In the Quarter | Page 6

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.
Every one was now looking at them. Gethryn began to fume.
"I'll thrash that cur if he says Prussian again," said he.
"You'll keep quiet, that's what you'll do," growled Thaxton, looking
anxiously at Rhodes.
"Yes, you will!" said the Colossus, very pale.
"Pig of a Prussian!" shouted a fearful-looking hag, planting herself in
front of Clifford with arms akimbo and head thrust forward. "Pig of a
Prussian spy!"
She glanced at her supporters, who promptly applauded.
"Ah--h--h!" she screamed, her little green eyes shining like a tiger's --
"Spy! German spy!"
"Madam," said Clifford, politely, "go and wash yourself."
"Hold your cursed tongue, Clifford!" whispered Thaxton. "Do you
want to be torn to pieces?"
Suddenly a man behind Gethryn sprang at his back, and then, amazed
and terrified at his own daring, yelled lustily for help. Gethryn shook
him off as he would a fly, but the last remnant of self-control went at
the same time, and, wheeling, he planted a blow square in the fellow's
neck. The man fell like an ox. In an instant the mob was upon them.
Thaxton received a heavy kick in the