Let the reader picture to himself in bacchanal form, Salvator Rosa's battle.

There were no longer either scholars or ambassadors or bourgeois or men or women; there was no longer any Clopin Trouillefou, nor Gilles Lecornu, nor Marie Quatrelivres, nor Robin Poussepain.

All was universal license.

The grand hall was no longer anything but a vast furnace of effrontry and joviality, where every mouth was a cry, every individual a posture; everything shouted and howled.

The strange visages which came, in turn, to gnash their teeth in the rose window, were like so many brands cast into the brazier; and from the whole of this effervescing crowd, there escaped, as from a furnace, a sharp, piercing, stinging noise, hissing like the wings of a gnat.
"Ho he! curse it!" "Just look at that face!" "It's not good for anything." "Guillemette Maugerepuis, just look at that bull's muzzle; it only lacks the horns.