All the housetops were glittering with the sun as they passed the ranks of the Municipal cavalry.
A young officer looked down mischievously as they traversed the Boulevard—the only moving objects in that vast and still perspective.
“Mon Dieu!” he murmured. “A night like that is something to remember in the winter of old age!”
Neeland heard him. The gay, bantering, irresponsible Gallic wit awoke him to himself; the rising sun, tipping the city’s spires with fire, seemed to relight a little, long-forgotten flame within him. His sombre features cleared; he said confidently to the girl beside him:
“Don’t worry; we’ll get you out of it somehow or other. It’s been a rather frightful dream, Scheherazade, nothing worse––” 400
Her arm suddenly tightened against his and he turned to look at the shattered Café des Bulgars which they were passing, where two policemen stood looking at a cat which was picking its way over the mass of débris, mewing dismally.
One of the policemen, noticing them, smiled sympathetically at their battered appearance.
“Would you like to have a cat for your lively ménage?” he said, pointing to the melancholy animal which Neeland recognised as the dignified property of the Cercle Extranationale.
The other policeman, more suspicious, eyed Ilse Dumont closely as she knelt impulsively and picked up the homeless cat.
“Where are you going in such a state?” he asked, moving over the heaps of splintered glass toward her.