"No matter," he said frowning.
"But this is murder!"
Two or three shivered, and some looked sullenly from me, but the blacksmith only shrugged his shoulders. Still I did not despair, I was going to say more--to try threats, even prayers; but before I could speak, the man nearest to the windows raised his hand for silence, and we heard the distant riot sink, and in the momentary quiet which followed the sharp report of a gun ring out, succeeded by another and another. Then a roar of rage--distinct, articulate, full of menace.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" I cried, looking round, while I trembled with indignation, "I cannot stand this! Will no one act? Will no one do anything? There must be some authority. There must be some one to curb this canaille; or presently, I warn you, I warn you all, that they will cut your throats also; yours, M. l'Avoué, and yours, Doury!"
"There was some one; and he is dead," Buton answered. The rest of the Committee fidgeted gloomily.
"And was he the only one?"
"They've killed him," the smith said bluntly. "They must take the consequences."
"They?" I cried, in a passion of wrath and pity. "Ay, and you! And you! I tell you that you are using this scum of the people to crush your enemies! But presently they will crush you too!"
Still no one spoke, no one answered me; no eyes met mine; then I saw how it was; that nothing I could say would move them; and I turned without another word, and I ran downstairs. I knew already, or could guess, whither the crowd had gone, and whence came the shouting and the shots; and the moment I reached the Square I turned in the direction of the St. Alais' house, and ran through the streets; through quiet streets under windows from which women looked down white and curious, past neat green blinds of modern houses, past a few staring groups; ran on, with all about me smiling, but always with that murmur in my ears, and at my heart grim fear.
They were sacking the St. Alais' house! And Mademoiselle! And Madame!