Deputy Jean Boulot did not approve of such sentiments. To yell "Ça Ira" in discordant chorus--to gambol in the mazes of a dance which bore some distorted rustic resemblance to the Carmagnole--these were safe and harmless outlets for feverish activity. But honest Jean had the cause of the people too deeply at heart to allow his adherents to disgrace it. Before reaching Montbazon, therefore, he got on a great stone in the middle of a field, and harangued his little army. He would have no unnecessary violence, he roundly declared. Whatever the conduct of the towns had been, the country parts of Touraine had been conspicuous for decency. Unless his hearers promised to obey, he would shake the dust from off his feet and leave them. The three wretches had been delivered by God into their hands. The sovereign people should do what they chose with the at-present-offending vermin, but the innocent should be protected. The de Vaux family knew nothing of the tragedy, had instantly succoured the suffering marquise, when he, Jean, had placed her under their protection, and it would be an evil and disgraceful thing if their reward was to be the destruction of their property. The people hearkened and applauded. Brave Jean, honest clearheaded Jean, an honour to the province, and to France! Of course he should be obeyed, provided he did not strive to shelter his late master. "Ça ira, Ça ira! Quick, quick, no more delay." Jean looking round was satisfied, for with Heaven's help, he saw his way to save Montbazon from pillage. It was with some relief that on mounting by means of a ladder to the top of the gateway, and surveying the vast seething sea of heads below, and the forest of glinting scythes, the baron beheld a man come forward whom he had personally known for years. He had disliked the man, and somewhat dreaded him for his treasonable preachings to the rustics. "A dangerous firebrand," he had always declared, "who will do a deal of mischief;" but as the sanguinary chronicle of history unrolled itself, marked with many smears, he had been compelled to admit that the whilom gamekeeper in authority at Blois had shown both discretion and forbearance. A Collot d'Herbois or a Marat might have headed this vast concourse. There was hope in the fact that the presiding chief was one who could listen to reason. "I am sorry to see you, Jean Boulot," the baron began, curtly, "at the head of a menacing throng. Are you here as a patron of grave-diggers?" "You know what we are here for, and what we justly demand," returned Boulot, as shortly. The sturdy knave! A queer dignity sat upon him like that which is worn by a successful general who has risen from the ranks. "Demand! H'm!" echoed the baron. "A strange word as addressed by you to me."