There he found Lerac, the foreman of the slaughter-house. The butcher
was pale with excitement. His rough clothing was dishevelled; his
stringy black hair stood up uncouthly in the centre of his head, while
over his temples it was plastered down with perspiration and suet
pleasingly mingled.

"Well?" he exclaimed, with triumphant interrogation.

"Good," said Morot. "Very good. It marches, my friend. It marches
already."

"Ah! But you are right. The People see you--it is a power!"

"It is," acquiesced Morot fervently.

How he hated this man!

"And you stayed to the last?" inquired Lerac. He was rather white about
the lips for a brave man.

"Till the last," echoed Morot, taking up some letters addressed to him
which lay on the table.

"And the street was quite clear before they broke through the barrier?"

"Quite--the People did not wait." He seemed to resign himself to
conversation, for he put the letters into his pocket and sat down. "Had
you," he inquired, "any difficulty in getting them away?"