A step--that of a single individual--came bounding up the stair. My face was turned in its direction. I tried to look and yet keep my eyes fixed. The dull flapping light seconded my dissemblance; but the occasion braced me like a tonic, and I was determined to strike, if need were, with all the force of the pugnacious wit I represented. Suddenly I saw a white, fearful countenance come over the stair-head--shoulders, legs, a complete form. It was that of an ugly stunted man of fifty, whose knees shook, whose cheeks quivered like a blanc-mange. He ran hither and thither, sobbing and muttering to himself. “Quick, quick! who?--Mirabeau? A brave thought, a magnificent thought! My God!--will they fathom it? I have his brow--his scornful air of insistence. My God, my God!--that I should sink to be one of my own puppets!” Astounded, I realised the truth. This poltroon--the very proprietor of the show--was in my own actual case, and had hit upon a like way out of his predicament. I saw him seize and trundle the ridiculous presentment of M. Mirabeau to the room end, and then fling it hurriedly down and kick it--the insolent jackass!--under the curtain. I saw him run back and pose himself--with a fatuous vanity even in his terror--as that massive autocrat of the Assembly; and then, with a clap and a roar, I heard at last the hounds of pursuit break covert below and come yelling up the stairs. I do not think I shook; yet it seemed impossible that they could pass me by. There were one or two amongst them I thought I recognised as Carinne’s captors; but they were all hideous, frantic shapes, elf-locked, malodorous, bestial and drunk with blood. They uttered discordant cries as they came scrambling into the room; and by a flickering at the nape of his neck I could see that my fellow-sufferer was unable to control the throaty rising of his agitation. Suddenly a horrible silence befell. One of the intruders, a powerful young ruffian of a malignant jesting humour, put his comrades back and silenced them with an arm. His bloodshot eyes were fascinating poor Mirabeau; slowly he raised a finger and pointed it at the creature. The bubbles seemed to fly up the latter’s neck as if his heart were turned into water. It was a terrible moment--then, all at once, the whole room echoed with demon laughter. “Mother of Christ! what cunning!” “But, my God! he is a fine libel on the king of patriots!” “See! the works have not run down. He twitches yet from his last performance!” “He makes himself a show to the people. He shall be given a lamp in the yard of the Abbaye.” The figure fell upon its knees with a choking shriek. “Messieurs! I acted upon my first instinct of preservation! I had no thought, I swear it, to insult the great or to question the majesty of the people. Messieurs, I detest aristocrats and applaud your method of dealing with them. _Merci! merci!_ I am a poor exhibitor of waxworks; an excellent patriot and a servant of the public.”