On leaving the Section, I was feeling too tired and dejected to
experience any deep regrets that I would not be with my friends for
the celebration which had been planned upon reaching Bar le Duc. Also
I was feeling a little depressed in starting off for Paris broke,
penniless, not a franc in my pocket. As a matter of fact I had been in
that financial condition (if such a condition can be called financial)
for nearly two months, because a cablegram which I had sent to the
United States the latter part of July had not reached its destination.
Whether it had been lost in the ocean or had been confiscated and
hypothecated for what it was worth by the enemy, I shall never know.
Enough to say that I was broke.
During those long weary days and nights and weeks, I had not possessed
the price of a cigarette and during that time I had grown to have the
firmest convictions that anyone who is opposed to sending tobacco to
the Allies is either most happily ignorant of the nerve-racking strain
of war or is out and out pro-German.
Yet I was not allowed to suffer too much, for my friends in the
Section, evidently believing that I was honest, were very kind to me,
so I managed to have a smoke with a fair degree of regularity. I
borrowed two francs from Stockwell with which I bought a pipe in which
I smoked Ned Townsend’s “granulated” or even the terrible French
tobacco when I thought that Ned Townsend might feel that I was
imposing on him too much. I was rather clumsy at rolling cigarettes,
but Frank Farnham was very helpful in that respect. He became so
accustomed to performing this kind service for me that all I had to do
was to look at him and say, “Farney” and out would come his bag of
tobacco.
A few days before leaving the Section, I had written in to Paris to
despatch a second cablegram to the United States and I hoped upon
reaching Paris I would find the essential reply waiting for me at the
banking house of Morgan-Harjes.
Just as I was about to get into the Staff car to start for Paris, it
was “Farney” who came up to me and handed me twenty francs to see me
through the journey.
It was midnight when I reached Paris and I was completely tired out. I
engaged a taxicab and told the chauffeur to drive to Henry’s, Number
Eleven, Rue Volney. Henry’s Hotel had been the semi-official
headquarters of Section One in Paris practically since the war
started. Here at least I could make myself known.
To be sure, I had some excellent letters to people in Paris but I
certainty was not going to use them to establish credit, and I did not
feel up to social calls.
Before the war, Henry’s had been something of a rendezvous for rich
sporting men, those who followed the races and the like. Since the
war, it was still patronized by those who had gone there before and
also by aviators, ambulanciers, army officers, French, English and
American. Henry had a transient business and he also held a clientèle.
When I had been there in June, I had seen certain well dressed, well
groomed young and middle aged men drifting in at certain hours. I saw
these same faces there again in September and also saw them again in
December. I wondered what their occupations might be, either real or
ostensible. Almost any day between five and six, Henry could be seen
shaking dice with his clientèle.
Henry was a little short trim fellow with a florid face, grey
moustache and usually dressed immaculately in a frock coat. He wore
glasses when he took inventory of the cash register. When he took
inventory of people, he usually squinted his eyes into little slits,
so that people who were being inventoried would scarcely realize that
they were being noticed. Among foreigners and Parisians, Henry was one
of the characters of the city. I say “was,” because Henry has since
passed on to another world. When I reached there the hotel was closed
but a ring on the bell brought the concièrge to the door in his
pajamas and bath robe. I was shown to a room with a bed in it, white
pillows, clean sheets――and it was very nice.
I was not long in getting to bed and not much longer in getting to
sleep, but in my sleep I was once more back at Verdun. I could hear
the aeroplanes whirring overhead――I could hear the bursting shells――I
could see the dead horses on the crowded roads, the rats and filth,
the desolation of the front. Not a very peaceful sleep; and when I
awoke I felt somewhat confused as I looked over toward the windows and
saw the heavy curtains drawn together. A clock was ticking on the
mantel. It was nearly nine o’clock. Beside the bed I observed a
telephone and without raising my head from the soft, comfortable,
clean white pillow, I reached for it. I might be broke, but at least I
was going to have one good meal to fortify me for the day. The office
answered the call. “Grapefruit,” I said; “soft boiled eggs, toast with
butter on it, coffee――and a pack of cigarettes.” I ordered an
expensive brand of cigarettes, as I was afraid it might hurt my credit
to call for cheap ones. Then I closed my eyes and dozed peacefully.
A little later in the morning, I met Henry. We sat down on the sofa at
the foot of the stairs, and I told him Ned Townsend, Stevenson and the
other men in the Section had sent him their best regards. Then I told
him I was broke but added quickly that I expected a cablegram any
day――perhaps to-day. Henry was very nice and polite about it and told
me not to worry.
When I went out of the hotel, I intended to go over to the offices of
Morgan-Harjes and learn whether a reply had come to my second
cablegram, but I really did not feel strong enough to stand any
unfavorable news. A hack driver coming along Rue Volney cracked his
whip and I almost fell on the pavement. My nerves seemed to be
temporarily shattered. I still had a few francs left that “Farney” had
given me, so I called a taxi-cab and drove to 21 Rue Reynouard, the
headquarters of the American Field Service. Dr. Lines looked me over
and informed me that my heart was in bad condition and that I needed a
complete rest. He suggested sending me out to a convalescent hospital
in the country, but I did not feel well enough to go to a hospital――I
did not want to see the inside of a hospital and――besides, I was
waiting for a cablegram from the States. Later in the day I pulled
myself together and went down Boulevard Haussmann to the offices of
Morgan-Harjes. About that place I remembered having written to my
partner in the banking business, that while their furniture is not as
handsome as ours, they seemed to have more customers.
At Morgan-Harjes there was no news for me.
I went back to Henry’s and retired for the afternoon. I arose for
supper, which I had in the café――and signed for it; a short walk as
far as the Café de la Paix, back to Henry’s and to bed, back to sleep,
back to Verdun――back to the shrieking shells, the whirr of the
aeroplanes, the rats, and the crowded, bloodstained roads.
Waking the next morning, I reached for the telephone, breakfasted in
bed and dozed until noon, then walked over to Morgan-Harjes.