‘What are you going to do now, child?’ Melusine sighed away the last of her distress. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. The gulf between rich and poor was perhaps greater in France, but by all accounts it was not the canaille who were responsible for the present turmoil. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. Down that on the right the young culprit was dragged—along that on the left a fainting woman was borne in the arms of several females.
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