The Son of Clemenceau, A Novel of Modern Love and LifeDumas, Alexandre
General
The Son of Clemenceau, A Novel of Modern Love and Life
Dumas, Alexandre
Fiction
Questions and answers were uttered in a thieve's jargon which were
sealed letters to the eavesdropper, but it seemed to him that they all
addressed her as _Baboushka_! This struck him as more odd from its being
a Slavonic title, meaning "grandmother." Was it possible that he had
before him one of those prolific centenarians, truly a mother of the
tribe, a gypsy queen to whom allegiance went undisputed and who rules
the subterranean strata of society with fewer revolts against them than
their sister rulers know, who sit on thrones in the fierce white light?
In any case, he was given no leisure for deciding the question, for an
active urchin had whispered a word of caution which led the feminine
general to direct a piercing glance toward him, and hasten to conclude
her arrangements. The line broke up into little groups, though most of
the men went singly, and all tramped over the little foot-bridge, which
swung under the unusual mass.
Left alone, the vagrants' queen, placing her yellow and skinny hand on a
weapon, perhaps, among her rags, resolutely moved toward the spy. He
expected to be interrogated, for an attack was unlikely from a lone old
woman; but he grasped his cane firmly.
Luckily, a noise of steps at the other end of the street checked the
hag; she thrust back out of sight what had momentarily gleamed like the
steel of a knife or brass of a pistol-barrel; listened again and stared;
then, muttering what was probably no prayer for the stranger's welfare,
she crossed the street with amazing rapidity. The student, hearing a
heavy military tread at the mouth of the street, expected to see her
vanish down her burrow, but, to his astonishment, she proceeded toward
the new-comer.
"The Schutzmaun," muttered he, as there loomed into sight a decidedly
soldier-like man in a long cloak, thrown back to show the scarlet
lining, and dragging a clanking sabre.
Relying on her good angel, apparently, the witch boldly passed him, and
it seemed to the watcher that a sign of understanding was rapidly
exchanged between them. Baboushka seemed to enjoin caution for the
stranger hooked up his trailing sabre, wrapped his cloak around him and
came on less noisily. Certainly the old hag did not beg of him, but
hastened to leave the street.
If the new-comer had been the night guardian coming on duty, the student
might have lost any misgiving about the vagrants or their ruler; but he
was not sure that in him was a friend.
This was an officer, not a gendarme or military policeman. Cloak and
uniform were dark blue and fine. He bore himself with the swagger of a
personage of no inconsiderable rank, and also of some degree in the
nobility. Tall, burly, overbearing, the stranger took a dislike to him
from this one glance, and would have hesitated to appeal to him for
assistance had he felt in danger.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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