ance. Their rallying cries were ringing through the theatre.

"Down with the canaille!" from some.

"Down with the privileged!" from others.

And then above the general din one cry rang out sharply and insistently:

"To the box! Death to the butcher of Rennes! Death to La Tour d'Azyr who
makes war upon the people!"

There was a rush for one of the doors of the pit that opened upon the
staircase leading to the boxes.

And now, whilst battle and confusion spread with the speed of fire,
overflowing from the theatre into the street itself, La Tour d'Azyr's
box, which had become the main object of the attack of the bourgeoisie,
had also become the rallying ground for such gentlemen as were present
in the theatre and for those who, without being men of birth themselves,
were nevertheless attached to the party of the nobles.

La Tour d'Azyr had quitted the front of the box to meet those who came
to join him. And now in the pit one group of infuriated gentlemen, in
attempting to reach the stage across the empty orchestra, so that they
might deal with the audacious comedian who was responsible for this
explosion, found themselves opposed and held back by another group
composed of men to whose feelings Andre-Louis had given expression.

Perceiving this, and remembering the chandelier, he turned to Leandre,
who had remained beside him.

"I think it is time to be going," said he.

Leandre, looking ghastly under his paint, appalled by the storm which
exceeded by far anything that his unimaginative brain could have
conjectured, gurgled an inarticulate agreement. But it looked as if
already they were too late, for in that moment they were assailed from
behind.

M. Binet had succeeded at last in breaking past Polichinelle and
Rhodomont, who in view of his murderous rage had been endeavouring to
restrain him. Half a dozen gentlemen, habitues of the green-room, had
come round to the stage to disembowel the knave who had created this
riot, and it was they who had flung aside those two comedians who hung
upon Binet. After him they came now, their swords out; but after them
again came Polichinelle, Rhodomont, Harlequin, Pierrot, Pasquariel,
and Basque the artist, armed with such implements as they could hastily
snatch up, and intent upon saving the man with whom they sympathized in
spite of all, and in whom now all their hopes were centred.

Well ahead rolled Binet, moving faster than any had ever seen him move,
and swinging t