Monsieur Clemenceau had never ceased to watch Louis Blanc, but now he let his eyes wander over the faces of the crowd. For half a minute he remained silent, eyelids half closed, his head sunk between his shoulders. Anatole was holding Manon’s arm and whispering something in her ear. Lefèbre looked round at these people of his, and his eyes blessed them.
Clemenceau was speaking again.
“Is there anyone in this crowd who has anything to bring against Madame Latour’s partner?”
There was a short silence, but no one spoke.
“Nothing? Is there anyone here who can speak in his favour?”
Half a dozen voices were raised at once.
“Yes, monsieur, he has helped many of us.”
“He worked at my chimney.”
“He helped me with my roof.”
“And mine.”