II

by Robert W. Chambers

West stood in the doorway of a house on rue Serpentine, his anger palpable. He didn’t care whether Hartman liked what he was saying; this wasn’t a discussion, it was a declaration.

“You call yourself an American?” he scoffed. “Berlin and hell are full of that kind of American. You come around Colette with your pockets stuffed with bread and beef, and a bottle of wine that costs thirty francs, yet you can’t even spare a dollar for the American Ambulance and Public Assistance, while Braith, who’s half-starved, does!”

Hartman stepped back to the curb, but West followed him, his expression dark as a storm cloud. “Don’t you dare call yourself my countryman,” he growled. “And you’re certainly not an artist! Artists don’t crawl into the Public Defense just to feast on the people’s food like rats! And let me tell you,” he lowered his voice, noticing Hartman flinch as if stung, “you’d be wise to steer clear of that Alsatian Brasserie and the smug-faced crooks who hang around there. You know what they do to suspects!”

“You’re lying, you dog!” Hartman shouted, hurling the bottle in his hand straight at West’s face. In an instant, West had him by the throat, slamming him against the wall and shaking him fiercely.

“Now listen to me,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You’re already a suspect, and—I swear—I think you’re a paid spy! It’s not my job to root out vermin like you, and I won’t denounce you, but understand this: Colette doesn’t like you, and I can’t stand you. If I see you on this street again, I’ll make things very unpleasant. Get lost, you slick Prussian!”

Hartman managed to pull a knife from his pocket, but West wrenched it away and shoved him into the gutter. A street kid who witnessed the scene burst into laughter, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet street. Suddenly, windows flew open, and weary faces appeared, demanding to know why anyone would laugh in a starving city.

“Is it a victory?” one murmured.

“Look at that,” West said, pointing as Hartman picked himself up from the pavement. “Look at you, you miser! Look at those faces!” But Hartman shot him a look that West would never forget and walked away without a word. Trent, who had just appeared at the corner, glanced curiously at West, who simply nodded toward his door and said, “Come in; Fallowby’s upstairs.”

“What’s with the knife?” Fallowby asked as he and Trent entered the studio.

West glanced at his injured hand, still gripping the knife, but shrugged it off. “Just cut myself by accident,” he said, tossing the knife into a corner and washing the blood from his fingers.

Fallowby, plump and lazy, watched him without comment, but Trent, sensing the tension, approached Fallowby with a grin.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” he said.

“Where is it? I’m starving,” Fallowby replied, feigning eagerness, but Trent frowned and told him to pay attention.

“How much did I lend you a week ago?”

“Three hundred and eighty francs,” Fallowby admitted, squirming.

“And where is it?”

Fallowby began to offer a convoluted explanation, but Trent cut him off. “I know; you blew it all. You always do. I don’t care what you spent it on before the siege. I know you’re wealthy and can do what you want with your money, and generally, it’s none of my business. But now it is my business because I have to cover your expenses until you get more, which won’t happen until this siege is over one way or another. I want to share what I have, but I won’t watch it go to waste. Yes, I know you’ll pay me back, but that’s not the point. Your friends think you could use a break from indulgence. You’re practically a freak in this city of starving skeletons!”

“I am a bit stout,” Fallowby conceded.

“Is it true you’re out of money?” Trent pressed.

“Yes, I am,” Fallowby sighed.

“That roast pig on rue St. Honoré—still there?” Trent continued.

“Wh—what?” Fallowby stammered.

“Ah, I thought so! I’ve caught you drooling over that pig at least a dozen times!”

Laughing, Trent handed Fallowby a roll of twenty-franc coins. “If you spend these on luxuries, you’ll have to live off your own flesh,” he joked, then moved over to help West, who was sitting by the washbasin, wrapping his hand.

West let him tie the bandage, then said, “You remember yesterday when I left you and Braith to take the chicken to Colette?”

“Chicken! Good heavens!” Fallowby moaned.

“Chicken,” West repeated, relishing Fallowby’s distress. “I need to explain that things have changed. Colette and I—are getting married—”

“What—what about the chicken?” Fallowby groaned.

“Shut up!” Trent laughed, slipping his arm through West’s as they headed toward the stairs.

“The poor thing,” West said, shaking his head. “Can you believe it? Not a single piece of firewood for a week, and she wouldn’t tell me because she thought I needed it for my clay figure. Ugh! When I found out, I smashed that smug little clay nymph to bits. The rest can freeze for all I care!” After a moment, he added hesitantly, “Will you stop by on your way down and say _bon soir_? It’s No. 17.”

