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The Pesident wildly rang his bell, and his voice, quivering with excitement, was heard once or twice above the din. "Clear the court! Clear the court!" But the people refused to be cleared out of court. "A la lanterne les traitres! Mort a Deroulede. A la lanterne! l'aristo!" And in the thickest of the crowd, the broad shoulders and massive head of Citizen Lenoir towered above the others.
A ragged petticoat, a greasy red kerchief round the head, a tattered, stained shift to this pass of squalor and shame had Liberty brought the daughters of France. And they jeered at any passer-by less filthy, less degraded than themselves. "Ah! voyons l'aristo!" they shouted every time a man in decent clothes, a woman with tidy cap and apron, passed swiftly down the street.
One woman tried to push past the soldiers, and to strike her in the face a woman! not thirty! and who was dragging a pale, squalid little boy by the hand. "Crache donc sur l'aristo, voyons!" the woman said to this poor, miserable litte scrap of humanity as the soldiers pushed her roughly aside. "Spit on the aristocrat!"
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