His yells produced an indescribable effect. The crowd had smelt blood. In a moment it became a savage pack. On all sides swords were drawn. The red flag appeared in the windows of the houses. And old memories of Parisian revolutions prompted them to build a barricade. The stones were torn up from the street, the gas lamps were wrenched away, trees were pulled up, an omnibus was overturned. A trench that had been left open for months in connection with work on the Métropolitain was turned to account. The cast-iron railings round the trees were broken up and used as missiles. Weapons were brought out of pockets and from the houses. In less than an hour the scuffle had grown into an insurrection: the whole district was in a state of siege. And, on the barricade, was Christophe, unrecognizable, shouting his revolutionary song, which was taken up by a score of voices. Olivier had been carried to Amélie’s. He was unconscious. He had been laid on a bed in the dark back-shop. At the foot of the bed stood the hunchback, numbed and distraught. At first Berthe had been overcome with emotion: at a distance she had thought it was Graillot who had been wounded, and, when she recognized Olivier, her first exclamation had been:
“What a good thing! I thought it was Léopold.”
But now she was full of pity. And she kissed Olivier and held his head on the pillow. With her usual calmness Amélie had undone his clothes and dressed his wound. Manousse Heimann was there, fortunately, with his inseparable Canet. Like Christophe they had come out of curiosity to see the demonstration: they had been present at the affray and seen Olivier fall. Canet was blubbering like a child: and at the same time he was thinking:
“What on earth am I doing here?”
Manousse examined Olivier: at once he saw that it was all over. He had a great feeling for Olivier: but he was not a man to worry about what can’t be helped: and he turned his thoughts to Christophe. He admired Christophe though he regarded him as a pathological case. He knew his ideas about the Revolution: and he wanted to deliver him from the idiotic danger he was running in a cause that was not his own. The risk of a broken head in the scuffle was not the only one: if Christophe were taken, everything pointed to his being used as an example and getting more than he bargained for. Manousse had long ago been warned that the police had their eye on Christophe: they would saddle him not only with his own follies but with those of others. Xavier Bernard, whom Manousse had just encountered, prowling through the crowd, for his own amusement as well as in pursuit of duty, had nodded to him as he passed and said:
“That Krafft of yours is an idiot. Would you believe that he’s putting himself up as a mark on the barricade! We shan’t miss him this time. You’d better get him out of harm’s way.”
That was easier said than done. If Christophe were to find out that Olivier was dying he would become a raging madman, he would go out to kill, he would be killed. Manousse said to Bernard:
“If he doesn’t go at once, he’s done for. I’ll try and take him away.”
“How?”
“In Canet’s motor. It’s over there at the corner of the street.”
“Please, please. …” gulped Canet.
“You must take him to Laroche,” Manousse went on. “You will get there in time to catch the Pontarlier express. You must pack him off to Switzerland.”
“He won’t go.”
“He will. I’ll tell him that Jeannin will follow him, or has already gone.”
Without paying any attention to Canet’s objections Manousse set out to find Christophe on the barricade. He was not very courageous, he started every time he heard a shot: and he counted the cobblestones over which he stepped—(odd or even), to make out his chances of being killed. He did not stop, but went through with it. When he reached the barricade he found Christophe, perched on a wheel of the overturned omnibus, amusing himself by firing pistol-shots into the air. Round the barricade the riffraff of Paris, spewed up from the gutters, had swollen up like the dirty water from a sewer after heavy rain. The original combatants were drowned by it. Manousse shouted to Christophe, whose back was turned to him. Christophe did not hear him. Manousse climbed up to him and plucked at his sleeve. Christophe pushed him away and almost knocked him down. Manousse stuck to it, climbed up again, and shouted:
“Jeannin. …”
In the uproar the rest of the sentence was lost. Christophe stopped short, dropped his revolver, and, slipping down from his scaffolding, he rejoined Manousse, who started pulling him away.
“You must clear out,” said Manousse.
“Where is Olivier?”
“You must clear out,” repeated Manousse.
“Why?” said Christophe.
“The barricade will be captured in an hour. You will be arrested tonight.”
“What have I done?”
“Look at your hands. … Come! … There’s no room for doubt, they won’t spare you. Everybody recognized you. You’ve not got a moment to lose.”
“Where is Olivier?”
“At home.”
“I’ll go and join him.”
“You can’t do that. The police are waiting for you at the door. He sent me to warn you. You must cut and run.”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“To Switzerland. Canet will take you out of this in his car.”
“And Olivier?”
“There’s no time to talk. …”
“I won’t go without seeing him.”
“You’ll see him there. He’ll join you tomorrow. He’ll go by the first train. Quick! I’ll explain.”
He caught hold of Christophe. Christophe was dazed by the noise and the wave of madness that had rushed through him, could not understand what he had done and