“Sure,” Trent replied, slipping out and gently closing the door behind him.

He paused on the third landing, struck a match, and scanned the numbers above the row of shabby doors before knocking on No. 17.

“C’est toi, Georges?” The door swung open.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Monsieur Jack! I thought it was Monsieur West,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “Oh, I see you’ve heard! Thank you so much for your good wishes. I’m sure we love each other very much—and I can’t wait to see Sylvia and tell her—”

“And tell her what?” Trent laughed.

“I’m so happy,” she sighed.

“He’s a gem,” Trent replied, then added cheerfully, “I want you and George to come over for dinner tonight. It’s a little celebration—you see, tomorrow is Sylvia’s birthday. She’ll be nineteen. I’ve invited Thorne, and the Guernalecs will bring their cousin Odile. Fallowby promised to come alone.”

The girl accepted shyly, sending him off with a load of affectionate messages for Sylvia, and he wished her goodnight.

He hurried up the street, moving quickly to escape the biting cold. Cutting across the rue de la Lune, he entered the rue de Seine. The early winter night had fallen almost suddenly, but the sky was clear, and countless stars sparkled above. The bombardment had intensified—a steady rumble from the Prussian cannons punctuated by the heavy booms from Mont Valérien.

Shells streaked across the sky, leaving trails like shooting stars. As he turned to glance back, rockets flared blue and red above the horizon from the Fort of Issy, while the Fortress of the North blazed like a bonfire.

“Good news!” a man shouted near the Boulevard St. Germain. Suddenly, the streets were alive with people—shivering, chattering, their eyes wide with hope.

“Jacques!” one called. “The Army of the Loire!”

“Eh! _mon vieux_, it’s finally here! I told you! Tomorrow—tonight—who knows?”

“Is it true? Is it a sortie?”

Someone cried out, “Oh God—a sortie—and my son?” Another shouted, “To the Seine? They say you can see the signals from the Army of the Loire from the Pont Neuf.”

A child stood close to Trent, repeating, “Mamma, Mamma, does this mean we can eat white bread tomorrow?” Beside him, an old man swayed unsteadily, his gnarled hands pressed to his chest, muttering as if he had lost his mind.

“Could it be true? Who’s heard the news? The shoemaker on the rue de Buci got it from a Mobile who heard a Franctireur tell a captain of the National Guard.”

Trent followed the crowd surging through the rue de Seine toward the river.

Rockets continued to light up the sky, and from Montmartre, the cannons roared, joined by the batteries on Montparnasse with a thunderous crash. The bridge was packed with people.

Trent asked, “Who’s seen the signals from the Army of the Loire?”

“We’re waiting for them,” came the reply.

He looked northward. Suddenly, the massive silhouette of the Arc de Triomphe stood out sharply against the flash of a cannon. The sound rolled along the quay, causing the old bridge to tremble.

Another flash erupted near the Point du Jour, and a heavy explosion shook the bridge, followed by the entire eastern bastion of the fortifications bursting into flames, sending a red glow into the night sky.

“Has anyone seen the signals yet?” he asked again.

“We’re waiting,” was the answer.

“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 around and scanned the bridge’s parapets.

“Any news, Doctor?” Trent asked mechanically.

“News?” the doctor replied. “I don’t know any; I haven’t had time to find out. What are these people after?”

“They say the Army of the Loire has signaled Mont Valérien.”

“Poor souls.” The doctor glanced around, then added, “I’m so overwhelmed and worried I don’t know what to do. After the last sortie, we had the workload of fifty ambulances on our little corps. Tomorrow there’s another sortie, and I wish you guys could come to headquarters. We might need volunteers. How’s madame?” he asked abruptly.

“She’s well,” Trent replied, “but she seems to get more anxious every day. I should be with her now.”

“Take care of her,” the doctor said, then, eyeing the crowd, added, “I can’t stop now—goodnight!” He hurried away, muttering, “Poor souls!”

Trent leaned over the railing and stared at the dark river rushing beneath the arches. Objects, carried swiftly by the current, slammed against the stone piers with a grinding noise, spinning for a moment before disappearing into the shadows. It was the ice from the Marne.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey, Southwark!” he exclaimed, turning around. “What are you doing here?”

“Trent, I need to talk to you. We shouldn’t stay here—don’t trust the Army of the Loire.” The attaché from the American Legation linked his arm through Trent’s and pulled him toward the Louvre.

