Kendall Ware and Bert Stanley went early to _petit déjeuner_ in the
dining-room of the Union, for they had decided to move before the day’s
work began. The waitress laid her order-slips on the table, and as she
did so Kendall noticed that her eyes were red and swollen with weeping
and that it was with difficulty that she restrained her sobs.
“Mademoiselle is sad this morning,” he said, sympathetically.
“_Oui, monsieur_, very sad.... Oh, it is my brother! The word came in
the night. The _boches_ have killed him....”
“Poor kid!” said Kendall. It was his first direct contact with the
sadness of war, and it affected him strongly. Evidences of this sort had
been all about him, but this was so close!
“He was the last,” she said, finding comfort in his sympathy. “There
were three brothers ...”
“It’s rotten,” Kendall said when she moved away. “Rotten. These poor
women!...”
Bert made no reply. He was not the sort to voice sympathy if he felt it,
nor was he the sort to be moved as Kendall was moved. He was more
objective, less emotional—a trifle boisterous and swanking and not given
to peering below the surface of events. It was his motto to take what
came and make the best of it. On the whole, he was a careless, buoyant,
thoughtless young American whose two great objects in life were to get
on in the world and to have a good time. He had none of the scruples and
inhibitions that made Kendall Ware more complex—not that he was
unscrupulous; not that he was not an ordinarily square, able, decent
sort of boy, but there did not reside in him that meticulous ethical
sense that Kendall had inherited from his mother, and which had been
softened and made finer by inheritances from his father.
“Four sons out of one family,” said Kendall, “and there are thousands of
such cases, I suppose.” He stopped. “And every man killed is not a loss
to his mother and sisters alone—but to the girl he was going to marry or
had just married. After this war, Bert, where in thunder are the girls
of France going to find enough husbands to go around?”
“They aren’t,” Bert said, and then he grinned. “That’s why the American
Army is so popular with them. Every one of us is a possible husband, so
look out, young fellow.”
“A million—maybe two million—girls with nobody to marry.... It’s hell!”
“It’s up to us to do our best to keep them from worrying about it,” said
Bert, characteristically. “Come on, we’ve got to hustle.”
They loaded down a taxicab with their trunks and rolls and were driven
to their new home. The _concierge_, naïvely proud of having two American
officers as her tenants, bustled about them in genuine, motherly
welcome. Kendall liked the brightness of her smile, it was so brisk, so
alert; he liked her looks as a whole.... Why, she might have been his
aunt, he thought. She had the look of an aunt, the sort a nephew would
delight to visit.
“I have your _cuisinière_,” she said. “I recommend her. She will please
messieurs.... But she is large, _une bonne femme_. She comes to-morrow
and she is called Arlette. All things may be left to her, do you
understand? Yes, yes, Arlette will see to all, to the marketing and the
accounts—if _messieurs les officiers_ desire. Shall you dine at home
to-morrow evening?”
Bert looked at Kendall.
“I had an engagement with Madeleine. Don’t see why we shouldn’t dine
here, though.”
“Why,” Kendall said, hesitatingly, “Andree said she wanted to meet you
and Madeleine—and to see the apartment. We might—” He was still
reluctant.
But Bert settled the thing for him out of hand. “Dinner for four, if you
please. At seventy-thirty.”
“A nice dinner,” Kendall added, rather apprehensively. “There will be
ladies.”
He watched the _concierge’s_ face to see how this news would affect her.
Apparently it did not affect her at all.
“Of a surety,” she said, “Arlette shall be notified.”
The young men disposed of their traps temporarily and walked to their
offices.
“I heard of a bully place to eat,” said Bert. He was always finding new
and excellent and quaint cafés. “Up on the rue de Richelieu. Marty’s
they call it. A French officer told me about it—says it’s mostly
patronized by actors from the Comédie and artists and newspaper men.
Suppose we take a look.”
“Suits me,” said Kendall. “Meet you in the Union at seven.”
Kendall was more anxious to see Marty’s than he would have admitted to
Bert; as soon as Bert mentioned the fact that its _habitués_ were actors
he wanted to go to the place very badly. He wanted to see what French
actors were like—and actresses. In his whole life he had never seen an
actor off the stage, had never been especially curious about them, but
now it was different. Andree was going to be an actress if she could,
and he wanted to see for himself what sort of creature she would be when
she came to be one.
