It was
as though they were holding season tickets at the same theatre, becoming
acquainted through seeing each other so often. "Will it come? . . . Will
it not come to-day?" The women appeared to be the most vehement, some
of them rushing up, flushed and breathless, fearing that they might have
arrived too late for the show. . . . A great cry--"There it comes! . . .
There it is!" And thousands of hands were pointing to a vague spot on
the horizon. With field glasses and telescopes they were aiding their
vision, the popular venders offering every kind of optical instruments
and for an hour the thrilling spectacle of an aerial hunt was played
out, noisy and useless.
The great insect was trying to reach the Eiffel Tower, and from its base
would come sharp reports, at the same time that the different platforms
spit out a fierce stream of shrapnel. As it zigzagged over the city, the
discharge of rifles would crackle from roof and street. Everyone that
had arms in his house was firing--the soldiers of the guard, and the
English and Belgians on their way through Paris. They knew that their
shots were perfectly useless, but they were firing for the fun of
retorting, hoping at the same time that one of their chance shots might
achieve a miracle; but the only miracle was that the shooters did not
kill each other with their precipitate and ineffectual fire.
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