The news of the double murder was soon noised about the neighborhood,
and the crowd increased every minute. It filled the court, and
became bolder and bolder; the gendarmes were overwhelmed. Then or
never was the time for the mayor to show his authority. "I am going
to make these people listen to reason," said he, "and make them
retire." And at once, wiping his mouth, he threw his tumbled napkin
on the table, and went out.

It was time. The brigadier's injunctions were no longer heeded.
Some curious people, more eager than the rest, had flanked the
position and were forcing an entrance through the gate leading to
the garden. The mayor's presence did not perhaps intimidate the
crowd much, but it redoubled the energy of the gendarmes;
the vestibule was cleared, amid murmurings against the arm of the
law. What a chance for a speech! M. Courtois was not wanting to
the occasion. He believed that his eloquence, endowed with the
virtues of a cold showerbath, would calm this unwonted effervescence
of his constituency. He stepped forward upon the steps, his left
hand resting in the opening of his vest, gesturing with his right in
the proud and impassible attitude which the sculptor lends to great
orators. It was thus that he posed before his council when, finding
unexpected opposition, he undertook to impose his will upon them,
and recall the recalcitrant members to their duty.

His speech, in fragments, penetrated to the dining-room. According
as he turned to the right or to the left, his voice was clear and
distinct, or was lost in space. He said:

"Fellow-citizens, an atrocious crime, unheard of before in our