The Dark Star

And, except for the whiz and rush of the motors and the melancholy siren blasts from their horns, an immense silence reigned in the streets.

There was no laughter to be heard, no loud calling, no gay and animated badinage. People who met and stopped conversed in undertones; gestures were sober and rare.

And everywhere, in the intense stillness, Red Cross flags hung motionless in the late afternoon sunshine; everywhere were posted notices warning the Republic of general mobilisation – on dead walls, on tree-boxes, on kiosques, on bulletin boards, on the façades of public and ecclesiastical buildings.

Another ordinance which Neeland could read from where he stood at the window warned all citizens from the streets after eight o’clock in the evening; and on the closed iron shutters of every shop in sight of his window were pasted white strips of paper bearing, in black letters, the same explanation:

“Fermé à cause de la mobilisation.”

Nowhere could he see the word “war” printed or otherwise displayed. The conspiracy of silence concerning it seemed the more ominous.

Nor, listening, could he hear the sinister voices of men and boys calling extra editions of the papers. There seemed to be no need for the raising of hoarse and threatening voices in the soundless capital. Men and youths of all ages traversed the avenues and streets with sheafs of fresh, damp newspapers over their ragged arms, but it was the populace who crowded after and importuned them, not they the people; and no sooner did a paper-seller appear than he was stripped of his wares and was counting his coppers under the trees before hurrying away for a fresh supply.

Neeland dressed himself in sections, always returning to the window to look out; and in this manner he achieved his toilet.

Marotte, the old butler, was on the floor below, carrying a tea tray into the wide, sunny sitting-room as Neeland descended.

“I overslept,” explained the young American, “and I’m nearly starved. Is Mademoiselle Carew having tea?”

“Mademoiselle requested tea for two, sir, in case you should awake,” said the old man solemnly.

Neeland watched him fussing about with cloth and table and silver.

“Have you any news?” he asked after a moment.

“Very little, Monsieur Neeland. The police have ordered all Germans into detention camps – men, women, and children. It is said that there are to be twelve great camps for these unfortunates who are to assemble in the Lycée Condorcet for immediate transportation.”

Neeland thought of Ilse Dumont. Presently he asked whether any message had been received from the Princess Mistchenka.

“Madame the Princess telephoned from Havre at four o’clock this afternoon. Mademoiselle Carew has the message.”

Neeland, reassured, nodded:

“No other news, Marotte?”

“The military have taken our automobiles from the garage, and have requisitioned the car which Madame la Princess is now using, ordering us to place it at their disposal as soon as it returns from Havre. Also, Monsieur le Capitaine Sengoun has telephoned from the Russian Embassy, but Mademoiselle Carew would not permit Monsieur to be awakened.”

“What did Captain Sengoun say?”

“Mademoiselle Carew received the message.”

“And did anyone else call me up?” asked Neeland, smiling.

“Il y avait une fe – une espèce de dame,” replied the old man doubtfully, “ – who named herself Fifi la Tzigane. I permitted myself to observe to her,” added the butler with dignity, “that she had the liberty of writing to you what she thought necessary to communicate.”

He had arranged the tea-table. Now he retired, but returned almost immediately to decorate the table with Cloth of Gold roses.

Fussing and pottering about until the mass of lovely blossoms suited him, he finally presented himself to Neeland for further orders, and, learning that there were none, started to retire with a self-respecting dignity that was not at all impaired by the tears which kept welling up in his aged eyes, and which he always winked away with a demi-tour and a discreet cough correctly stifled by his dry and wrinkled hand.

As he passed out the door Neeland said:

“Are you in trouble, Marotte?”

The old man straightened up, and a fierce pride blazed for a moment from his faded eyes:

“Not trouble, monsieur; but – when one has three sons departing for the front —dame!– that makes one reflect a little–”

He bowed with the unconscious dignity of a wider liberty, a subtler equality which, for a moment, left such as he indifferent to circumstances of station.

Neeland stepped forward extending his hand:

“Bonne chance! God be with France – and with us all who love our liberty. Luck to your three sons!”

“I thank monsieur–” He steadied his voice, bowed in the faultless garments which were his badge of service, and went his way through the silence in the house.

Neeland had walked to the long windows giving on the pretty balcony with its delicate, wrought-iron rails and its brilliant masses of geraniums.

Outside, along the Avenue, in absolute silence, a regiment of cuirassiers was passing, the level sun blazing like sheets of crimson fire across their helmets and breastplates. And now, listening, the far clatter of their horses came to his ears in an immense, unbroken, rattling resonance.

Their gold-fringed standard passed, and the sunlight on the naked sabres ran from point to hilt like liquid blood. Sons of the Cuirassiers of Morsbronn, grandsons of the Cuirassiers of Waterloo – what was their magnificent fate to be? – For splendid it could not fail to be, whether tragic or fortunate.

The American’s heart began to hammer in his breast and throb in his throat, closing it with a sudden spasm that seemed to confuse his vision for a moment and turn the distant passing regiment to a glittering stream of steel and flame.

Then it had passed; the darkly speeding torrent of motor cars alone possessed the Avenue; and Neeland turned away into the room again.

And there, before him, stood Rue Carew.

A confused sense of unreasoning, immeasurable happiness rushed over him, and, in that sudden, astounding instant of self-revelation, self-amazement left him dumb.

She had given him both her slim white hands, and he held to them as though to find his bearings. Both were a trifle irrelevant and fragmentary.

“Do you c-care for tea, Jim?.. What a night! What a fright you gave us… There are croissants, too, and caviar… I would not permit anybody to awaken you; and I was dying to see you–”

“I am so sorry you were anxious about me. And I’m tremendously hungry… You see, Sengoun and I did not mean to remain out all night… I’ll help you with that tea; shall I?..”

He still retained her hands in his; she smiled and flushed in a breathless sort of way, and looked sometimes at the tea-kettle as though she never before had seen such an object; and looked up at him as though she had never until that moment beheld any man like him.

“The Princess Naïa has left us quite alone,” she said, “so I must give you some tea.” She was nervous and smiling and a little frightened and confused with the sense of their contact.

“So – I shall give you your tea, now,” she repeated.

She did not mention her manual inability to perform her promise, but presently it occurred to him to release her hands, and she slid gracefully into her chair and took hold of the silver kettle with fingers that trembled.

He ate everything offered him, and then took the initiative. And he talked – Oh, heaven! How he talked! Everything that had happened to him and to Sengoun from the moment they left the rue Soleil d’Or the night before, this garrulous young man detailed with a relish for humorous circumstance and a disregard for anything approaching the tragic, which left her with an impression that it had all been a tremendous lark – indiscreet, certainly, and probably reprehensible – but a lark, for all that.

Fireworks, shooting, noise, and architectural destruction he admitted, but casualties he skimmed over, and of death he never said a word. Why should he? The dead were dead. None concerned this young girl now – and, save one, no death that any man had died there in the shambles of the Café des Bulgars could ever mean anything to Rue Carew.

Some day, perhaps, he might tell her that Brandes was dead – not where or how he had died – but merely the dry detail. And she might docket it, if she cared to, and lay it away among the old, scarcely remembered, painful things that had been lived, and now were to be forgotten forever.