When they listened to him they felt better, nobler, less hopelessly degraded.
He kept up in their poor, misguided hearts that last flickering sense of manhood which their bloodthirsty tyrants, under the guise of Fraternity and Equality, were doing their best to smother.
Even now, when he might have turned the temper of the small crowd outside his door to his own advantage, he preferred to say nothing; he even pacified them with a gesture.
He well knew that those whom he incited against Merlin now would, once their blood was up, probably turn against him in less than half-an-hour.
Merlin, who all along had meant to return to the house, took his opportunity now.

He allowed Deroulede and the two men to go on ahead, and beat a hasty retreat back into the house, followed by the jeers of the women.
_"A la lanterne, vieux cretin!"_ they shouted as soon as the hall door was once more closed in their faces.

A few of them began hammering against the door with their fists; then they realised that their special favourite, Citizen-Deputy Deroulede, was marching along between two soldiers, as if he were a prisoner.

The word went round that he was under arrest, and was being taken to the Hall of Justice--a prisoner.
This was not to be.

The mob of Paris had been taught that it was the master in the city, and it had learned its lesson well.