The troopers left the Maire exposed--not one drew his sword in his defence.

In vain did he summon them, in the name of the law, and by the weapons they wore, to render aid to the magistrate against assassins--in vain did he seize the bridle of one of the horsemen near him, crying, "_Help, my friends_." Struck by blows of pitchforks and guns, at the moment when he appealed to the soldiery, he fell, shot, grasping in his hands the bridle of the cowardly trooper whom he was entreating: the fellow, in order to disengage himself, struck with the back of his sabre the arm of the Maire already dead, and left his body to the insults of the people.

The miscreants, remaining in possession of the carcase, brutally mangled the palpitating limbs, and deliberated together as to cutting off the head.
The leaders made their followers defile passing over the body of the Maire, and trampling in his blood.

Then they went away beating their drums, and went to get drunk in the suburbs; and the taking away the grain, the apparent motive of the riot, was neglected in the moment of triumph.

There was no pillage--either the blood made the people forget their hunger, or their hunger was but the pretext for assassination.
III.
At the moment when all was thus crumbling to pieces round the throne, a man, celebrated by the vast part attributed to him in the common ruin, sought to reconcile himself with the king: this was Louis-Philippe Joseph, Duc d'Orleans, first prince of the blood.