West stood in the doorway of a house on the rue Serpentine, speaking angrily to Hartman.
“I don’t care whether you like it or not. I’m telling you the truth, not arguing with you.”
“You call yourself an American?” West sneered. “Berlin and hell are full of your kind of American. You come wandering around Colette with your pockets stuffed with white bread and beef, carrying a bottle of wine that costs thirty francs, yet you can’t spare even a dollar for the American Ambulance and Public Assistance. Braith gives what he can, and he’s half starving!”
Hartman backed toward the curb, but West followed him, his face dark with anger.
“Don’t you dare call yourself my countryman. No—and don’t call yourself an artist either! Real artists don’t worm their way into the Public Defence just so they can sit around eating the people’s food like rats.”
West lowered his voice.
“And I’ll give you one more piece of advice. Stay away from that Alsatian Brasserie and the smug thieves who gather there. You know what they do to people they suspect.”
“You lie, you hound!” Hartman screamed.
He threw the bottle in his hand straight at West’s face.
West caught him by the throat almost instantly. He slammed Hartman against the blank wall and shook him violently.
“Now listen to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re already under suspicion, and I swear I believe you’re a paid spy. It isn’t my job to hunt down vermin like you, and I have no intention of denouncing you. But understand this. Colette hates having you around, and I can’t stand the sight of you. If I catch you on this street again, I’ll make sure you regret it. Now get out, you sleek Prussian!”
Hartman managed to pull a knife from his pocket.
West tore it away from him and threw him into the gutter.
A street urchin who had witnessed the fight suddenly burst out laughing. The sound echoed harshly through the silent street.
At once, windows began opening all along the street. Pale, exhausted faces appeared, demanding to know what there was to laugh about in a city where everyone was starving.
“Is it a victory?” someone murmured.
West pointed at Hartman as he struggled to his feet.
“Look at that! You miser, look at those faces!”
Hartman gave him a look that West would never forget.
Then he walked away without saying a word.
Trent suddenly appeared at the corner.
He glanced curiously at West.
West merely nodded toward the house.
“Come in. Fallowby’s upstairs.”
“What are you doing with that knife?” Fallowby demanded when he and Trent entered the studio.
West looked down at his injured hand. He was still holding the knife.
“I cut myself by accident.”
He tossed the knife into a corner and washed the blood from his fingers.
Fallowby, fat and lazy, watched without saying anything.
Trent seemed to understand what had happened. He walked over to Fallowby with a smile.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“Where is it? I’m hungry,” Fallowby replied eagerly.
Trent frowned.
“Listen to me. How much money did I advance you a week ago?”
“Three hundred and eighty francs,” Fallowby admitted miserably.
“And where is it?”
Fallowby launched into a complicated explanation, but Trent quickly cut him off.
“I know. You spent it. You always spend it. I don’t care what you did before the siege. I know you’re rich, and you have every right to spend your own money however you please. Normally, it’s none of my business.”
He pointed at Fallowby.
“But now it is my business. I have to keep you supplied until you get more money, and you won’t get any until this siege ends, one way or another. I’m willing to share what I have, but I won’t watch you throw it away.”
Fallowby opened his mouth.
“Yes, yes, I know you’ll pay me back. That’s not the point. Besides, all your friends think a little less pleasure would do you good. You’re practically a freak in this famine-stricken city full of skeletons.”
“I am rather stout,” Fallowby admitted.
“Is it true you’re out of money?”
“Yes,” Fallowby sighed.
“That roast suckling pig on the rue St. Honoré—is it still there?”
“What?”
“I thought so! I’ve caught you staring at that pig in ecstasy at least a dozen times.”
Trent laughed and handed him a roll of twenty-franc coins.
“If you spend these on luxuries, you’ll have to live on your own flesh.”
Then he went over to help West, who was sitting beside the washbasin, binding his injured hand.
West let Trent tie the bandage.
Then he said, “You remember yesterday, when I left you and Braith to take the chicken to Colette?”
“Chicken! Good heavens!” Fallowby groaned.
“Chicken,” West repeated, enjoying his misery. “I—that is, I have to explain that things have changed. Colette and I are going to be married.”
“What about the chicken?” Fallowby groaned.
“Shut up,” Trent laughed.
He slipped his arm through West’s and headed toward the stairs.
“The poor little thing,” West said. “Think about it. She hasn’t had a piece of firewood for a week, and she wouldn’t tell me because she thought I needed it for my clay figure.”
He shook his head.
“When I heard that, I smashed that stupid clay nymph to pieces. The rest of my work can freeze for all I care.”
After a moment, he added shyly, “Won’t you stop by on your way down and say bon soir? Number seventeen.”
“Yes,” Trent said.
He left quietly and closed the door behind him.
On the third landing, Trent struck a match and looked along the row of dirty doors until he found number seventeen.
He knocked.
“C’est toi, Georges?”
The door opened.
“Oh, pardon, Monsieur Jack. I thought you were Monsieur West.”
She suddenly blushed.
“Oh, I see you’ve heard! Thank you so much for your good wishes. I’m sure we love each other very much. I’m dying to see Sylvia and tell her, and—”
“And what?” Trent laughed.
“I’m very happy,” she sighed.
“He’s pure gold,” Trent replied.
Then he smiled.
“I want you and Georges to come and dine with us tonight. It’s a little celebration. Tomorrow is Sylvia’s fête. She’ll be nineteen. I’ve written to Thorne, and the Guernalecs are coming with their cousin Odile. Fallowby has promised not to bring anyone except himself.”
The girl accepted shyly and asked Trent to give Sylvia many loving messages.
He wished her good-night and left.
He walked quickly up the street because the cold was bitter. Crossing the rue de la Lune, he entered the rue de Seine.
Night had fallen suddenly.
The sky was clear, and thousands of stars glittered overhead.
The bombardment had become furious. The Prussian guns rolled continuously, punctuated by the deep explosions from Mont Valérien.
Shells streaked across the sky like shooting stars.
When Trent turned to look behind him, blue and red rockets rose over the horizon from the Fort of Issy. Farther away, the Northern Fortress blazed like a bonfire.
“Good news!” a man shouted near the Boulevard St. Germain.
As if by magic, the streets filled with people.
They were shivering, whispering, and staring with hollow eyes.
“Jacques!” someone cried. “The Army of the Loire!”
“Eh, mon vieux! So they’ve finally come! I told you! I told you! Tonight—or tomorrow—who knows?”
“Is it true? Is it a sortie?”
“Oh, God—a sortie! And my son?”
Another voice cried, “To the Seine! They say you can see the signals of the Army of the Loire from the Pont Neuf!”
A child standing near Trent kept repeating,
“Mamma, Mamma, then tomorrow we can eat white bread?”
Beside him stood an old man swaying on his feet. His shriveled hands were pressed against his chest, and he muttered as though he had gone mad.
“Can it really be true? Who heard the news?”
“The shoemaker on the rue de Buci heard it from a Mobile, who heard a Franctireur repeat it to a captain of the National Guard.”
Trent followed the crowd surging down the rue de Seine toward the river.
Rocket after rocket tore across the sky.
The cannon on Montmartre thundered.
The batteries on Montparnasse answered with a tremendous crash.
The bridge was packed with people.
“Who has seen the signals from the Army of the Loire?” Trent asked.
“We’re waiting for them.”
He looked north.
Suddenly, the enormous silhouette of the Arc de Triomphe appeared against a cannon flash.
The explosion rolled along the quay, and the old bridge trembled beneath their feet.
Another flash came from the Point du Jour, followed by a heavy explosion.
Then the entire eastern line of the fortifications erupted in fire and noise, sending a red glow into the sky.
“Has anyone seen the signals yet?” Trent asked again.
“We’re waiting.”
“Yes,” a man behind him murmured. “Waiting. Sick, starving, freezing—but waiting.”
He paused.
“Is it a sortie? They’ll go gladly. Is it starvation? They’ll starve. They have no time to think about surrender.”
He turned toward Trent.
“Are these Parisians heroes? Answer me, Trent!”
The American Ambulance surgeon turned and looked along the bridge.
“Any news, Doctor?” Trent asked automatically.
“News?”
The doctor shook his head.
“I don’t know anything. I haven’t had time to know anything. What are all these people waiting for?”
“They say the Army of the Loire has signalled Mont Valérien.”
“Poor devils.”
The doctor looked around anxiously.
“I’m so exhausted and worried that I hardly know what to do. After the last sortie, our little ambulance corps had the work of fifty ambulances. There’s another sortie tomorrow. I wish you fellows would come to headquarters. We may need volunteers.”
Then he suddenly asked, “How is Madame?”
“She’s well,” Trent replied. “But she seems more nervous every day. I ought to be with her now.”
“Take care of her.”
The doctor glanced sharply at the crowd.
“I can’t stay. Good-night.”
He hurried away, muttering,
“Poor devils.”
Trent leaned over the parapet and stared down at the black river rushing beneath the arches.
Dark objects were carried swiftly along by the current. They struck the stone piers with a grinding, tearing sound, spun around for a moment, and disappeared into the darkness.
Ice from the Marne.
As Trent stood staring into the water, a hand touched his shoulder.
“Hello, Southwark!” Trent exclaimed as he turned. “This is a strange place to find you.”
“Trent, I have something to tell you.”
The American Legation attaché slipped his arm through Trent’s.
“Don’t stay here. And don’t believe in the Army of the Loire.”
He pulled Trent away toward the Louvre.
“Then it’s another lie,” Trent said bitterly.
“Worse. We know something at the Legation, but I can’t talk about it. That isn’t what I came to tell you.”
He lowered his voice.
“Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian Brasserie was searched, and an American named Hartman was 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 intend to shoot him.”
“What?”
“Of course, the Legation can’t allow them to execute him without a hearing. But the evidence against him seems conclusive.”
“Is he a spy?”
“The papers they found in his rooms are pretty damning. And they say he was caught cheating the Public Food Committee. He somehow drew rations for fifty people.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know how he managed it. He claims to be an American artist, so the Legation has had to take notice. It’s a nasty business.”
“To cheat starving people at a time like this is worse than stealing from a poor box,” Trent said angrily. “Let them shoot him!”
“He’s an American citizen.”
“Yes, yes,” the other man said bitterly. “American citizenship is a precious privilege when every German with bulging eyes—”
His anger choked off the rest of the sentence.
Southwark shook Trent’s hand warmly.
“It can’t be helped. We have to accept the carrion as our own.”
He gave Trent a faint, tired smile.
“I’m afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an American artist.”
Then he walked away through the Cours la Reine.
Trent silently swore for a moment.
Then he took out his watch.
Seven o’clock.
“Sylvia will be worried,” he thought.
He hurried back toward the river.
The crowd still huddled on the bridge, shivering in the cold, staring into the darkness for signs from the Army of the Loire.
Their hearts seemed to beat with the pounding of the guns.
Every cannon flash lit their eyes.
Every drifting rocket raised their hopes.
A black cloud hung over the fortifications.
From horizon to horizon, cannon smoke stretched in shifting bands. It covered the spires and domes, streamed through the streets, drifted down from the rooftops, and wrapped the bridges and river in a poisonous haze.
Cannon flashes flickered through the smoke.
From time to time, a gap opened above them, revealing a deep black sky filled with stars.
Trent turned back into the rue de Seine.
It was a sad, deserted street, lined with closed shutters and dark, unlit lamps.
He felt nervous.
Twice he wished he had a revolver.
But the shadowy figures passing him looked too weak from hunger to be dangerous.
He reached his doorway without trouble.
Then someone suddenly sprang at his throat.
Trent went down.
He and his attacker rolled over and over on the icy pavement as Trent clawed at the rope tightening around his neck.
With one violent twist, he broke free and sprang to his feet.
“Get up!”
The other person slowly climbed out of the gutter.
It was a small street urchin.
The boy looked at Trent with complete disgust.
“That’s a nice clean trick,” Trent said. “A whelp your age! You’ll end up against a wall! Give me that cord.”
The boy handed over the noose without a word.
Trent struck a match and looked closely at him.
It was the rat-killer from the day before.
“H’m. I thought so.”
“Tiens, c’est toi?” the boy said calmly.
The boy’s insolence left Trent speechless.
“Do you know, you little strangler,” he finally gasped, “that they shoot thieves your age?”
The child looked at him without emotion.
“Then shoot me.”
That was too much.
Trent turned away and entered the hotel.
He felt his way up the dark staircase until he reached his own landing.
From inside his studio came the sound of voices.
West was laughing heartily.
Fallowby was chuckling.
At last Trent found the door handle. He pushed the door open and stood there for a moment, blinded by the light.
“Hello, Jack!” West shouted. “What a charming host you are! You invite people to dinner and then leave them waiting. Fallowby is starving to death.”
“Shut up,” Fallowby said. “Maybe he’s been out buying a turkey.”
“He’s been out strangling people,” Guernalec laughed. “Look at his noose!”
“So now we know where you get your money,” West added. “Vive le coup du Père François!”
Trent shook hands with everyone.
He smiled when he saw Sylvia’s pale face.
“I didn’t mean to be late. I stopped on the bridge for a moment to watch the bombardment.”
He looked at her.
“Were you worried, Sylvia?”
She smiled faintly.
“Oh, no.”
But her hand slipped into his and tightened convulsively.
“To the table!” Fallowby shouted.
He gave a delighted whoop.
“Take it easy,” Thorne said with the last traces of good manners. “You aren’t the host, you know.”
Marie Guernalec, who had been chatting with Colette, jumped up and took Thorne’s arm.
Monsieur Guernalec offered his arm to Odile.
Trent bowed formally and offered his arm to Colette.
West took Sylvia’s arm.
Fallowby brought up the rear, watching the food anxiously.
“You have to march around the table three times while singing the Marseillaise,” Sylvia explained.
“And Monsieur Fallowby has to pound on the table and keep time.”
Fallowby protested that they could sing after dinner, but nobody listened.
The room filled with song.
“Aux armes!
Formez vos bataillons!”
They marched around the room, singing at the top of their voices.
“Marchons! Marchons!”
Fallowby pounded the table with very bad grace, comforting himself with the thought that all this exercise would make him hungrier.
Hercules, the black-and-tan dog, fled beneath the bed.
He stayed there barking and whining until Guernalec dragged him out and placed him in Odile’s lap.
“And now,” Trent said solemnly after everyone sat down, “listen.”
He read the menu aloud.
Beef Soup à la Siège de Paris
Fish
Sardines à la Père Lachaise
White Wine
Roast
Fresh Beef à la Sortie
Red Wine
Vegetables
Canned Beans à la Chasse-Pot
Canned Peas Gravelotte
Potatoes Irlandaises
Miscellaneous
Cold Meat
Cold Corned Beef à la Thieis
Stewed Prunes à la Garibaldi
Dessert
Dried Prunes
White Bread
Currant Jelly
Tea
Café
Liqueurs
Pipes and Cigarettes
Fallowby applauded wildly.
Sylvia served the soup.
“Isn’t it delicious?” Odile sighed.
Marie Guernalec drank her soup with pure delight.
“It doesn’t taste like horse at all,” Colette whispered to West. “And I don’t care what anyone says. Horse does not taste like beef.”
Fallowby had already finished his bowl.
He stroked his chin and stared hopefully at the tureen.
“Have some more, old fellow?” Trent asked.
“Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more,” Sylvia announced. “I’m saving this for the concierge.”
Fallowby reluctantly turned his attention to the fish.
The sardines, grilled until hot, were a great success.
While everyone else ate, Sylvia carried the soup downstairs to the old concierge and her husband.
When she hurried back, flushed and breathless, she slipped into her chair and smiled happily at Trent.
Trent rose.
The table fell silent.
For a moment he simply looked at Sylvia.
He had never seen her look so beautiful.
“You all know,” he began, “that today is my wife’s nineteenth birthday.”
Fallowby was so enthusiastic that he waved his glass in circles above his head, terrifying Odile and Colette beside him.
Thorne, West, and Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the applause finally died down.
They drank three toasts to Sylvia.
Then three more to Trent, despite his protests.
“This is irregular!” Trent cried. “The next toast is to the two Republics—France and America!”
“To the Republics!”
“To the Republics!”
They raised their glasses.
“Vive la France!”
“Vive l’Amérique!”
“Vive la Nation!”
Then Trent smiled at West.
“To a happy pair!”
Everyone understood.
Sylvia leaned over and kissed Colette.
Trent bowed toward West.
The beef was eaten in relative peace.
When it was finished, they set part of it aside for the old couple downstairs.
Then Trent raised his glass.
“Drink to Paris! May she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!”
Cheers erupted around the table.
For a moment, their voices drowned out the endless thunder of the Prussian guns.
Pipes and cigarettes were lit.
Trent listened to the lively conversation around him, interrupted by the girls’ laughter and Fallowby’s deep chuckle.
Then he turned to West.
“There’s going to be a sortie tonight. I saw the American Ambulance surgeon just before I came in. He asked me to speak to you fellows. Any help we can give him will be useful.”
Then, lowering his voice and speaking in English, he added,
“As for me, I’m going out with the ambulance tomorrow morning. There’s no real danger, of course, but it’s better not to tell Sylvia.”
West nodded.
Thorne and Guernalec had heard him and immediately offered their help.
Fallowby volunteered too, with a miserable groan.
“All right,” Trent said quickly. “That’s enough for now. Meet me at Ambulance headquarters tomorrow morning at eight.”
Sylvia and Colette had become uneasy because of their conversation in English.
“What are you talking about?” they demanded.
“What does a sculptor usually talk about?” West replied with a laugh.
Odile gave Thorne a reproachful look.
“You aren’t French, you know. This war is none of your business.”
Thorne looked meek.
West immediately put on an expression of wounded innocence.
“It seems,” he said to Fallowby, “that a man can’t discuss the beauties of Greek sculpture in his own language without being suspected of something.”
Colette covered his mouth with her hand.
Turning to Sylvia, she whispered,
“They’re terrible liars, these men.”
“I believe the word ambulance is the same in both languages,” Marie Guernalec said mischievously.
“Sylvia, don’t trust Monsieur Trent.”
“Jack,” Sylvia whispered, “promise me—”
A knock at the studio door interrupted her.
“Come in!” Fallowby shouted.
But Trent sprang to his feet.
He opened the door and looked into the hallway.
Then he quickly excused himself and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
When he returned, he was furious.
“What is it, Jack?” West asked.
“What is it?”
Trent glared at them.
“I’ll tell you what it is. I’ve received a dispatch from the American Minister ordering me to go immediately and identify and claim, as a fellow American and brother artist, a filthy thief and German spy!”
“Don’t go,” Fallowby suggested.
“If I don’t, they’ll shoot him immediately.”
“Let them,” Thorne growled.
“Do you fellows know who it is?”
“Hartman!” West shouted suddenly.
Sylvia sprang to her feet.
Her face had gone deathly white.
Odile immediately slipped an arm around her and guided her toward a chair.
“Sylvia has fainted,” she said calmly. “It’s the heat in this room. Bring some water.”
Trent brought it immediately.
Sylvia opened her eyes.
After a moment, she stood.
Supported by Marie Guernalec and Trent, she walked into the bedroom.
The dinner ended at once.
Everyone came to shake Trent’s hand.
They told him they hoped Sylvia would sleep and that she would soon recover.
When Marie Guernalec said goodbye, she avoided Trent’s eyes.
He spoke warmly to her and thanked her for helping Sylvia.
“Anything I can do, Jack?” West asked, lingering for a moment.
Then he hurried downstairs to join the others.
Trent leaned over the banister and listened to their footsteps and voices.
The lower door slammed.
The house became silent.
He remained there, staring into the darkness below and biting his lips.
Finally he muttered,
“I’m crazy.”
He lit a candle and entered the bedroom.
Sylvia lay on the bed.
Trent bent over her and gently smoothed the curly hair from her forehead.
“Are you feeling better, dear Sylvia?”
She did not answer.
She simply looked up at him.
For one moment their eyes met.
What Trent saw in hers sent a chill through his heart.
He sat down and covered his face with his hands.
At last she spoke.
Her voice was strange, strained, and unlike anything he had ever heard.
Trent lowered his hands and sat upright.
“Jack, it has come at last.”
She struggled to breathe.
“I’ve feared this moment and trembled at it. Oh, how many nights I’ve lain awake with this fear in my heart, praying that I might die before you ever found out.”
She looked at him through tears.
“Because I love you, Jack. And if you leave me, I cannot live.”
Trent remained still.
“I deceived you. It happened before I knew you. But from the first day you found me crying in the Luxembourg Gardens and spoke to me, I have been faithful to you in everything.”
“I loved you from that very first day.”
Her voice broke.
“But I was afraid to tell you. I thought you would leave me. And since then my love has only grown. It kept growing, and I suffered terribly, but I still couldn’t tell you.”
She covered her face.
“Now you know, but you still don’t know the worst.”
Her voice trembled.
“As for him—what do I care about him now? He was cruel. Oh, so cruel!”
She buried her face in her arms.
“Must I go on? Must I tell you everything? Can’t you understand, Jack?”
Trent did not move.
His eyes looked empty.
“I was so young. I knew nothing. He told me that he loved me…”
Trent suddenly stood.
He struck the candle with his clenched fist.
The room went completely dark.
The bells of St. Sulpice began to strike the hour.
Sylvia sat upright and spoke with feverish urgency.
“I must finish!”
Her voice shook.
“When you told me you loved me, you asked me nothing. But even then it was already too late. That other life, the life that binds me to him, will always stand between you and me.”
She struggled for breath.
“Because there is another person whom he has claimed—and whom he is good to.”
She began to weep.
“He must not die. They cannot shoot him.”
“For that other person’s sake, he must live.”
Trent sat motionless.
Inside his mind, thoughts raced endlessly.
Sylvia.
Little Sylvia.
The girl who had shared his student life.
The girl who had endured the terrible siege beside him without complaint.
That slender, blue-eyed girl whom he had quietly loved, teasing her one moment and comforting her the next.
The girl whose passionate devotion sometimes even tried his patience.
Could this be the same Sylvia who now lay crying in the darkness?
His teeth clenched.
“Let him die,” he thought.
“Let him die.”
But then he thought of Sylvia.
And of the other person whose fate was tied to the man now facing death.
Yes.
He would go.
He had no choice.
His duty was clear.
But Sylvia—
He could never again be the man he had been to her.
And now that she had confessed everything, a terrible fear seized him.
Trembling, he struck another match.
Sylvia lay on the bed, her curly hair scattered across her face, her small white hands pressed tightly against her breast.
He could not leave her.
But he could not stay either.
For the first time, he understood that he loved her.
Until now, she had been almost like a companion to him—a young wife who shared his life.
But now he knew.
He loved her with all his heart and soul.
And he had discovered it only when it seemed too late.
Too late?
Why?
Then he thought again of the other person, the one whose existence bound Sylvia forever to the man whose life was now in danger.
With an oath, Trent sprang toward the door.
But the door would not open.
Or perhaps he himself pushed it shut.
Locked it.
Then he fell to his knees beside the bed, knowing that, for the sake of his own life, he could not leave the one person who had become his whole world.