In the Quarter. Chambers Robert William
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 ribs, which sent him reeling against Carleton. Clifford knocked two men down in as many blows, and, springing back, stood guard over Thaxton until he could struggle to his feet again. Elliott got a sounding thwack on the nose, which he neatly returned, adding one on the eye for interest. Gethryn and Carleton fought back to back. Rhodes began by half strangling a son of the Commune and then flung him bodily among his howling compatriots.
``Good Heavens,'' gasped Rhodes, ``we can't keep this up!'' And raising his voice, he cried with all the force of his lungs, ``Help! This way, police!'' A shot answered him, and a man, clapping his hands to his face, tilted heavily forward, the blood spurting between his fingers.
Then a terrible cry arose, a din in which the Americans caught the clanging of steel and the neighing of horses. A man was hurled violently against Gethryn, who, losing in turn his balance, staggered and fell. Rising to his knees, he saw a great foam-covered horse rearing almost over him, and a red-faced rider in steel helmet and tossing plume slashing furiously among the crowd. Next moment he was dragged to his feet and back into the flying mob.
``Look out,'' panted Thaxton, ``the cavalry – they've charged – run!'' Gethryn glanced over his shoulder. All along the edge of the frantic, panic-stricken crowd the gleaming crests of the cavalry surged and dashed like a huge wave of steel.
Cries, groans, and curses rose and were drowned in the thunder of the charging horses and the clashing of weapons.
``Spy!'' screamed a voice in his ear. Gethryn turned, but the fellow was legging it for safety.
Suddenly he saw a woman who, pushed and crowded by the mob, stumbled and fell. In a moment he was by her side, bent over to raise her, was hurled upon his face, rose blinded by dust and half-stunned, but dragging her to her feet with him.
Swept onward by the rush, knocked this way and that, he still managed to support the dazed woman, and by degrees succeeded in controlling his own course, which he bent toward the Obelisk. As he neared the goal of comparative safety, exhausted, he suffered himself and the woman to be carried on by the rush. Then a blinding flash split the air in front, and the crash of musketry almost in his face hurled him back.
Men threw up their hands and sank in a heap or spun round and pitched headlong. For a moment he swayed in the drifting smoke. A blast of hot, sickening air enveloped him. Then a dull red cloud seemed to settle slowly, crushing, grinding him into the earth.
Three
When Gethryn unclosed his eyes the dazzling sunlight almost blinded him. A thousand grotesque figures danced before him, a hot red vapor seemed to envelop him. He felt a dull pain in his ears and a numb sensation about the legs. Gradually he recalled the scene that had just passed; the flying crowd lashed by that pitiless iron scourge; the cruel panic; the mad, suffocating rush; and then that crash of thunder which had crushed him.
He lay quite still, not offering to move. A strange languor seemed to weigh down his very heart. The air reeked with powder smoke. Not a breath was stirring.
Presently the numbness in his knees changed to a hot, pricking throb. He tried to move his legs, but found he could not. Then a sudden thought sent the blood with a rush to his heart. Perhaps he no longer had any legs! He remembered to have heard of legless men whose phantom members caused them many uncomfortable sensations. He certainly