Among the shrubbery of the Gardens, a glimmer of orange and blue betrayed the lurking presence of the Guards. Down the endless vistas of the double and quadruple rows of trees stretching out to the Arc, and up the Cour la Reine, long lines of scarlet were moving toward the central point, the Place de la Concorde. The horses of a squadron of hussars pawed and champed across the avenue, the men, in their pale blue jackets, presenting a cool relief to the universal glare. The Champs Elysees was deserted, excepting by troops. Not a civilian was to be seen on the bridge. In front of the Madeleine three points of fire blazed and winked in the sun. They were three cannon. 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!” Gethryn looked up startled. “Keep cool,” whispered Thaxton; “if they think we’re Germans we’re done for.” Carleton glanced nervously about. “How they stare,” he whispered. “Their eyes pop out of their heads as if they saw Bismarck.” There was an ominous movement among the throng. “Vive l’Anarchie! A bas les Prussiens!” yelled a beetle-browed Italian. “A bas les etrangers!” “My friend,” said Clifford, pleasantly, “you’ve got a very vile accent yourself.” “You’re a Prussian!” screamed the man. Every one was now looking at them. Gethryn began to fume. “I’ll thrash that cur if he says Prussian again,” said he. “You’ll keep quiet, that’s what you’ll do,” growled Thaxton, looking anxiously at Rhodes. “Yes, you will!” said the Colossus, very pale. “Pig of a Prussian!” shouted a fearful-looking hag, planting herself in front of Clifford with arms akimbo and head thrust forward. “Pig of a Prussian spy!” She glanced at her supporters, who promptly applauded. “Ah—h—h!” she screamed, her little green eyes shining like a tiger’s—“Spy! German spy!” “Madam,” said Clifford, politely, “go and wash yourself.” “Hold your cursed tongue, Clifford!” whispered Thaxton. “Do you want to be torn to pieces?”