“Then it’s another lie!” Trent replied bitterly.

“It’s worse than that. We know something at the Legation—I can’t go into details. But that’s not the main issue. Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian Brasserie was raided, and an American named Hartman has been arrested. Do you know him?”

“I know a guy who calls himself an American; his name is Hartman.”

“Well, he was taken in about two hours ago. They plan to shoot him.”

“What!”

“Of course, we at the Legation can’t let them execute him without due process, but the evidence seems pretty solid.”

“Is he a spy?”

“Well, the documents found in his room are pretty damning. Plus, he was caught swindling the Public Food Committee. He drew rations for fifty people—how, I have no idea. He claims to be an American artist here, and we’ve had to take notice of it at the Legation. It’s a messy situation.”

“To cheat people at a time like this is worse than robbing a charity,” Trent said angrily. “Let them shoot him!”

“He’s an American citizen.”

“Yes, oh yes,” the other replied bitterly. “American citizenship is a precious privilege when every goggle-eyed German—” His anger choked him.

Southwark shook Trent’s hand firmly. “It can’t be helped; we have to own this mess. I’m afraid you might be called to identify him as an American artist,” he said, a faint smile flickering across his lined face, before walking away through the Cours la Reine.

Trent swore under his breath for a moment, then pulled out his watch. Seven o’clock. “Sylvia will be worried,” he thought, hurrying back to the river. The crowd still huddled on the bridge, a somber, pitiful gathering, peering into the night for signs from the Army of the Loire. Their hearts beat in time with the booming guns, their eyes lighting up with each flash from the bastions, and hope rising with the drifting rockets.

A dark cloud hung over the fortifications. From one horizon to the other, cannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, sometimes capping the spires and domes with a shroud, other times billowing in streamers and shreds along the streets, descending from rooftops and enveloping quays, bridges, and the river in a sulfurous mist. Through the smoke, the flashes of cannon fire lit up the sky, and occasionally a rift above revealed a vast black vault studded with stars.

He turned onto rue de Seine, that sad, abandoned street, lined with closed shutters and dark, unlit lamps. He felt a bit anxious and wished for a revolver, but the shadowy figures passing by were too weak with hunger to pose a threat, so he continued on, unbothered, until he reached his doorway. Suddenly, someone lunged at him.

He tumbled to the icy pavement, grappling with his assailant, struggling to loosen the noose around his neck. With a sudden twist, he sprang to his feet.

“Get up,” he shouted at the other.

Slowly, a small street urchin picked himself up from the gutter, looking at Trent with disdain.

“That’s a nice clean trick,” Trent said. “A kid like you? You’ll end up against a wall! Give me that cord!”

The boy handed over the noose without a word.

Trent struck a match to get a better look at his attacker. It was the rat-killer from the day before.

“Hm! I thought so,” he muttered.

“Tiens, c’est toi?” the boy said calmly.

The sheer audacity of the ragamuffin left Trent momentarily speechless.

“Do you realize, you little strangler,” he gasped, “that they shoot thieves your age?”

The child turned a blank face toward him. “Shoot, then.”

That was too much for Trent, and he turned on his heel, entering his hotel.

Groping his way up the dark stairway, he finally reached his landing and fumbled for the door. From his studio, he could hear voices—West’s hearty laugh and Fallowby’s chuckle. At last, he found the knob and pushed the door open, momentarily blinded by the light.

“Hey, Jack!” West called out. “You’re a real gem, inviting people to dinner and making them wait. Here’s Fallowby nearly in tears from hunger—”

“Shut up,” Fallowby interjected. “Maybe he’s been out buying a turkey.”

“He’s been out garroting, look at his noose!” Guernalec laughed.

“So now we know where you get your cash!” West added. “Vive le coup du Père François!”

Trent shook hands with everyone and laughed at Sylvia’s pale face.

“I didn’t mean to be late; I stopped on the bridge for a moment to watch the bombardment. Were you worried, Sylvia?”

She smiled and softly replied, “Oh, no!” but her hand slipped into his, gripping it tightly.

“To the table!” shouted Fallowby, letting out a joyful whoop.

“Take it easy,” Thorne chimed in, trying to maintain some decorum. “You’re not the host, you know.”

Marie Guernalec, who had been chatting with Colette, jumped up and took Thorne’s arm, while Monsieur Guernalec linked his arm through Odile’s.

