A thick crowd lined each side of the thoroughfare,
cheering vociferously. Right into the middle of the procession Simard
launched his bomb. There was no crash of explosion. The missile simply
went to pieces as if it were an earthenware jar, and there arose a
dense column of very white smoke. In the immediate vicinity the
cheering stopped at once, and the sinister word 'bomb' passed from lip
to lip in awed whispers. As the throwing had been unnoticed in the
midst of the commotion, I held Simard firmly by the wrist, determined
he should not draw attention to himself by his panic-stricken desire
for immediate flight.
'Stand still, you fool!' I hissed into his ear and he obeyed
trembling.
The pair of horses in front of which the bomb fell rose for a moment
on their hind legs, and showed signs of bolting, but the coachman held
them firmly, and uplifted his hand so that the procession behind him
came to a momentary pause. No one in the carriages moved a muscle,
then suddenly the tension was broken by a great and simultaneous
cheer. Wondering at this I turned my eyes from the frightened horses
to the column of pale smoke in front of us, and saw that in some
manner it had resolved itself into a gigantic calla lily, pure white,
while from the base of this sprung the lilies of France, delicately
tinted.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122