“But that is true!” cried a voice from the stairs. “This is little Tic-tac, that helped to decorate the Capet’s chariot on the day of the Hôtel de Ville.” The mob grunted over this advocate. “But he helped a prisoner to escape.” (Was there another, then, in the same plight as myself?) “Messieurs! he asked the way of me, as any stranger might!” “_Malepeste!_ if thou tell’st us so! But thou hast dared to personate a God!” “Messieurs, he lent his countenance to me, as ever to the unfortunate.” The answer raised a roar of approbation. “_Comme il est fin!_ take thy goose-skin! and yet we must tax thee somehow.” “Let us destroy this show that he has profaned!” My heart seemed to shrink into itself. I suffered--I suffered; but fortunately for a few moments only. With the words on his lips, the fellow that had spoken slashed with his sabre, over the kneeling showman’s head, amongst the staring effigies. The whistle of his weapon made me blink. What did it matter?--the end must come now. It was not as I foresaw. The waxen head spun into the air--the figure toppled against that standing next to it--that against its neighbour--its neighbour against me. I saw what was my cue, and went down in my turn, stiffly, with a dusty flop, twisting to my side as I fell, and hoping that he whom I was bowling over in due order was rich in padding. Nevertheless I was horribly bruised. There was a howl of laughter. “_Mor’ Dieu!_ but five at a blow!” cried the executioner. “This is better than the one to fifty yonder!” and he came running to read the names of those he had overturned. “Necker! it is right that he should be pictured fallen. Pitt--Beaumarchais! ha, ha, little toad! where are those patriot muskets? in your breeches-pocket? but I will cut them out!” Now I gave up all for lost. He stepped back to get his distance--there came a crash by the stairway, and the room was plunged in darkness. One of the mob had swung up his weapon over a figure, and had knocked out the lantern with a back-handed blow. It is the little incidents of life that are prolific as insects. The situation resolved itself into clamour and laughter and a boisterous groping of the company down the black stairway. In a minute the place was silent and deserted. I lay still, as yet awaiting developments. I could not forget that M. Tic-tac, as a pronounced patriot, might not honour my confidence. For my escape, it must have been as I supposed. Another victim, eluding the murderers, had drawn them off my scent, and the showman had effected yet a second cross-current. He was indeed fortunate to have kept a whole skin. Presently I heard him softly stirring and moaning to himself. “_Misérable!_ to have dishonoured my _rôle_! Would _he_ have succumbed thus to an accident? But I am like him--yes, I am like him, for all they may say.”