me with a chair."

And soon the man reappears, carrying on his right shoulder, Napoleon
III. in plaster, and holding in his left hand a straw-bottomed chair.

Massarel met him, took the chair, placed it on the ground, put the
white image upon it, fell back a few steps and called out, in sonorous
voice:

"Tyrant! Tyrant! Here do you fall! Fall in the dust and in the mire. An
expiring country groans under your feet. Destiny has called you the
Avenger. Defeat and shame cling to you. You fall conquered, a prisoner
to the Prussians, and upon the ruins of the crumbling Empire the young
and radiant Republic arises, picking up your broken sword."

He awaited applause. But there was no voice, no sound. The bewildered
peasants remained silent. And the bust, with its pointed mustaches
extending beyond the cheeks on each side, the bust, so motionless and
well groomed as to be fit for a hairdressers sign, seemed to be looking
at M. Massarel with a plaster smile, a smile ineffaceable and mocking.

They remained thus face to face, Napoleon on the chair, the doctor in
front of him about three steps away. Suddenly the Commander grew angry.
What was to be done? What was there that would move this people, and
bring about a definite victory in opinion? His hand happened to rest on
his hip and to come in contact there with the butt end of his revolver,
under his red sash. No inspiration, no further word would come. But he
drew his pistol, advanced two steps, and, taking aim, fired at the late
monarch. The ball entered the forehead, leaving a little, black hole,
like a spot, nothing more. There was no effect. Then he fired a second
shot, which made a second hole, then, a third; and then, without
stopping, he emptied his revolver. The brow of Napoleon disappeared in
white powder, but the eyes, the nose, and the fine points of the
mustaches remained intact. Then, exasperated, the doctor overturned the
chair with a blow of his fist and, resting a foot on the remainder of
the bust in a position of triumph, he shouted: "So let all tyrants
perish!"

Still no enthusiasm was manifest, and as the spectators seemed to be in
a kind of stupor from astonishment, the Commander called to the
militiamen: "You may now go to your homes." And he went toward his own
house with great strides, as if he were pursued.

His maid, when he appeared, told him that some patients had been
waiting in his office for three hours. He hastened in. There were the
two