But Colomban did not condescend to see or hear anything.
As, at the entrance to the Rue St.Orberosia, he was posting one of his squares of paper bearing the words: Pyrot is innocent, Maubec is guilty, the riotous crowd showed signs of the most violent anger.

They called after him, "Traitor, thief, rascal, scoundrel." A woman opened a window and emptied a vase full of filth over his head, a cabby sent his hat flying from one end of the street to the other by a blow of his whip amid the cheers of the crowd who now felt themselves avenged.

A butcher's boy knocked Colomban with his paste-pot, his brush, and his posters, from the top of his ladder into the gutter, and the proud Penguins then felt the greatness of their country.

Colomban stood up, covered with filth, lame, and with his elbow injured, but tranquil and resolute.
"Low brutes," he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
Then he went down on all-fours in the gutter to look for his glasses which he had lost in his fall.

It was then seen that his coat was split from the collar to the tails and that his trousers were in rags.