HULIN. I am not afraid of the storm. Everything I have told you, comrade, doesn't make me any more afraid. I am not afraid for my own skin. But I don't see even the first rain-drop. If your eyes are better than mine, show me! And wherever there is a good blow needed, be assured I shall be ready. Lead me, show me the road; what must I do? HOCHE. There is no settled plan. Watch and see what happens. When the storm comes, hold fast and run with it. Meantime, let us proceed as usual--and sell our waistcoats. [_The Crowd again inundates the stage. Cries and laughter are heard. An Urchin of four or five is carried on the shoulders of a huge Porter._ LA CONTAT, DESMOULINS, _and the rest follow them, laughing._] THE URCHIN [_screaming_]. Down with the aristos, the aristocracks, the aristaustrians! HULIN. Now what are they playing at? Ah, their favorite amusement: abusing the aristocrats. THE PORTER. Attention, Voice of the People! What shall we condemn them to? Hey, there, Monsieur, don't you hear me, Leonidas? What'll we do to Artois? THE URCHIN. The pillory! THE PORTER. And Polignac? THE URCHIN. A flogging! THE PORTER. And Condé? THE URCHIN. The gallows! THE PORTER. And the Queen? THE URCHIN. To the--! [_The Crowd bursts into loud laughter, cheering the Urchin, who cries aloud, inflated by his success. The Porter continues on his way with the boy._] LA CONTAT. The dear child! He makes me die laughing. DESMOULINS. Let's follow them. Bravo, terror of the aristos!--Messieurs, young Leonidas has forgotten one of our friends, Monsieur de Vintimille, Marquis de Castelnau. HULIN [_to_ HOCHE]. Listen, he's speaking of my master. DESMOULINS. We surely owe him something. The Marshal has just appointed him guard over the Bastille, with M. de Launey, and he has promised that within two days, we shall go and ask pardon of him, barefooted and with ropes round our necks. I propose that one of us make a present of his rope to that friend of the people. THE CROWD. Burn him! He lives near! Burn his house--his furniture--his wife--his children! VINTIMILLE [_appearing in the midst of the Crowd, cold and ironic_]. Messieurs-- LA CONTAT. God save us! HULIN. Hoche! [_He takes hold of_ HOCHE'S _arm._] HOCHE. What's the matter? HULIN. It's he! HOCHE. Who? HULIN. Vintimille. VINTIMILLE. Messieurs, M. de Vintimille's upholsterer asks permission to speak.-- THE CROWD. Hear the upholsterer!