It was the end of July. Examinations over, I had come home for the vacation. Having thoroughly irritated me by clasping me to his breast, my father had me get into a carriage, my valise at our feet, and we took the road to the house, which was at the other end of the town, and on its outskirts, as I have elsewhere described. We were crossing the Market Square when a group of the lower sort of people cast hostile glances at us, accompanied by low growls; then some one cried, “Down with Rambert.” I turned in amazement to my father, who had made no reply, and was even smiling at those who insulted him;--oh, not that smile that I had already seen upon his lips when preparing for a conflict, but a smile almost of sympathy, of commiseration. Why this sudden unpopularity? They might refuse to elect him, but they had respected, and above all, feared him. The coachman had already whipped up his horse, a few hoots pursued us. I could not but ask what it all meant. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Some poor creatures. I will tell you about it.” The household rushed to the steps to meet us. It was the usual proceeding, at the return of each absent one. Grandfather alone did not stir, and I heard his violin giving forth its plaintive melody from the tower chamber. Father told of the manifestations of which we had been victims. “Oh, the wretches!” exclaimed Aunt Deen, who by reason of rheumatism in the leg limped a little, but whom years had robbed of none of her war-like virtue. “They came all the way here a while ago; they or some others. Fortunately the gate was closed.” She had barricaded us against “them,” our enemies. “Oh, my God!” murmured mother--“if only nothing happens to you, Michel!”