Just in front of him, his eyes burning with a strange fire, sat Monsieur Valmond.

Parpon, beside him, hung over the back of a seat, his long arms stretched out, his hands applauding in a soundless way.

Beneath the sword of Louis the Martyr, the great treasure of the parish, presented to this church by Marie Antoinette, sat Monsieur Garon, his thin fingers pressed to his mouth as if to stop a sound.

Presently, out of pure spontaneity, there ran through the church like a soft chorus: "O, say, where goes your love?
O gai, vive le roi! He wears a silver sword, Vive Napoleon!" The thing was unprecedented.

Who had started it?
Afterwards some said it was Parpon, the now chosen comrade--or servant--of Valmond, who, people said, had given himself up to the stranger, body and soul; but no one could swear to that.