“It is true,” said they—“but it is only the students....”
As they came into the Boule Miche, singing the National Anthem, the landlords of the taverns and cafés and the white-aproned waiters came out to their doors, and greeted the noisy crew—indeed, Horace was well known, and his genial ways and amiable personality robbed him of all enemies.
Horace, amid handshakings down the street, foreseeing that the catching of the train was becoming a nice question and thinking Babette looked pale, took advantage of a moment’s breathing-space to whisper to the girl that she had better drive off to warn his man Jonkin that they might be late; and Babette was glad to get into a passing fiacre and slip away. Her heart was too full for jesting that had tears in the jest.
The noisy crew got the handcart on the run as soon as they crossed the river, the jolted porter a-top, but rattled up the Rue la Fayette in none too good time; as they dashed into the great station the bustle of departure that comes before the leaving of the boat-train was at its noisy height.
The officials were quite unable to cope with the students, who, chaffing them, rushed and swarmed over the barriers and took possession of the platform.
The man at the barrier laughed, shrugged shoulders:
“It is only the students,” he said.
Gaston Latour, gloomily dancing the danse de ventre on the platform, was assailed by a pompous fussy little man in uniformed authority, who alone displayed sufficient lack of tact to interfere with the young bloods. Gaston stooped down; solemnly stroked the official protruding paunch, and putting his ear thereto, said “Cough!”
The sulky fellow growled threats:
“My God,” said Gaston—“he is wasting away!”