“Could it be true? Who has heard the news? The shoemaker on the Rue de Buci had it from a Mobile who had heard a Franc-tireur repeat it to a captain of the National Guard.”

Trent followed the throng surging through the Rue de Seine to the river.

Rocket after rocket clove the sky, and now, from Montmartre, the cannon clanged, and the batteries on Montparnasse joined in with a crash. The bridge was packed with people.

Trent asked: “Who has seen the signals of the Army of the Loire?”

“We are waiting for them,” was the reply.

He looked toward the north. Suddenly the huge silhouette of the Arc de Triomphe sprang into black relief against the flash of a cannon. The boom of the gun rolled along the quay and the old bridge vibrated.