Trent, bowing with a hint of seriousness, offered his arm to Colette, West took Sylvia’s, and Fallowby hovered anxiously at the back.

“You march around the table three times singing the Marseillaise,” Sylvia explained, “while Monsieur Fallowby pounds on the table to keep time.”

Fallowby suggested they could sing after dinner, but his protest was drowned out by the ringing chorus—

“Aux armes! Formez vos bataillons!”

They marched around the room, singing with all their might,

“Marchons! Marchons!”

Fallowby, with little enthusiasm, hammered on the table, hoping the exercise would whet his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, scurried under the bed, barking and whining until Guernalec dragged him out and placed him in Odile’s lap.

“And now,” Trent said gravely once everyone was seated, “listen!” He began to read the menu.

Beef Soup à la Siège de Paris.

Fish. Sardines à la père Lachaise. (White Wine).

Rôti (Red Wine). Fresh Beef à la sortie.

Vegetables. Canned Beans à la chasse-pot, Canned Peas Gravelotte, Potatoes Irlandaises, Miscellaneous.

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 enthusiastically as Sylvia served the soup.

“Isn’t it delicious?” Odile sighed.

Marie Guernalec savored her soup with delight.

“Not at all like horse, and I don’t care what they say, horse doesn’t taste like beef,” Colette whispered to West. Fallowby, having finished, began to stroke his chin and eye the tureen.

“Want some more, old chap?” Trent asked.

“Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more,” Sylvia announced. “I’m saving this for the concierge.” Fallowby shifted his gaze to the fish.

The sardines, fresh from the grill, were a huge hit. While everyone else was eating, Sylvia dashed downstairs with the soup for the old concierge and her husband. When she hurried back, flushed and breathless, slipping into her chair with a happy smile directed at Trent, he stood up, and silence fell over the table. For a brief moment, he looked at Sylvia and thought she had never looked more beautiful.

“You all know,” he began, “that today is my wife’s nineteenth birthday—”

Fallowby, bubbling with excitement, waved his glass in circles above his head, alarming Odile and Colette, his neighbors. Thorne, West, and Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the applause for Sylvia’s toast finally quieted.

Three times they raised their glasses to Sylvia, and again to Trent, who protested.

“This is irregular,” he exclaimed. “The next toast is to the twin Republics, France and America?”

“To the Republics! To the Republics!” they shouted, and the toast was drunk amid cries of “Vive la France! Vive l’Amérique! Vive la Nation!”

Then Trent, smiling at West, offered the toast, “To a Happy Pair!” Everyone understood, and Sylvia leaned over to kiss Colette, while Trent bowed to West.

The beef was eaten in relative peace, but once it was finished and a portion set aside for the elderly couple below, Trent exclaimed, “Drink to Paris! May she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!” Cheers erupted, momentarily drowning out the monotonous rumble of the Prussian guns.

Pipes and cigarettes were lit, and Trent listened for a moment to the lively chatter around him, punctuated by ripples of laughter from the girls and Fallowby’s warm chuckle. Then he turned to West.

“There’s going to be a sortie tonight,” he said. “I saw the American Ambulance surgeon just before I came in, and he asked me to speak to you guys. Any help we can offer him will be appreciated.”

Lowering his voice and switching to English, he added, “As for me, I’ll go out with the ambulance tomorrow morning. There’s no real danger, but it’s best to keep it from Sylvia.”

West nodded. Thorne and Guernalec, having overheard, jumped in to offer their assistance, and Fallowby volunteered with a groan.

“All right,” Trent said quickly, “no more for now, but meet me at Ambulance headquarters tomorrow morning at eight.”

Sylvia and Colette, growing uneasy with the conversation in English, demanded to know what they were discussing.

“What does a sculptor usually talk about?” West joked.

Odile shot a reproachful glance at Thorne, her fiancé.

“You’re not French, you know, and this war is none of your business,” Odile said with a touch of dignity.

Thorne appeared mild-mannered, but West wore an expression of righteous indignation.

“It seems,” he said to Fallowby, “that a guy can’t discuss the beauty of Greek sculpture in his own language without being openly suspected.”

Colette covered his mouth with her hand and turned to Sylvia, whispering, “These men are horridly dishonest.”

“I think the word for ambulance is the same in both languages,” Marie Guernalec chimed in playfully. “Sylvia, don’t trust Monsieur Trent.”

“Jack,” Sylvia whispered urgently, “promise me—”

A knock at the studio door interrupted her.

