“Well, the other combination would seem more natural, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t it surprise you a little?”
“I’m never surprised at anything till I know it’s true,” said Sir Roger.
“What, you——?”
They were interrupted by the return of their friends, and a move was made. Three vehicles were necessary to take them back, for the twos could, obviously, neither be separated from one another nor united with anybody else, and in procession, Miss Bussey and Deane leading, they filed along the avenues back to the Arc de Triomphe.
They had hardly passed the open Place when their progress was suddenly arrested. A crowd spread almost across the broad road, and sergents-de-ville imperiously commanded a halt. There was a babble of tongues, great excitement, and a thousand eager fingers pointing at a house. The doorway was in ruins, and workmen were busy shoring it up with beams. In the middle of the crowd there was an open circle, surrounded by gendarmes, and kept clear of people. In the middle of it lay a thing like a rather tall slim watering-pot, minus the handle. The crowd, standing on tiptoe and peeping over the shoulders of their guardians, shook their fists at this harmless-looking article and apostrophised it with a wonderful wealth of passionate invectives.
“What in the world’s the matter?” cried Miss Bussey, who was nervous in a crowd.
“Revolution, I suppose;” responded Deane calmly, mid turning to his nearest neighbor, he continued in the first French that came to him, “Une autre rivolution, n’est-ce-pas, Monsieur?”
The man stared, but a woman near him burst into a voluble explanation, from the folds of which unlearned English ears disentangled, at the third reiteration, the ominous word, “Dynamite;” and she pointed to the watering-pot.
“Oh, it’ll go off!” shrieked Miss Bussey.
“It’s gone off,” said Sir Roger. “We’re too late,” and there was a touch of disappointment in his voice, as he turned and shouted to the others, “Keep your seats! It’s all over. Only an explosion.”