Gethryn stood up and looked about for help. The Place was nearly deserted. The blue-jacketed hussars were still standing over by the Avenue, and an occasional heavy, red-faced cuirassier walked his sweating horse slowly up and down the square. A few policemen lounged against the river wall, chatting with the sentries, and far down the dusty Rue Royale, the cannon winked and blinked before the Church of the Madeleine.
The rumble of wheels caused him to turn. A clumsy, blue-covered wagon drew up at the second fountain. It was a military ambulance. A red-capped trooper sprang down jingling from one of the horses, and was joined by two others who had followed the ambulance and who also dismounted. Then the three approached a group of policemen who were lifting something from the pavement. At the same moment he heard voices beside him, and turning, found that the girl had risen and was sitting on the campstool, her head leaning against the little stranger’s shoulder.
An officer stood looking down at her. His boots were spotless. The band of purple on his red and gold cap showed that he was a surgeon.
“Can we be of any assistance to madame?” he inquired.
“I was looking for a cab,” said Gethryn, “but perhaps she is not strong enough to be taken to her home.”
A frightened look came into the girl’s face and she glanced anxiously at the ambulance. The surgeon knelt quietly beside her.
“Madame is not seriously hurt,” he said, after a rapid examination. “The right arm is a little strained, but it will be nothing, I assure you, Madame; a matter of a few days, that is all.”
He rose and stood brushing the knees of his trousers with his handkerchief. “Monsieur is a foreigner?”
Gethryn smiled. “The accent?”
“On the contrary, I assure you, Monsieur,” cried the officer with more politeness than truth. He eyed the ambulance. “The people of Paris have learned a lesson today,” he said.