‘Are we going the right way, Monsieur Étienne?’ asked Gabrielle, timidly, for she was so bewildered by the novelty of her position, that she thought the streets of Paris a tangle in which none could fail to lose the way. ‘Be not afraid, we are bound for the street S. Antoine. I know the road. I was here only five years ago, and Paris is not a place to change in a hurry.’ Just then they heard a body of voices shouting a song. Gabrielle looked round, and exclaimed:-- ‘Oh, Monsieur Étienne, here is a great mob advancing. What is to be done?’ ‘Do not be afraid,’ answered the little man; ‘listen, what is it they are chanting?’ The words were audible. As the band approached, every man, woman, and child joined in the song:-- ‘Vive le tiers état de France! Il aura la prépondérance Sur le prince, sur le prélat. Ahi! povera nobilita! Le plébéien, puits de science, En lumières, en expérience, Surpasse le prêtre et magistrat, Ahi! povera nobilita!’ Percenez took off his hat, and waved it with a cheer. On they came, a legion, a billow of human beings, bearing before them an effigy, raised aloft, of a large man with a white waistcoat, a snuff-coloured coat, a powdered wig, and wearing a decoration, the _cordon-noir_. The figure rocked upon the shoulders of the men who carried it, and the bystanders hooted and laughed. Away before the mob flew the hackney coaches and the wheeled chairs, like the ‘povera nobilita’ escaping from the rising people. Heads appeared at the windows; from some casements kerchiefs were fluttered; from most, faces looked down without expressing special interest or enthusiasm. The little brown colporteur caught the sleeve of a man who sold onions. ‘What effigy is that?’ he asked. ‘That is Réveillon,’ was the answer. ‘And who is he?’ ‘A paper-maker.’ ‘Why are the mob incensed against him?’ ‘He has made a great fortune, and is now bent on reducing the wages of his workmen.’ ‘Is that all?’ ‘And he has received, or is about to receive, a decoration.’ Percenez shrugged his shoulders; the onion-seller did the same. ‘Monsieur Étienne!’ said Gabrielle, timidly; ‘do let us retire before this crowd. It will swallow us up.’ ‘You are right, child; we will get out of the way. I have no interest in this affair.’ He drew her back into a large doorway with a wicket gate in it. They stepped through this wicket into the carriage-way to the yard within. A violent barking saluted them. At the same moment, a gentleman emerged upon one of the galleries that surrounded the court, and, leaning on the balcony, called-- ‘Gustave!’ ‘Eh, monsieur?’ exclaimed the porter, starting from his room. ‘Shut and lock the door, before the mob come up.’