“Yes, they are fighting.”
“Why are they fighting?”
“Ah, good Heavens!” ejaculated the gardener.
“In what direction?” went on M. Mabeuf.
“In the neighborhood of the Arsenal.”
Father Mabeuf went to his room, took his hat, mechanically sought for a book to place under his arm, found none, said: “Ah! truly!” and went off with a bewildered air.