The rough-looking man opened the door, and silently extended a hand to
Rameau, saying gently: "Take my advice, _mon bourgeois_. Get out--we
want your carriage. It is a day of barricades--every little helps, even
your coupe!"

While this man spoke others gesticulated; some shrieked out, "He is an
employer! he thinks he can drive over the employed!"

Some leader of the crowd--a Parisian crowd always has a classical leader,
who has never read the classics--thundered forth, "Tarquin's car! Down
with Tarquin!" Therewith came a yell, "_A la lanterne_--Tarquin!"

We Anglo-Saxons, of the old country or the new, are not familiarised to
the dread roar of a populace delighted to have a Roman authority for
tearing us to pieces; still Americans know what is Lynch law. Rameau was
in danger of Lynch law, when suddenly a face not unknown to him
interposed between himself and the rough-looking man.

"Ha!" cried this new comer, "my young confrere, Gustave Rameau, welcome!
Citizens, make way. I answer for this patriot--I, Armand Monnier. He
comes to help use! Is this the way you receive him?" Then in a low
voice to Rameau, "Come out. Give your coupe to the barricade. What
matters such rubbish? Trust to me--I expected you. Hist!--Lebeau bids
me see that you are safe." Rameau then, seeking to drape himself in
majesty,--as the aristocrats of journalism in a city wherein no other
aristocracy is recognised naturally and commendably do, when ignorance
combined with physical strength asserts itself to be a power, beside
which the power of knowledge is what a learned poodle is to a tiger--
Rameau then descended from his coupe, and said to this Titan of labour,
as a French marquis might have said to his valet, and as, when the French