IV

von Robert W. Chambers

As the clock struck midnight from the belfry of St. Sulpice, the streets of Paris were still choked with the remnants of what had once been an army.

They entered with the night, a weary group, covered in mud, faint from hunger and exhaustion. At first, there was a grim order to their march; the crowd at the gates parted silently as the soldiers trudged through the freezing streets. But as the hours dragged on, confusion erupted. Squadron after squadron poured through the gates, artillery and cavalry jostling for space, horses rearing and carts jolting. The infantry followed closely behind; some regiments attempted to maintain a semblance of order, while others surged forward like a chaotic mob, pushing into the streets. There were officers without men, and then a line of ambulances, their wheels creaking under heavy loads.

The onlookers stood in stunned silence, their faces reflecting the misery around them.

All day long, the ambulances had been arriving, and the ragged crowd had huddled by the barriers, shivering and murmuring. By noon, the throng had swelled tenfold, filling the squares around the gates and spilling over the inner fortifications.

At four o’clock, the German artillery suddenly erupted in smoke, and shells rained down on Montparnasse. Just twenty minutes later, two projectiles struck a building on rue de Bac, and moments after that, the first shell fell in the Latin Quarter.

Braith was painting in bed when West burst in, clearly shaken.

“I need you to come down; our house has been wrecked, and I’m worried some looters might decide to pay us a visit tonight.”

Braith jumped out of bed and threw on a coat that had seen better days.

“Is anyone hurt?” he asked, struggling with a sleeve that was falling apart.

“No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran off to the fortifications. If the bombardment continues, there will be a rough crowd out there. We could use your help—”

“Of course,” Braith replied, but it wasn’t until they reached rue Serpente and turned into the passage leading to West’s cellar that West asked, “Have you seen Jack Trent today?”

“No,” Braith said, looking worried. “He wasn’t at Ambulance Headquarters.”

“He must have stayed behind to look after Sylvia.”

Suddenly, a bomb crashed through the roof of a nearby house, exploding in the basement and showering the street with debris. Another struck a chimney and fell into a garden, followed by a cascade of bricks, and yet another detonated with a deafening roar in the next street.

They hurried down the passage to the cellar steps, but Braith paused again.

“Shouldn’t I check on Jack and Sylvia? I can be back before dark.”

“No. Go in and find Colette, and I’ll go.”

“No, let me go. There’s no danger.”

“I know that,” West replied calmly, pulling Braith into the alley and pointing to the cellar steps. The iron door was barred.

“Colette! Colette!” he called. The door swung open, and the girl rushed up the stairs to meet them. At that moment, Braith glanced back and let out a startled cry. He pushed the two of them into the cellar, jumped down after them, and slammed the iron door shut. A heavy thud from outside shook the hinges.

“They’re here,” West muttered, his face pale.

“That door,” Colette said coolly, “will hold forever.”

Braith examined the low iron door, now trembling from the blows raining down on it from outside. West glanced anxiously at Colette, who remained calm, and this steadied him.

“I doubt they’ll spend much time here,” Braith said. “They probably only search cellars for alcohol.”

“Unless they hear there are valuables hidden inside.”

“But surely nothing is buried here?” Braith asked, unease creeping into his voice.

“Unfortunately, there is,” West grumbled. “That stingy landlord of mine—”

A loud crash from outside interrupted him, followed by a scream. Blow after blow shook the door until a sharp snap echoed, and a piece of metal fell inward, leaving a hole through which a sliver of light struggled.

Without hesitation, West knelt down and shoved his revolver through the opening, firing off every round. The alley erupted with the sound of gunfire, then fell into an eerie silence.

After a moment, a single tentative knock came against the door, followed by another, and then another, until a crack zigzagged across the iron plate.

“Here,” West said, grabbing Colette by the wrist. “Follow me, Braith!” He dashed toward a circle of light at the far end of the cellar. The light came from a barred manhole above. West gestured for Braith to climb onto his shoulders.

“Push it open. You have to!”

