Part 20

“I _am_ rather stout,” he admitted. “Is it true you are out of money?” demanded Trent. “Yes, I am,” sighed the other. “That roast sucking pig on the rue St. Honoré,—is it there yet?” continued Trent. “Wh—at?” stammered the feeble one. “Ah—I thought so! I caught you in ecstasy before that sucking pig at least a dozen times!” Then laughing, he presented Fallowby with a roll of twenty franc pieces saying: “If these go for luxuries you must live on your own flesh,” and went over to aid West, who sat beside the wash-basin binding up his hand. West suffered him to tie the knot, and then said: “You remember, yesterday, when I left you and Braith to take the chicken to Colette.” “Chicken! Good heavens!” moaned Fallowby. “Chicken,” repeated West, enjoying Fallowby’s grief;—“I—that is, I must explain that things are changed. Colette and I—are to be married—” “What—what about the chicken?” groaned Fallowby. “Shut up!” laughed Trent, and slipping his arm through West’s, walked to the stairway. “The poor little thing,” said West, “just think, not a splinter of firewood for a week and wouldn’t tell me because she thought I needed it for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirking clay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!” After a moment he added timidly: “Won’t you call on your way down and say _bon soir_? It’s No. 17.” “Yes,” said Trent, and he went out softly closing the door behind. He stopped on the third landing, lighted a match, scanned the numbers over the row of dingy doors, and knocked at No. 17. “C’est toi Georges?” The door opened. “Oh, pardon, Monsieur Jack, I thought it was Monsieur West,” then blushing furiously, “Oh, I see you have heard! Oh, thank you so much for your wishes, and I’m sure we love each other very much,—and I’m dying to see Sylvia and tell her and—” “And what?” laughed Trent. “I am very happy,” she sighed. “He’s pure gold,” returned Trent, and then gaily: “I want you and George to come and dine with us to-night. It’s a little treat,—you see to-morrow is Sylvia’s _fête_. She will be nineteen. I have written to Thorne, and the Guernalecs will come with their cousin Odile. Fallowby has engaged not to bring anybody but himself.” The girl accepted shyly, charging him with loads of loving messages to Sylvia, and he said good-night. He started up the street, walking swiftly, for it was bitter cold, and cutting across the rue de la Lune he entered the rue de Seine. The early winter night had fallen, almost without warning, but the sky was clear and myriads of stars glittered in the heavens. The bombardment had become furious—a steady rolling thunder from the Prussian cannon punctuated by the heavy shocks from Mont Valérien. The shells streamed across the sky leaving trails like shooting stars, and now, as he turned to look back, rockets blue and red flared above the horizon from the Fort of Issy, and the Fortress of the North flamed like a bonfire. “Good news!” a man shouted over by the Boulevard St. Germain. As if by magic the streets were filled with people,—shivering, chattering people with shrunken eyes. “Jacques!” cried one. “The Army of the Loire!” “Eh! _mon vieux_, it has come then at last! I told thee! I told thee! To-morrow—to-night—who knows?” “Is it true? Is it a sortie?” Some one said: “Oh, God—a sortie—and my son?” Another cried: “To the Seine? They say one can see the signals of the Army of the Loire from the Pont Neuf.” There was a child standing near Trent who kept repeating: “Mamma, Mamma, then to-morrow we may eat white bread?” and beside him, an old man swaying, stumbling, his shrivelled hands crushed to his breast, muttering as if insane. “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 Franctireur 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. Again over by the Point du Jour a flash and heavy explosion shook the bridge, and then the whole eastern bastion of the fortifications blazed and crackled, sending a red flame into the sky. “Has any one seen the signals yet?” he asked again. “We are waiting,” was the reply. “Yes, waiting,” murmured a man behind him, “waiting, sick, starved, freezing, but waiting. Is it a sortie? They go gladly. Is it to starve? They starve. They have no time to think of surrender. Are they heroes,—these Parisians? Answer me, Trent!” The American Ambulance surgeon turned about and scanned the parapets of the bridge. “Any news, Doctor,” asked Trent mechanically. “News?” said the doctor; “I don’t know any;—I haven’t time to know any. What are these people after?” “They say that the Army of the Loire has signalled Mont Valérien.” “Poor devils.” The doctor glanced about him for an instant, and then: “I’m so harried and worried that I don’t know what to do. After the last sortie we had the work of fifty ambulances on our poor little corps. To-morrow there’s another sortie, and I wish you fellows could come over to headquarters. We may need volunteers. How is madame?” he added abruptly. “Well,” replied Trent, “but she seems to grow more nervous every day. I ought to be with her now.” “Take care of her,” said the doctor, then with a sharp look at the people: “I can’t stop now—good-night!” and he hurried away muttering, “Poor devils!” Trent leaned over the parapet and blinked at the black river surging through the arches. Dark objects, carried swiftly on the breast of the current, struck with a grinding tearing noise against the stone piers, spun around for an instant, and hurried away into the darkness. The ice from the Marne. As he stood staring into the water, a hand was laid on his shoulder. “Hello, Southwark!” he cried, turning around; “this is a queer place for you!” “Trent, I have something to tell you. Don’t stay here,—don’t believe in the Army of the Loire:” and the _attaché_ of the American Legation slipped his arm through Trent’s and drew him toward the Louvre. “Then it’s another lie!” said Trent bitterly. “Worse—we know at the Legation—I can’t speak of it. But that’s not what I have to say. Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian Brasserie was visited and an American named Hartman has been arrested. Do you know him?” “I know a German who calls himself an American;—his name is Hartman.” “Well, he was arrested about two hours ago. They mean to shoot him.” “What!” “Of course we at the Legation can’t allow them to shoot him off-hand, but the evidence seems conclusive.” “Is he a spy?” “Well, the papers seized in his rooms are pretty damning proofs, and besides he was caught, they say, swindling the Public Food Committee. He drew rations for fifty, how, I don’t know. He claims to be an American artist here, and we have been obliged to take notice of it at the Legation. It’s a nasty affair.” “To cheat the people at such a time is worse than robbing the poor-box,” cried Trent angrily. “Let them shoot him!” “He’s an American citizen.” “Yes, oh yes,” said the other with bitterness. “American citizenship is a precious privilege when every goggle-eyed German—” His anger choked him. Southwark shook hands with him warmly. “It can’t be helped, we must own the carrion. I am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an American artist,” he said with a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined face; and walked away through the Cours la Reine. Trent swore silently for a moment and then drew out his watch. Seven o’clock. “Sylvia will be anxious,” he thought, and hurried back to the river. The crowd still huddled shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitiful congregation, peering out into the night for the signals of the Army of the Loire: and their hearts beat time to the pounding of the guns, their eyes lighted with each flash from the bastions, and hope rose with the drifting rockets. A black cloud hung over the fortifications. From horizon to horizon the cannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, now capping the spires and domes with cloud, now blowing in streamers and shreds along the streets, now descending from the housetops, enveloping quays, bridges, and river, in a sulphurous mist. And through the smoke pall the lightning of the cannon played, while from time to time a rift above showed a fathomless black vault set with stars. He turned again into the rue de Seine, that sad abandoned street, with its rows of closed shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. He was a little nervous and wished once or twice for a revolver, but the slinking forms which passed him in the darkness were too weak with hunger to be dangerous, he thought, and he passed on unmolested to his doorway. But there somebody sprang at his throat. Over and over the icy pavement he rolled with his assailant, tearing at the noose about his neck, and then with a wrench sprang to his feet. “Get up,” he cried to the other. Slowly and with great deliberation, a small gamin picked himself out of the gutter and surveyed Trent with disgust. “That’s a nice clean trick,” said Trent; “a whelp of your age! You’ll finish against a dead wall! Give me that cord!” The urchin handed him the noose without a word. Trent struck a match and looked at his assailant. It was the rat-killer of the day before. “H’m! I thought so,” he muttered. “Tiens, c’est toi?” said the gamin tranquilly. The impudence, the overpowering audacity of the ragamuffin took Trent’s breath away. “Do you know, you young strangler,” he gasped, “that they shoot thieves of your age?” The child turned a passionless face to Trent. “Shoot, then.” That was too much, and he turned on his heel and entered his hotel. Groping up the unlighted stairway, he at last reached his own landing and felt about in the darkness for the door. From his studio came the sound of voices, West’s hearty laugh and Fallowby’s chuckle, and at last he found the knob and, pushing back the door, stood a moment confused by the light. “Hello, Jack!” cried West, “you’re a pleasant creature, inviting people to dine and letting them wait. Here’s Fallowby weeping with hunger—” “Shut up,” observed the latter, “perhaps he’s been out to buy a turkey.” “He’s been out garroting, look at his noose!” laughed Guernalec. “So now we know where you get your cash!” added West; “vive le coup du Père François!” Trent shook hands with everybody and laughed at Sylvia’s pale face. “I didn’t mean to be late; I stopped on the bridge a moment to watch the bombardment. Were you anxious, Sylvia?” She smiled and murmured, “Oh, no!” but her hand dropped into his and tightened convulsively. “To the table!” shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop. “Take it easy,” observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; “you are not the host, you know.” Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and took Thorne’s arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile’s arm through his. Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to Colette, West took in Sylvia, and Fallowby hovered anxiously in the rear. “You march around the table three times singing the Marseillaise,” explained Sylvia, “and Monsieur Fallowby pounds on the table and beats time.” Fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest was drowned in the ringing chorus— “Aux armes! Formez vos bataillons!” Around the room they marched singing, “Marchons! Marchons!” with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and placed in Odile’s lap.