The elder lady, marvellously handsome in her excitement, stood up in full view of the crowd. Her cheeks were flushed; her large black eyes flashed with surprising brilliancy; her lips were firm and compressed; and she gazed at the mob in scornful disdain. At first the people laughed good-naturedly, telling her that if she would cry "Down with Conde!" they would let her carriage pass. Then some of the fiercer ones pressing closer, used threats, but Madame Coutance, either reckless from excitement or not understanding the danger, only smiled. Raoul and I had reached the fringe of the now angry crowd, when, turning round at a touch on my shoulder, I perceived my English friend. "What is it?" he asked. "Another revolution?" "The people are trying to force a woman to cry 'Down with Conde.'" "There's her answer," said he, as in a clear ringing voice Madame Coutance cried aloud, "Pah! You are not good enough for Conde to wipe his boots on!" There was no disguising the bitterness of the insult. The aristocrat flung it at them, flung it fight in their faces, and laughed as she saw it strike home. A howl of rage greeted the taunt, and, listening to the wild, fierce yell--so different from the noisy bravado of a few minutes before, I shuddered; there was something so stern and purposeful about it. For fully a minute each man stood in his place, nursing the insult he had received; then, as if by one common impulse, the whole body sprang at the carriage. The uproar waxed furious; the narrow street became a pandemonium; in their savage eagerness the people struggled and fought without order or method. The occupants of the houses on both sides, joining in the fray, showered missiles on the excited mob; the horses, maddened by the din, kicked and plunged; men shouted and women screamed; while Marie's aunt stood laughing defiantly at the monster her words had conjured up. She had thrown one arm around her niece as if to protect her, and confronted the mob with flashing eyes and scornful brow. At the first sign of danger we had drawn our swords; now, flinging ourselves headlong into the press, we struck out fiercely to right and left, trying to force a passage to the carriage. Raoul cut and thrust in gallant style, and all the time he shouted with the full power of his lungs, "Orleans! Orleans! To me, friends of Orleans." I, taking my cue, yelled for Conde; the Englishman shouted, "Way for the Queen's Guards," while the mob endeavoured to drown our appeals by the ugly menace of "Death to the Nobles!" There was scant leisure in which to look at the ladies, but Madame Coutance did not once alter her position, nor try to hide the sneering smile on her face. Meanwhile our lusty shouts had brought assistance. Several Black Mantles, fearful lest the riot should spread, fought with us; a couple of gentlemen, responding to the cry of "Conde!" had dashed in behind me, and presently from the street corner came a shout of "Beauchamp! Beauchamp!"