In twenty minutes they had arrived at the bridge opposite the Palais
Bourbon.

"By Jove!" said Gethryn, "look at that crowd! The Place de la
Concorde is black with them!"

The cab stopped with a jolt. Half a dozen policemen stepped into the
street. Two seized the horses' heads.

"The bridge is forbidden to vehicles, gentlemen," they said,
courteously. "To cross, one must descend."

Clifford began to argue, but Elliott stopped him.

"It's only a step," said he, paying the relieved cabby. "Come
ahead!"

In a moment they were across the bridge and pushing into the crowd,
single file.

"What a lot of troops and police!" said Elliott, panting as he
elbowed his way through the dense masses. "I tell you, the mob are
bent on mischief."

The Place de la Concorde was packed and jammed with struggling,
surging humanity. Pushed and crowded up to the second fountain,
clinging in bunches to the Obelisk, overrunning the first fountain,
and covering the pedestals of the "Cities of France," it heaved,
shifted, undulated like clusters of swarming ants.