“Our chickens are also—” a torrent of bad language from Monsieur Deschamps, and a howl of execration from all the rest, silenced Clifford.
“It’s too hot for that sort of thing,” pleaded Elliott.
“Idiot!” muttered the Frenchman, shooting ominous glances at the bland youth, who saw nothing.
“C’est l’heure,” cried a dozen voices, and the tired model stretched his cramped limbs. Clifford rose, dropped a piece of charcoal down on his neighbor’s neck, and stepping across Thaxton’s easel, walked over to Gethryn.
“Rex, have you heard the latest?”
“No.”
“The Ministry has fallen again, and the Place de la Concorde is filled with people yelling, A bas la Republique! Vive le General Boulanger!”
Gethryn looked serious. Clifford went on, speaking low.
“I saw a troop of cavalry going over this morning, and old Forain told me just now that the regiments at Versailles were ready to move at a minute’s notice.”
“I suppose things are lively across the river,” said Gethryn.