In the Quarter

``Braith thinks he looks like a Prussian and is afraid,'' mused Clifford.

``Come on, won't you, Braith?'' said Gethryn.

``Are you going?''

``Why not?'' said the other, uneasily, ``and why won't you?''

``No French mob for me,'' answered Braith, quietly. ``You fellows had better keep away. You don't know what you may get into. I saw the siege, and the man who was in Paris in '71 has seen enough.''

``Oh, this is nothing serious,'' urged Clifford. ``If they fire I shall leg it; so will the lordly Reginald; so will we all.''

Braith dug his hands into the pockets of his velveteens, and shook his head.

``No,'' he said, ``I've got some work to do. So have you, Rex.''

``Come on, we're off,'' shouted Thaxton from the stairway.

Clifford seized Gethryn's arm, Elliott and Rhodes crowded on behind. A small earthquake shock followed as the crowd of students launched itself down the stairs.

``Braith doesn't approve of my cutting the atelier so often,'' said Gethryn, ``and he's right. I ought to have stayed.''

``Reggy going to back out?'' cooed Clifford.

``No,'' said Rex. ``Here's Rhodes with a cab.''

``It's too hot to walk,'' gasped Rhodes. ``I secured this. It was all I could get. Pile in.''

Rex sprang up beside the driver.

``Allons!'' he cried, ``to the Obelisk!''

``But, monsieur – '' expostulated the cabby, ``it is today the revolution. I dare not.''

``Go on, I tell you,'' roared Rhodes. ``Clifford, take his reins away if he refuses.''

Clifford made a snatch at them, but was repulsed by the indignant cabby.

``Go on, do you hear?'' shouted the Colossus. The cabman looked at Gethryn.

``Go on!'' laughed Rex, ``there is no danger.''

Jehu lifted his shoulders to the level of his shiny hat, and giving the reins a jerk, muttered, ``Crazy English! – Heu – heu – Cocotte!''

In twenty minutes they had arrived at the bridge opposite the Palais Bourbon.

``By Jove!'' said Gethryn, ``look at that crowd! The Place de la Concorde is black with them!''

The cab stopped with a jolt. Half a dozen policemen stepped into the street. Two seized the horses' heads.

``The bridge is forbidden to vehicles, gentlemen,'' they said, courteously. ``To cross, one must descend.''

Clifford began to argue, but Elliott stopped him.

``It's only a step,'' said he, paying the relieved cabby. ``Come ahead!''

In a moment they were across the bridge and pushing into the crowd, single file.

``What a lot of troops and police!'' said Elliott, panting as he elbowed his way through the dense masses. ``I tell you, the mob are bent on mischief.''

The Place de la Concorde was packed and jammed with struggling, surging humanity. Pushed and crowded up to the second fountain, clinging in bunches to the Obelisk, overrunning the first fountain, and covering the pedestals of the ``Cities of France,'' it heaved, shifted, undulated like clusters of swarming ants.

In the open space about the second fountain was the Prefect of the Seine, surrounded by a staff of officers. He looked worn and anxious as he stood mopping the perspiration from his neck and glancing nervously at his men, who were slowly and gently rolling back the mob. On the bridge a battalion of red-legged soldiers lounged, leaning on their rifles. To the right were long lines of cavalry in shining helmets and cuirasses. The men sat motionless in their saddles, their armor striking white fire in the fierce glow of the midday sun. Ever and anon the faint flutter of a distant bugle announced the approach of more regiments.

Among the shrubbery of the Gardens, a glimmer of orange and blue betrayed the lurking presence of the Guards. Down the endless vistas of the double and quadruple rows of trees stretching out to the Arc, and up the Cour la Reine, long lines of scarlet were moving toward the central point, the Place de la Concorde. The horses of a squadron of hussars pawed and champed across the avenue, the men, in their pale blue jackets, presenting a cool relief to the universal glare. The Champs Elysees was deserted, excepting by troops. Not a civilian was to be seen on the bridge. In front of the Madeleine three points of fire blazed and winked in the sun. They were three cannon.

Suddenly, over by the Obelisk, began a hoarse murmur, confused and dull at first, but growing louder, until it swelled into a deafening roar. ``Long live Boulanger!'' ``Down with Ferry!'' ``Long live the Republic!'' As the great wave of sound rose over the crowd and broke sullenly against the somber masses of the Palace of the Bourbons, a thin, shrill cry from the extreme right answered, ``Vive la Commune!'' Elliott laughed nervously.

``They'll charge those howling Belleville anarchists!''

Clifford began, in pure deviltry, to whistle the Carmagnole.

``Do you want to get us all into hot water?'' whispered Thaxton.

``Monsieur is of the Commune?'' inquired a little man, suavely.

And, the devil still prompting Clifford, he answered: ``Because I whistled the Carmagnole? Bah!''

The man scowled.

``Look here, my friend,'' said Clifford, ``my political principles are yours, and I will be happy to drink at your expense.''

The other Americans exchanged looks, and Elliott tried to check Clifford's folly before it was too late.

``Espion!'' muttered the Frenchman, adding, a little louder, ``Sale Allemand!''

Gethryn looked up startled.

``Keep cool,'' whispered Thaxton; ``if they think we're Germans we're done for.''

Carleton glanced nervously about. ``How they stare,'' he whispered. ``Their eyes pop out of their heads as if they saw Bismarck.''

There was an ominous movement among the throng.

``Vive l'Anarchie! A bas les Prussiens!'' yelled a beetle-browed Italian. ``A bas les etrangers!''

``My friend,'' said Clifford, pleasantly, ``you've got a very vile accent yourself.''

``You're a Prussian!'' screamed the man.