In the Quarter

La nuit lui prête son mystère,
Il doit finir – il doit finir avec le jour.

The song of Hélène ceased. Gethryn leaned out and gazed down at the lighted windows under his. Suddenly the light went out. He heard someone open the window, and straining his eyes, could just discern the dim outline of a head and shoulders, unmistakably those of a girl. She had perched herself on the windowsill. Presently she began to hum the air, then to sing it softly. Gethryn waited until the words came again:

Oui, c'est un rêve –

and then struck in with a very sweet baritone:

Oui, c'est un rêve –

She never moved, but her voice swelled out fresh and clear in answer to his, and a really charming duet came to a delightful finish. Then she looked up. Gethryn was reckless now.

``Shall it be, then, only a dream?'' he laughed. Was it his fate that made him lean out and whisper, ``Is it, then, only a dream, Hélène?''

There was nothing but the rustling of the chestnut branches to answer his folly. Not another sound. He was half inclined to shut his window and go in, well satisfied with the silence and beginning to feel sleepy. All at once from below came a faint laugh, and as he leaned out he caught the words:

``Paris, Hélène bids you good night!''

``Ah, Belle Hélène!'' – he began, but was cut short by the violent opening of a window opposite.

``Bon dieu de bon dieu!'' howled an injured gentleman. ``To sleep is impossible, tas d'imbeciles! – ''

And Hélène's window closed with a snap.

Two

The day broke hot and stifling. The first sunbeams which chased the fog from bridge and street also drove the mists from the cool thickets of the Luxembourg Garden, and revealed groups of dragoons picketed in the shrubbery.

``Dragoons in the Luxembourg!'' cried the gamins to each other. ``What for?''

But even the gamins did not know – yet.

At the great Ateliers of Messieurs Bouguereau and Lefebvre the first day of the week is the busiest – and so, this being Monday, the studios were crowded.

The heat was suffocating. The walls, smeared with the refuse of a hundred palettes, fairly sizzled as they gave off a sickly odor of paint and turpentine. Only two poses had been completed, but the tired models stood or sat, glistening with perspiration. The men drew and painted, many of them stripped to the waist. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke and the respiration of some two hundred students of half as many nationalities.

``Dieu! quel chaleur!'' gasped a fat little Frenchman, mopping his clipped head and breathing hard.

``Clifford,'' he inquired in English, ``ees eet zat you haf a so great – a – heat chez vous?''

Clifford glanced up from his easel. ``Heat in New York? My dear Deschamps, this is nothing.''

The other eyed him suspiciously.

``You know New York is the capital of Galveston?'' said Clifford, slapping on a brush full of color and leaning back to look at it.

The Frenchman didn't know, but he nodded.

``Well, that's very far south. We suffer – yes, we suffer, but our poor poultry suffer more.''

``Ze – ze pooltree? Wat eez zat?''

Clifford explained.

``In summer the fire engines are detailed to throw water on the hens to keep their feathers from singeing. Singeing spoils the flavor.''

The Frenchman growled.

``One of our national institutions is the `Hen's Mutual Fire Insurance Company,' supported by the Government,'' added Clifford.

Deschamps snorted.

``That is why,'' put in Rhodes, lazily dabbing at his canvas, ``why we seldom have omelets – the eggs are so apt to be laid fried.''

``How, zen, does eet make ze chicken?'' spluttered the Frenchman, his wrath rising.

``Our chickens are also – '' a torrent of bad language from Monsieur Deschamps, and a howl of execration from all the rest, silenced Clifford.

``It's too hot for that sort of thing,'' pleaded Elliott.

``Idiot!'' muttered the Frenchman, shooting ominous glances at the bland youth, who saw nothing.

``C'est l'heure,'' cried a dozen voices, and the tired model stretched his cramped limbs. Clifford rose, dropped a piece of charcoal down on his neighbor's neck, and stepping across Thaxton's easel, walked over to Gethryn.

``Rex, have you heard the latest?''

``No.''

``The Ministry has fallen again, and the Place de la Concorde is filled with people yelling, A bas la Republique! Vive le General Boulanger!''

Gethryn looked serious. Clifford went on, speaking low.

``I saw a troop of cavalry going over this morning, and old Forain told me just now that the regiments at Versailles were ready to move at a minute's notice.''

``I suppose things are lively across the river,'' said Gethryn.

``Exactly, and we're all going over to see the fun. You'll come?''

``Oh, I'll come. Hello! here's Rhodes; tell him.''

Rhodes knew. Ministry fallen. Mob at it some more. Been fired on by the soldiers once. Pont Neuf and the Arc guarded by cannon. Carleton came hurrying up.

``The French students are loose and raising Cain. We're going to assist at the show. Come along.''

``No,'' growled Braith, and looked hard at Rex.

``Oh, come along! We're all going,'' said Carleton, ``Elliott, Gethryn, the Colossus, Thaxton, Clifford.''

Braith turned sharply to Rex. ``Yes, going to get your heads smashed by a bullet or carved by a saber. What for? What business is it of yours?''