The rancour of the crowd grew stronger.
On the other side of the street stretched the big St.Orberosian Stores.
The patriots seized whatever they could lay their hands on from the shop front, and hurled at Colomban oranges, lemons, pots of jam, pieces of chocolate, bottles of liqueurs, boxes of sardines, pots of foie gras, hams, fowls, flasks of oil, and bags of haricots.

Covered with the debris of the food, bruised, tattered, lame, and blind, he took to flight, followed by the shop-boys, bakers, loafers, citizens, and hooligans whose number increased each moment and who kept shouting: "Duck him! Death to the traitor! Duck him!" This torrent of vulgar humanity swept along the streets and rushed into the Rue St.Mael.
The police did their duty.

From all the adjacent streets constables proceeded and, holding their scabbards with their left hands, they went at full speed in front of the pursuers.

They were on the point of grabbing Colomban in their huge hands when he suddenly escaped them by falling through an open man-hole to the bottom of a sewer.
He spent the night there in the darkness, sitting close by the dirty water amidst the fat and slimy rats.

He thought of his task, and his swelling heart filled with courage and pity.