Rex looked up. He had wandered back to the station. He lifted his hat and answered with the politeness dear to French officials.
“Merci, Monsieur!” It made him cough to speak, and he moved on slowly.
Gethryn would not go home yet. He wanted to be where there was plenty of cool air, and yet he shivered. He drew a deep breath which ended in a pain. How cold the air must be—to pain the chest like that! And yet, there were women wheeling handcarts full of yellow crocus buds about. He stopped and bought some for Yvonne.
“She will like them,” he thought. “Ah!”—he turned away, leaving flowers and money. The old flower-woman crossed herself.
No—he would not go home just yet. The sun shone brightly; men passed, carrying their overcoats on their arms; a steam was rising from the pavements in the Square.
There was a crowd on the Pont au Change. He did not see any face distinctly, but there seemed to be a great many people, leaning over the parapets, looking down the river. He stopped and looked over too. The sun glared on the foul water eddying in and out among the piles and barges. Some men were rowing in a boat, furiously. Another boat followed close. A voice close by Gethryn cried, angrily:
“Dieu! who are you shoving?”
Rex moved aside; as he did so a gamin crowded quickly forward and craned over the edge, shouting, “Vive le cadavre!”
“Chut!” said another voice.
“Vive la Mort! Vive la Morgue!” screamed the wretched little creature.