Part 23 (1/2)

”Carve?”

”Yes,--certes! Cut into something fresh, if it turns up.”

”Turns up?”

”Why, Monsieur Bibbolet, you're as clever as a parrot! Yes, turns up.

Subject, stiff, cadaver,--see?--Le cafe, garcon!”

”Ah! you medical----”

”You see, George has a new arterial theory to demonstrate. I tell you, he can pick up an artery as easily as your cook can pick a chicken. If you'd care to let him try----”

”How! Pick up my arteries? Not if I----”

”What's that?”

They again ran to the window.

”It's the cuira.s.siers, Monsieur Jean! Ah! if it came to blows they'd pot 'em like rabbits here! You're out of it just in time.”

So closely was the squadron of cuira.s.siers wedged in the street that Jean could have put his hand upon the jack-boots of the nearest soldier. There had been a fresh break in the Madeleine guard, and this was the reserve. They slowly p.r.i.c.ked their resistless way, and one by one the exhausted agents slipped between them to the rear. Some of the latter dragged prisoners, some supported bruised and bleeding victims.

Some persons had been trampled or beaten into insensibility, and these were being carried towards the Place de la Concorde. Among them were women. There are always women in the Paris mob.

And this particular mob was a mere political ”manifestation.” That was all. It was the 25th of October, 1898, and the day on which the French Parliament met. So the Parisian patriots lined the route to the Palais Bourbon and ”manifested” their devotion to liberty French fas.h.i.+on, by clubbing everybody who disagreed with them.

”Well!” said Jean, ”they have pushed beyond St. Honore. I can get home now.”

”Not yet, monsieur. Do not go yet. It is still dangerous. A bottle of old Barsac with me.”

Night had fallen. Jean Marot was cautiously let out of a side door.

The Ministry had also fallen.

Hoa.r.s.e-lunged venders of the evening papers announced the fact in continuous cries. Travel had been resumed in the Rue Royale. Here and there the shops began to take in their shutters and resume business.

Timid shopkeepers came out on the walk and discussed the situation with each other.

The ministerial journals sold by wholesale. The angry manifestants burned them in the streets. Which rendered the camelots more insistent and obnoxious with fresh bundles to be sold and destroyed in the same way.

Jean Marot, refreshed by rest and food, lingered a moment at Rue St.

Honore, uncertain whether to return to his rooms or join a mob of patriots howling the Ma.r.s.eillaise in front of the Cafe de Londres.

”Enough,” he finally concluded, and turned up towards the Rue Boissy d'Anglais.

There were evidences of a fierce struggle in the narrow but aristocratic faubourg. Usually a blaze of light at this hour, it was closed from street to street and practically deserted. Scared milliners and dress-makers and fas.h.i.+onable jewellers peered out from upper windows, still afraid to open up. Fragments of broken canes, battered hats, and torn vestments told an eloquent story of political differences.

”We certainly missed the fun here,” thought Jean. ”h.e.l.lo! What's this?”