Suddenly, over by the Obelisk, began a hoarse murmur, confused and dull at first, but growing louder, until it swelled into a deafening roar. “Long live Boulanger!” “Down with Ferry!” “Long live the Republic!” As the great wave of sound rose over the crowd and broke sullenly against the somber masses of the Palace of the Bourbons, a thin, shrill cry from the extreme right answered, “Vive la Commune!” Elliott laughed nervously.
“They’ll charge those howling Belleville anarchists!”
Clifford began, in pure deviltry, to whistle the Carmagnole.
“Do you want to get us all into hot water?” whispered Thaxton.
“Monsieur is of the Commune?” inquired a little man, suavely.
And, the devil still prompting Clifford, he answered: “Because I whistled the Carmagnole? Bah!”
The man scowled.
“Look here, my friend,” said Clifford, “my political principles are yours, and I will be happy to drink at your expense.”
The other Americans exchanged looks, and Elliott tried to check Clifford’s folly before it was too late.
“Espion!” muttered the Frenchman, adding, a little louder, “Sale Allemand!”