"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 cuirassiers, 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 cuirassiers 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 pricked 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 fashion, by clubbing everybody who disagreed with them.
"Well!" said Jean, "they have pushed beyond St. Honoré. I can get home now."
"Not yet, monsieur. Do not go yet. It is still dangerous. A bottle of old Barsac with me."