The householder answered an insistent knocking and when he opened the door a neighbour, screaming obscenities, ran him through. His son rushed downstairs to see what the fracas was about. He was grabbed and stabbed several times. He staggered into the street, where he died. Mathurin’s wife, Françoise, threw herself from an upstairs window in a bid to escape the assassins. She broke both her legs in the fall. Friends tried to hide her but, by now, the mob’s blood was up. They were forcing their way into homes in their search for more victims. Finding Françoise, they dragged her through the streets by her hair. They cut off her hands in order to get her gold bracelets. What was left of the poor woman was impaled on a spit and paraded through the streets of Paris as a gory trophy, before being dumped in the Seine which was already streaked with red. On the streets panic reigned. Church bells were ringing. Shots were being fired. As the carnage intensified the air filled with more human sounds – shouts of triumph, religious slogans, screams of fear.
