CHAPTER VII
THE WIND
He had broken his futile lance with the windmill–the image
suggested by M. de Kercadiou persisted in his mind–and it was, he
perceived, by sheer good fortune that he had escaped without hurt.
There remained the wind itself–the whirlwind. And the events in
Rennes, reflex of the graver events in Nantes, had set that wind
blowing in his favour.
He set out briskly to retrace his steps towards the Place Royale, where the gathering of the populace was greatest, where, as he judged, lay the heart and brain of this commotion that was exciting the city.
But the commotion that he had left there was as nothing to the commotion which he found on his return. Then there had been a comparative hush to listen to the voice of a speaker who denounced the First and Second Estates from the pedestal of the statue of Louis XV. Now the air was vibrant with the voice of the multitude itself, raised in anger. Here and there men were fighting with canes and fists; everywhere a fierce excitement raged, and the gendarmes sent thither by the King's Lieutenant to restore and maintain order were so much helpless flotsam in that tempestuous human ocean.
There were cries of "To the Palais! To the Palais! Down with the assassins! Down with the nobles! To the Palais!"
An artisan who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the press enlightened André-Louis on the score of the increased excitement.
"They've shot him dead. His body is lying there where it fell at the foot of the statue. And there was another student killed not an hour ago over there by the cathedral works. Pardi! If they can't prevail in one way they'll