With little effort, Braith lifted the barred cover, crawled out on his stomach, and easily hoisted Colette from West’s shoulders.

“Come on, hurry!” West urged.

Braith twisted his legs around a fence chain and leaned down again. The cellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air was thick with the smell of petroleum torches. The iron door still held, but a large plate of metal was missing, and just then, a figure emerged, holding a torch.

“Quick!” Braith whispered. “Jump!” West hung there for a moment until Colette grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out. Then, overwhelmed, she broke down in tears, but West wrapped his arm around her and guided her across the gardens into the next street. Braith, after replacing the manhole cover and piling some stone slabs over it, rejoined them. It was nearly dark. They hurried through the street, now illuminated only by burning buildings and the quick flashes of shells. They kept their distance from the flames but could see the shadowy figures of looters moving among the debris. Occasionally, they passed a woman, wild with drink, shouting curses at the world, or a slouching man whose soot-covered face and hands revealed his role in the chaos.

Finally, they reached the Seine and crossed the bridge. Braith paused, saying, “I have to go back. I’m not sure about Jack and Sylvia.” As he spoke, he stepped aside for a crowd that was trampling across the bridge, moving along the river wall by the d’Orsay barracks. In the midst of it, West heard the steady march of a platoon. A lantern flickered, followed by a line of bayonets, and then another lantern illuminated a pale face behind it. Colette gasped, “Hartman!” and he was gone. They peered anxiously over the embankment, holding their breath. They heard footsteps on the quay, and the barracks gate slammed shut. A lantern shone briefly at the postern, the crowd pressed against the grille, and then they heard the sharp crack of gunfire from the stone parade.

One by one, the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and the entire square came alive. Fragments of the battle trickled down from the Champs Elysées and across the Place de la Concorde—a company here, a mob there. They poured in from every street, followed by women and children, and a great murmur, carried by the icy wind, swept through the Arc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue—“Lost! Lost!”

A ragged remnant of a battalion pushed past, a ghostly reminder of destruction. West groaned. Then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranks and called West’s name. When he recognized Trent, he shouted in relief. Trent, pale with fear, grabbed him.

“Sylvia?”

West stared in shock, but Colette cried out, “Oh, Sylvia! Sylvia!—and they’re shelling the Quarter!”

“Trent!” Braith shouted, but he was already gone, and they couldn’t catch up to him.

The bombardment stopped as Trent crossed Boulevard St. Germain, but the entrance to rue de Seine was blocked by a pile of smoking bricks. Everywhere, shells had torn gaping holes in the pavement. The café was a wreck of splinters and glass, the bookstore was barely standing, ripped from roof to basement, and the little bakery, long closed, bulged outward above a mass of slate and tin.

He climbed over the steaming bricks and hurried into rue de Tournon. At the corner, a fire blazed, illuminating his street, and on the bank wall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was scrawling with a piece of charcoal.

“HERE FELL THE FIRST SHELL.”

The letters jumped out at him. The child stepped back to admire his work but, upon seeing Trent’s bayonet, screamed and ran away. As Trent staggered across the ruined street, fierce women emerged from the wreckage, cursing him as they fled from their looting.

At first, he couldn’t find his house; tears blurred his vision. But he felt along the wall until he reached the door. A lantern flickered in the concierge’s lodge, and he found the old man dead beside it. Shaken, he leaned against his rifle for a moment, then snatched up the lantern and rushed up the stairs. He tried to call out, but his tongue felt heavy. On the second floor, he saw plaster scattered on the stairway, and on the third, the floor was torn apart, with the concierge lying in a pool of blood across the landing.

The next floor was his, theirs. The door hung from its hinges, and the walls gaped open. He crept inside and sank down by the bed, and suddenly, two arms wrapped around his neck, and a tear-streaked face sought his.

“Sylvia!”

“Oh Jack! Jack! Jack!”

From the tumbled pillow beside them, a child wailed.

“They brought it; it’s mine,” she sobbed.

“Ours,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around both of them.

Then, from the stairs below, Braith’s anxious voice called out, “Trent! Is everything okay?”