“Come in!” Fallowby called out, but Trent jumped up, opened the door, and peered into the hallway. After a quick excuse to the others, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

When he returned, he was grumbling.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” West asked.

“What’s wrong?” Trent echoed angrily. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I just received a message from the American Minister. I need to go immediately to identify and claim a scoundrel—a German spy—as a fellow countryman and a brother artist!”

“Don’t go,” Fallowby suggested.

“If I don’t, they’ll execute him right away.”

“Let them,” Thorne muttered.

“Do you guys even know who it is?”

“Hartman!” West shouted, suddenly inspired.

Sylvia turned pale and sprang to her feet, but Odile quickly wrapped her arm around her and guided her to a chair, saying calmly, “Sylvia has fainted—it’s too hot in here—bring her some water.”

Trent hurried to fetch it.

When Sylvia opened her eyes, she slowly rose, supported by Marie Guernalec and Trent, and made her way into the bedroom.

That was the signal for everyone to leave, and they came to shake hands with Trent, expressing hopes that Sylvia would rest and that it would all be fine.

When Marie Guernalec said goodbye, she avoided his gaze, but he spoke to her warmly, thanking her for her help.

“Is there anything I can do, Jack?” West asked, lingering for a moment before rushing downstairs to catch up with the others.

Trent leaned over the banister, listening to their footsteps and chatter until the lower door slammed shut, leaving the house in silence. He lingered, staring into the darkness, biting his lip. Then, with an impatient sigh, he muttered, “I’m losing my mind!” Lighting a candle, he entered the bedroom. Sylvia lay on the bed, and he bent over her, gently smoothing the curly hair from her forehead.

“Are you feeling better, dear Sylvia?”

She didn’t respond but looked up at him. For a moment, he held her gaze, but what he saw there sent a chill through him, and he sat down, covering his face with his hands.

Finally, she spoke in a strained voice—one he had never heard before. He dropped his hands and sat up straight, listening intently.

“Jack, it has finally come. I’ve feared this moment and trembled—how many nights have I lain awake with this burden on my heart, praying I might die before you ever found out! I love you, Jack, and if you go away, I cannot live. I’ve deceived you; it happened before I met you, but since that first day when you found me crying in the Luxembourg and spoke to me, I have been faithful to you in every thought and action. I loved you from the very beginning, but I was too afraid to tell you, fearing you would leave. Since then, my love has only grown—and oh, how I’ve suffered!—but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. And now you know, but you don’t know the worst. For him—what do I care now? He was cruel—so cruel!”

She buried her face in her arms.

“Must I go on? Must I tell you—can’t you imagine, oh! Jack—”

He remained still, his eyes vacant.

“I—I was so young, I knew nothing, and he said—said that he loved me—”

Trent stood up and struck the candle with his fist, plunging the room into darkness.

The bells of St. Sulpice tolled the hour, and she sprang up, speaking in a rush, “I must finish! When you told me you loved me—you—you asked me nothing; but even then, it was too late, and that other life that binds me to him must forever stand between us! For there is another whom he has claimed and is good to. He must not die—they cannot shoot him, for that other’s sake!”

Trent sat frozen, his mind racing in a chaotic whirlwind.

Sylvia, sweet Sylvia, who shared his student life—who endured the dreary isolation of the siege without complaint—this delicate blue-eyed girl he cared for so quietly, who he teased or comforted as the mood struck him, who sometimes made him a bit impatient with her passionate devotion—could this truly be the same Sylvia weeping there in the darkness?

Then he clenched his teeth. “Let him die! Let him die!” But then—out of concern for Sylvia, and for that other person—yes, he would go—he must go—his duty was clear. But Sylvia—he couldn’t be what he had been to her, and yet a vague terror gripped him now that everything had been said. Trembling, he struck a light.

She lay there, her curly hair tousled around her face, her small white hands pressed to her chest.

He found himself caught in a painful dilemma: he couldn’t leave her, yet he couldn’t stay. It struck him for the first time just how deeply he loved her. She had always been just a companion, his young wife. But now, he realized he loved her with every fiber of his being, and it dawned on him only when it was too late.

Too late? Why did it have to be too late? His thoughts turned to the other man, the one who had a hold on her, binding her to a life that felt perilous. With a fierce determination, he rushed to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Was he pushing against it, or was it locked? In a moment of desperation, he dropped to his knees beside the bed, fully aware that he couldn’t abandon the one person who meant everything to him.