Observing a middle-aged lady making towards the door without male escort, I thought it incumbent upon me to tender my services, in compliance with the suggestions of the gallant Lamoricière. I was a good deal obstructed, however, by Mr Hutton Bagsby, who, in extreme alarm, was cleaving to the skirts of my garments.
“Can I be of the slightest assistance in offering my escort to madame?” said I with a respectful bow.
The lady looked at me with unfeigned surprise.
“Monsieur mistakes, I believe,” said she quietly. “Perhaps he thinks I carry a fan. Look here”—and she exhibited the butt of an enormous horse-pistol. “The authoress of Lélia knows well how to command respect for herself.”
“George Sand!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“The same, Monsieur; who will be happy to meet you this evening at an early hour, behind the barricade of the Rue Montmartre.”
“O good Lord!” cried Mr Hutton Bagsby, “here is a precious kettle of fish! They are firing out yonder like mad; they’ll be breaking into the houses next, and we’ll all be murdered to a man.”
“Do not be alarmed, Mr Bagsby; this is a mere political revolution. The people have no animosity whatever to strangers.”
“Haven’t they? I wish you had seen the way the waiter looked this morning at my dressing-case. They’d tie me up to the lamp-post at once for the sake of my watch and seals! And I don’t know a single word of their bloody language. I wish the leaders of the League had been hanged before they sent me here.”