At that moment the bugle sounded--"All's well," and as we were preparing to mount the stairs, the old man accosted the officers anew, asking them for the titles of some books on artillery and fortification.
"That all depends to what use you wish to apply them."
"Ah, it's about protecting my collection. I simply must do something! I can't send them to storage, they wouldn't be any safer there, and even if they were I'd die of anxiety so far away from my precious belongings."
"Good-nights" were said in the vestibule, and the gathering dispersed just as does any group of persons after a theatre or an ordinary reception. But once in the street, it was absolutely useless to even think of a taxi. People were pouring from every doorway, heads stuck out of every window.
In the total obscurity, the sound of feet all hurrying in the same direction, accompanied by shouts of recognition, even ripples of laughter, seemed strangely gruesome, as the caravan of curious hastened towards the scene of tragedy.
"No crowds allowed. Step lively," called the _sergeants-de-ville_, at their wits' end. "Better go back home, they might return. Step lively, I say!"
It happened thus the first few visits, but presently the situation became less humorous. One began to get accustomed to it. Then one commenced to dislike it and protest.
Seated by the studio fire, we were both plunged deep in our books.
"_Allons_!" exclaimed H. "Do you hear the _pompiers_? The Gothas again!"
We stiffened up in our chairs and listened. The trumpets sounded shrilly on the night air of our tranquil Parisian quarter.
"Right you are. That means down we go! They might have waited until I finished my chapter, hang them! There's no electricity in our cellar," and I cast aside my book in disgust.
Taking our coats and a steamer rug we prepared to descend. In the court-yard the clatter of feet resounded.
The cellar of our seventeenth century dwelling being extremely deep and solidly built, was at once commandeered as refuge for one hundred persons in case of bombardment, and we must needs share it with some ninety odd less fortunate neighbours.
"Hurry up there. Hurry up, I say," calls a sharp nasal voice.
That voice belonged to Monsieur Leddin, formerly a clock maker, but now of the _Service Auxiliare_, and on whom devolved the policing of our entire little group, simply because of his uniform.