Adieu, my brave fellow." Another tapestry flared up, slowly burning. "Let us take toll, François. Come!"
"Good, monsieur! But my fool here—"
At this moment the crowd at the door divided. A dozen soldiers broke in, and with them the man of the wart—Grégoire.
"Dame!" cried François; "the Commissioner Grégoire! The wart! It is time to leave."
"Order, here," shouted Grégoire, "in the name of the law!" The guard pushed in and made a lane. One or two persistent rioters were collared and passed out. A dead silence fell on all. The shreds of the tapestry dropped. The mob fell back.
"Help! help!" cried Pierre.
"Morbleu! dost thou want to die?"
"It is over," said the marquis. "I prefer my peasants."
Grégoire called out, "Where is the mayor?" A reluctant little man appeared.
"Commissioner, these men have slain citizens," he said.