In the open space about the second fountain was the Prefect of the
Seine, surrounded by a staff of officers. He looked worn and anxious
as he stood mopping the perspiration from his neck and glancing
nervously at his men, who were slowly and gently rolling back the mob.
On the bridge a battalion of red-legged soldiers lounged, leaning on
their rifles. To the right were long lines of cavalry in shining
helmets and cuirasses. The men sat motionless in their saddles, their
armor striking white fire in the fierce glow of the midday sun. Ever
and anon the faint flutter of a distant bugle announced the approach
of more regiments.

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.