“What ails this Paris? Why, the Prussians are in Verdun, and the aristocrats must be forestalled.”
“But how, Deputy.”
“I do not know. I fear, that is all.”
“Well, there lies your sash—the talisman to such puerile emotions.”
“Return to bed, Jean-Louis. It is unwise to venture abroad in a thunderstorm.”
“It is unwiser to shelter beneath a tree.”
“But not a roof-tree. Oh, thou fool! didst thou not close thine eyes last night on a city fermenting like a pan of dough?”
“‘Et cette alarme universelle
Est l’ouvrage d’un moucheron.’”
“But go your way!” he cried, and scrambled out of bed.