In the Quarter | Page 5

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?"
"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.