"Has this rabble waylaid us to insult us?" asked Bigot. "But it can
hardly be that they knew of our return to the city to-day." The
Intendant began to jerk his horse round impatiently, but without
avail.
"Oh, no, your Excellency! it is the rabble which the Governor has
summoned to the King's corvee. They are paying their respects to
the Golden Dog, which is the idol the mob worships just now. They
did not expect us to interrupt their devotions, I fancy."
"The vile moutons! their fleece is not worth the shearing!"
exclaimed Bigot angrily, at the mention of the Golden Dog, which,
as he glanced upwards, seemed to glare defiantly upon him.
"Clear the way, villains!" cried Bigot loudly, while darting his
horse into the crowd. "Plunge that Flanders cart-horse of yours
into them, Cadet, and do not spare their toes!"
Cadet's rough disposition chimed well with the Intendant's wish.
"Come on, Varin, and the rest of you," cried he, "give spur, and
fight your way through the rabble."
The whole troop plunged madly at the crowd, striking right and left
with their heavy hunting-whips.
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