hey desired to win over the poor, for they are the most numerous.
On the fourth of May a particularly fine meeting was held in an old
cattle-market, situated in the centre of a populous suburb filled with
housewives sitting on the doorsteps and children playing in the gutters.
There were present about two thousand people, in the opinion of
the Republicans, and six thousand according to the reckoning of the
Dracophils. In the audience was to be seen the flower of Penguin
society, including Prince and Princess des Boscenos, Count Clena, M. de
La Trumelle, M. Bigourd, and several rich Jewish ladies.

The Generalissimo of the national army had come in uniform. He was
cheered.

The committee had been carefully formed. A man of the people, a workman,
but a man of sound principles, M. Rauchin, the secretary of the yellow
syndicate, was asked to preside, supported by Count Clena and M.
Michaud, a butcher.

The government which Penguinia had freely given itself was called by
such names as cesspool and drain in several eloquent speeches. But
President Formose was spared and no mention was made of Crucho or the
priests.

The meeting was not unanimous. A defender of the modern State and of the
Republic, a manual labourer, stood up.

"Gentlemen," said M. Rauchin, the chairman, "we have told you that this
meeting would not be unanimous. We are not like our opponents, we are
honest men. I allow our opponent to speak. Heaven knows what you are
going to hear. Gentlemen, I beg of you to restrain as long as you can
the expression of your contempt, your disgust, and your indignation."

"Gentlemen," said the opponent. . . .

Immediately he was knocked down, trampled beneath the feet of the
indignant crowd, and his unrecognisable remains thrown out of the hall.

The tumult was still resounding when Count Clena ascended the tribune.
Cheers took the place of groans and when silence was restored the orator
uttered these words:

"Comrades, we are going to see whether you have blood in your veins.
What we have got to do is to slaughter, disembowel, and brain all the
Republicans."

This speech let loose such a thunder of applause that the old shed
rocked with it, and a cloud of acrid and thick dust fell from its filthy
walls and worm-eaten beams and enveloped the audience.

A resolution was carried vilifying the government and acclaiming
Chatillon. And the audience departed singing the hymn of the liberator:
"It is Chatillon we want.