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recognize this?"
"You are a worthless wretch," answered the Questor.
The police agents laid their hands on M. Baze. "You will not take me
away," he said. "You, a Commissary of Police, you, who are a magistrate,
and know what you are doing, you outrage the National Assembly, you
violate the law, you are a criminal!" A hand-to-hand struggle
ensued--four against one. Madame Baze and her two little girls giving
vent to screams, the servant being thrust back with blows by the
sergents de ville. "You are ruffians," cried out Monsieur Baze. They
carried him away by main force in their arms, still struggling, naked,
his dressing-gown being torn to shreds, his body being covered with
blows, his wrist torn and bleeding.
The stairs, the landing, the courtyard, were full of soldiers with fixed
bayonets and grounded arms. The Questor spoke to them. "Your
Representatives are being arrested, you have not received your arms to
break the laws!" A sergeant was wearing a brand-new cross. "Have you been
given the cross for this?" The sergeant answered, "We only know one
master." "I note your number," continued M. Baze. "You are a dishonored
regiment." The soldiers listened with a stolid air, and seemed still
asleep. Commissary Primorin said to them, "Do not answer, this has
nothing to do with you." They led the Questor across the courtyard to the
guard-house at the Porte Noire.
This was the name which was given to a little door contrived under the
vault opposite the treasury of the Assembly, and which opened upon the
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