“Pauvre France! Pourquoi, monsieur?”
“I pity France,” said Maynard, “if you intend making an Empire of it.”
“What’s that to you?” angrily rejoined the Zouave lieutenant, whose beard and moustache, meeting over his mouth, gave a hissing utterance to his speech. “What does it concern you, monsieur?”
“Not so fast, Virocq!” interposed the officer to whom Maynard had more particularly addressed himself. “This gentleman is a soldier like ourselves. But he is an American, and of coarse believes in the republic. We have all our political inclinings. That’s no reason why we should not be friends socially—as we are here!”
Virocq, after making a survey of Maynard, who did not quail before his scrutiny, seemed contented with the explanation. At all events, he satisfied his wounded patriotism by once more turning to the clique of his comrades, tossing his glass on high, and once more vociferating “Vive l’Empereur!”
It was the remembrance of this scene of last night that led Maynard to reflect, when passing along the Boulevard, there was mischief in the atmosphere of Paris.
He became more convinced of it as he walked on toward the Boulevard de Bastille. There the stream of promenaders showed groups of a different aspect: for he had gone beyond the point where the genteel bourgeoisie takes its turn; where patent-leather boots and eau sucré give place to a coarser chassure and stronger beverage. Blouses were intermingled with the throng; while the casernes on both sides of the street were filled with soldiers, drinking without stint, and what seemed stranger still, with their officers along with them!
With all his republican experience—even in the campaign of Mexico even under the exigencies of the relaxed discipline brought about by the proximity of death upon the battle-field, the revolutionary leader could not help astonishment at this. He was still more surprised to see the French people along the street—even the blouses submitting to repeated insults put upon them by those things in uniform; the former stout, stalwart fellows; the latter, most of them, diminutive ruffians, despite their big breeches and swaggering gait, looking more like monkeys than men.
From such a scene, back toward Montmartre he turned with disgust.
While retracing his steps, he reflected: