The room was already dark. The tall buildings opposite had swallowed what little December daylight remained.
Sylvia pulled her chair closer to the window. She chose a large needle, threaded it, and tied a knot around her fingers. Then she spread the baby’s little garment across her knees and bent over her work.
She bit off the thread, pulled a smaller needle from the hem, and brushed away the loose threads and scraps of lace. Then she laid the tiny garment across her knees again, almost tenderly.
She slipped the threaded needle from her bodice and pushed it through a button. But as the button slid down the thread, her hand suddenly shook.
The thread snapped.
The button rolled across the floor.
Sylvia lifted her head.
Her eyes fixed on the last pale strip of daylight above the chimneys.
Somewhere in the city came a sound like distant drums.
Farther away, something else was growing louder—a deep, restless rumble. At times it sounded like waves crashing against rocks. Then it seemed to retreat, only to return as a low, threatening growl.
The cold had become brutal. It cut through everything. The wooden beams and joists seemed to crack beneath it, and the slush left from yesterday had frozen as hard as stone.
Every sound from the street below was sharp and metallic—the clatter of wooden shoes, the rattling of shutters, the occasional human voice.
The air itself seemed weighed down by the black, bitter cold.
Breathing hurt.
Even moving felt like work.
The sky was bleak and exhausting to look at. The heavy clouds seemed to carry a sadness of their own.
That sadness settled over the frozen city and the frozen river, over the magnificent towers and domes, the quays and bridges, and the countless church spires.
It spread through the squares and avenues, over the palaces, across the bridges, and into the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter, where everything looked gray beneath the December sky.
Nothing but sadness.
A fine icy sleet began to fall, dusting the pavement with tiny crystals. It struck the windowpanes, leaving little stars and diamonds, then melted against the warmth inside and froze again in delicate patterns.
The light was almost gone.
Sylvia bent lower over her sewing.
After a while she lifted her head and brushed the curls away from her eyes.
“Jack?”
“Dearest?”
“Don’t forget to clean your palette.”
“All right.”
Jack Trent picked up his palette and sat down on the floor in front of the stove. His head and shoulders were lost in shadow, but the firelight fell across his knees and glowed red against the blade of his palette knife.
Beside him stood a large color box.
On its lid were carved the words:
J. TRENT.
École des Beaux Arts.
1870.
An American flag and a French flag decorated the inscription.
The sleet struck the windows again and again.
A dog whined.
Small paws pattered behind the zinc sheet at the back of the stove.
“Jack, dear, do you think Hercules is hungry?”
The little paws moved faster.
“He’s whining,” Sylvia said nervously. “And if it isn’t because he’s hungry, it’s because—”
Her voice broke off.
A deep humming suddenly filled the air.
The windows trembled.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried. “Another—”
Her words disappeared beneath the scream of a shell tearing through the clouds overhead.
“That was the closest one yet,” she whispered.
“Oh, no,” Jack said cheerfully. “It probably landed somewhere near Montmartre.”
Sylvia said nothing.
Jack forced an even more careless tone.
“They wouldn’t waste ammunition firing at the Latin Quarter. Besides, they don’t have a battery powerful enough to hurt us here.”
After a while Sylvia brightened her voice.
“Jack, dear, when are you going to take me to see Monsieur West’s statues?”
Jack dropped his palette and walked over to the window beside her.
“I’ll bet Colette came here today.”
“Why?”
Sylvia opened her eyes wide.
Then she frowned.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Men are so tiresome when they think they know everything! And I warn you, if Monsieur West is vain enough to imagine that Colette—”
Another shell came whistling from the north.
It quavered across the sky, passed directly over them, and left the windows humming after it was gone.
Jack stared toward the ceiling.
“That was much too close for comfort.”
For a while neither of them spoke.
Then Jack tried to sound cheerful again.
“Go on, Sylvia. Finish destroying poor West.”
She sighed.
“Oh, dear. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to those shells.”
Jack sat down on the arm of her chair.
Her scissors slipped from her fingers and struck the floor with a metallic jingle. She tossed the unfinished little dress after them.
Then she wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him down into her lap.
“Don’t go out tonight, Jack.”
He kissed her upturned face.
“You know I have to.”
“Don’t make me beg you.”
“But when I hear those shells—and know you’re out there somewhere in the city—”
“They all land in Montmartre.”
“They could all land at the Beaux Arts. You said yourself that two of them hit the Quai d’Orsay.”
“That was just an accident.”
“Jack, please have some pity on me. Take me with you!”
“And who will make dinner?”
Sylvia stood up and threw herself onto the bed.
“Oh, I can’t get used to this. I know you have to go, but please don’t be late for dinner. If you knew what I suffer—”
She swallowed.
“I—I can’t help it. You’ll have to be patient with me, dear.”
“It’s just as safe there as it is here.”
She watched him fill the little alcohol lamp for her.
He lit it, picked up his hat, and turned toward the door.
Sylvia sprang up and clung to him without saying a word.
After a moment, Jack spoke softly.
“Now, Sylvia, remember that my courage depends on yours. Come on. I have to go.”
She did not move.
“I have to go.”
She finally stepped back.
Jack thought she was going to say something, so he waited.
But she only looked at him.
A little impatiently, he kissed her again.
“Don’t worry, dearest.”
When he reached the last flight of stairs leading to the street, a woman came hobbling out of the concierge’s lodge.
She waved a letter.
“Monsieur Jack! Monsieur Jack! This was left by Monsieur Fallowby!”
Jack took the letter and leaned against the doorway while he read it.
“Dear Jack,
“I believe Braith is completely broke, and I’m sure Fallowby is too. Braith swears he isn’t, while Fallowby swears he is. Draw your own conclusions.
“I have an idea for getting us a dinner, and if it works, I’ll let you fellows in on it.
“Yours faithfully,
“West.
“P.S. Fallowby has finally shaken Hartman and his gang. Thank God! There’s something rotten there. Or perhaps he’s simply a miser.
“P.P.S. I’m more desperately in love than ever, but I’m certain she doesn’t care a straw for me.”
“All right,” Trent said with a smile to the concierge.
Then he asked, “But tell me, how is Papa Cottard?”
The old woman shook her head and pointed toward the curtained bed inside the lodge.
“Père Cottard!” Trent called cheerfully. “How is the wound today?”
He walked to the bed and pulled back the curtains.
An old man lay among the tangled sheets.
“Better?” Trent asked with a smile.
“Better,” the man repeated wearily.
After a pause, he asked, “Have you heard any news, Monsieur Jack?”
“I haven’t been out today. If I hear any rumors, I’ll bring them back to you. Though God knows I’ve heard enough rumors already.”
Then he added aloud:
“Cheer up. You look better today.”
“And the sortie?”
“Oh, the sortie? That’s coming this week. General Trochu sent the orders last night.”
“It will be terrible.”
“It will be sickening,” Trent thought as he stepped into the street and turned toward the rue de Seine. “Slaughter. Nothing but slaughter. Thank God I’m not going.”
The street was almost deserted.
A few women, wrapped in ragged military capes, crept along the frozen pavement.
Near the corner of the Boulevard, a badly dressed gamin hovered over a sewer opening.
A rope around his waist kept his rags from falling apart.
A dead rat, still warm and bleeding, hung from the rope.
“There’s another one in there!” the boy shouted at Trent. “I hit him, but he got away.”
Trent crossed the street.
“How much?”
“Two francs for a quarter of a fat one. That’s what they pay at the Saint-Germain Market.”
The boy suddenly broke into a violent coughing fit.
He wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand, then gave Trent a sly look.
“Last week you could buy a rat for six francs. But the rats have left the rue de Seine. Now they’re killing them near the new hospital.”
He held up the dead animal.
“I’ll give you this one for seven francs. I can sell it for ten on the Île Saint-Louis.”
“You’re lying,” Trent said.
Then he added sternly:
“And if you try to cheat people around here, they’ll make short work of you and your rats.”
The boy stood there, pretending to sniffle.
Trent stared at him for a moment.
Then he tossed him a franc and laughed.
The child caught the coin and immediately shoved it into his mouth.
He turned back toward the sewer.
For a second he crouched perfectly still, watching the bars of the drain.
Then he sprang forward and threw a stone into the gutter.
Trent left him there to finish off a large gray rat that was twisting and squealing at the mouth of the sewer.
“Suppose Braith ends up like that,” Trent thought.
“Poor little devil.”
He hurried on, turned into the filthy Passage des Beaux Arts, and entered the third house on the left.
“Monsieur is at home,” the old concierge called.
Home?
It was nothing more than a bare attic.
There was an iron bed in one corner, an iron basin, and a pitcher on the floor.
West appeared in the doorway, winking mysteriously.
He motioned for Trent to come inside.
Braith was painting in bed to keep warm.
He looked up, laughed, and shook Trent’s hand.
“Any news?”
As always, the routine answer was:
“Nothing but the cannon.”
Trent sat down on the bed.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
He pointed at a half-finished chicken sitting in a washbasin.
West grinned.
“Are you two secretly millionaires? Come on. Tell me.”
Braith looked embarrassed.
“Oh, it was one of West’s schemes—”
West interrupted him.
“I’ll tell it.”
He settled himself comfortably.
“You see, before the siege, I had a letter of introduction to a certain type here. A fat banker. German-American variety. You know the species.”
Trent nodded.
“Of course.”
“I forgot all about the letter, naturally. But this morning I decided the time was right, so I went to see him.
“The villain lives like a king. Fires everywhere, my boy. Fires even in the entrance halls!
“Eventually the butler decided to take my letter and card upstairs. He left me standing in the hallway, which I didn’t like at all.
“So I walked into the first room I found.
“I nearly fainted.
“There was a banquet spread out on a table beside the fire.
“Down comes the butler, looking very insolent.
“‘No, monsieur. My master is not at home. In fact, he is too busy to receive letters of introduction at present. The siege, you understand, and certain business difficulties—’
“So I kicked the fellow, picked up this chicken from the table, threw my card onto the empty plate, called him a Prussian pig, and marched out with all the honors of war.”
Trent shook his head.
“I forgot to mention,” West continued, “that Hartman often eats dinner there. Draw your own conclusions.”
He pointed at the chicken.
“Half of this is for Braith and me. The other half is for Colette. Of course, you’ll help us eat our half because I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I,” Braith began.
Trent smiled at their thin, hollow faces.
“What nonsense! You know I’m never hungry.”
West hesitated.
His face reddened.
Then he cut off Braith’s portion.
He did not take any for himself.
“Good night,” he said.
He hurried away toward number 470 rue Serpente, where a pretty girl named Colette lived.
She had been orphaned after Sedan.
Only Heaven knew where she still found enough food to keep those roses in her cheeks, for the siege was hitting the poor girl hard.
“That chicken will make her very happy,” Trent said.
Then he smiled.
“I really think she’s in love with West.”
He walked back to the bed.
“Come here, old man. No avoiding the question. How much money do you have left?”
Braith hesitated.
His face flushed.
“Come on,” Trent said.
Braith pulled a purse from beneath his pillow and handed it to him.
The simple gesture touched Trent.
He opened the purse and counted the coins.
“Seven sous? You’re impossible!”
He looked at Braith in exasperation.
“Why on earth don’t you come to me? I take it damn seriously, Braith! How many times do I have to tell you that because I have money, it’s my duty to share it with you?”
He pointed toward the purse.
“And it’s your duty—and the duty of every American here—to let me share it with you.”
“You can’t earn a cent in this city. We’re blockaded. The American minister already has his hands full dealing with all the German riffraff and God knows what else.”
He shook his head.
“Why won’t you act sensibly?”
“I—I will, Trent.”
Braith lowered his eyes.
“But it’s a debt I may never be able to repay. I’m poor, and—”
“Of course you’ll repay me!”
Trent laughed.
“If I were a moneylender, I’d take your talent as security. When you become rich and famous—”
“Don’t, Trent.”
“All right. But no more nonsense.”
He slipped twelve gold pieces into the purse, tucked it beneath the mattress, and smiled at Braith.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Trent placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
“I’m twenty-two. As far as you’re concerned, that makes me old enough to be your grandfather.”
He smiled.
“You’ll do what I say until you’re twenty-one.”
“The siege will be over by then, I hope,” Braith said, trying to laugh.
But the prayer in both their hearts was the same:
How long, O Lord? How long?
That night, the answer came in the shrieking scream of a shell soaring through the storm clouds above Paris.