Since he left Andree the night before he had been filled with
uneasiness. Again and again he reviewed his conversation with her and
found it disturbing. He had rather lost his head, he perceived. He had
told her he loved her when, so he declared to himself, he did not love
her in the least, and the fact that she had made light of his
declaration and had refused to believe in the possibility of a so-sudden
affection helped the situation very little. What troubled him most was
that he had made a start of some kind, to travel some sort of path. He
didn’t know what sort of path it was nor whither it led, but he was
vaguely apprehensive of it. He fancied that half-meant declaration of
his had altered the status of himself and Andree altogether, and placed
them on a different basis. But he was wrong.... He remembered that he
wanted to kiss her, but was not inclined to take himself to task for
that. What could be more natural than to want to kiss Andree? He never
saw anybody who was more kissable.... Again and again he consoled
himself by conjuring up her face and studying it, and by remembering her
modesty, her reserve, her sweetness and goodness. Of course it was all
right. There wasn’t the slightest danger with a girl like Andree—if, of
course, they didn’t actually fall in love with each other. He didn’t
want to do that. Andree was a _foreigner_. She was not American, but of
another race, speaking another language. This may sound droll, but how
many Americans are there who would have felt exactly as Kendall felt!
Therefore the idea of marriage did not occur to him as of the
possibilities. He could not imagine himself marrying a foreigner. Here
his mother functioned without hindrance. She had been against all
foreigners. To her a foreigner had been a sort of freak of nature, a
distressing accident. Anybody who was not English had been guilty of
some sort of obscure offense against nature. Of course there were
degrees of foreignness—some, as the Chinese, were more guilty than
others—but it was a difference in degree and that was all. This was a
basic _fact_ to her, a part of her, and, without consciously instructing
Kendall, she had impressed her way of thinking upon him until it was his
own. He did not think of marriage with Andree any more than he would
have thought of eating a rose....
As a matter of fact, he didn’t know just what he did think of in
connection with her. He had no definite hopes. She had occurred in his
life and now he was drifting along, letting matters take care of
themselves. He simply was without intentions of any sort.... But he was
vaguely uneasy.
At seven-thirty Kendall and Bert entered Marty’s a bit diffidently, as
young men do who go to a place where they are uncertain of just how to
behave. It was a dingy little café, poorly lighted and rather crowded
with things. One passed a sort of bar upon which were piled _langoustes_
and melons, and behind which was madame, very fat and capable,
surrounded by bottles of various kinds, and keeping an efficient eye on
her patrons and upon the finances of the institution. A half-partition
of glass separated the bar from the rest of the room, which was filled
with tables in parallel rows, with a narrow aisle down the middle. When
filled to capacity the café might contain as many as thirty persons.
Madame bade them welcome with a smile and a _bon soir_, and motioned
them to proceed to a table. They seated themselves and looked about.
Only a few persons were present, but before a stout waitress dressed in
black had taken their order a considerable party entered and took seats
directly opposite. There were four men and two women. Almost
simultaneously a fifth young man entered noisily. He waved his cane in
the air as he hobbled in, for he had an artificial leg, and shouted
greetings to everybody. He was rather tall and very thin and pale, but
exceedingly jaunty. His felt hat, a disreputable affair, was askew on
his head, and there was something rakish about even his limp. With many
gestures and apparent great excitement he rushed from one table to the
other, shaking hands with everybody, and once in a while stooping to
kiss a girl on the cheek. Everybody laughed with him and at him. At last
his eyes perceived Kendall and Bert and he came lunging across to them.
“Ha!” he shouted, throatily. “Americans! Welcome! I shall sit at your
table and we shall be acquainted, is it not? You see I spik Engleesh
ver’ fine. Behol’! I shall sit here.”
“Have nothing to do with him,” a handsome young man called to Kendall in
French. “He thinks you have sugar.” And everybody laughed.
The young man leaped to his feet, waved his arms above his head, and
glared at his accuser. “_Bah!_” he shouted, explosively. “You are
nothing ...” and sat down very suddenly, apparently forgetting the whole
incident, for he leaned over the table to Kendall and said: “It is an
argument—yes. You shall decide, is it not? A foolish argument. Behol’—if
there is a king in Siam—eh, you observe?—and he is rich, oh, ver’, ver’
rich. You onderstand? Yes? Also, if there is a—what you call—a electric
button here”—he turned wildly and shoved his thumb against the partition
as if he were ringing an electric bell—“if I could press this button—do
you understand?—and thees king in Siam is dead—oh, queek, sudden, like
thees”—he caught a long thumb-nail against his upper teeth and snapped
it—“so.... Now, then, if I can so to push the button and thees king is
dead, and all his money is mine—the argument, messieurs, is—shall I do
it. _Voilà!..._” He leaned back and regarded them gravely.
“Give it a push,” said Bert.
“Ah, you theenk!...” He leaped again to his feet and extended his hand
across the table to Bert, who took it and shook hands rather
embarrassedly.
“I am Jacques,” said the young man. “We must to know one another. You
are named—ah, Monsieur Bert.... Monsieur Ken-dall. Ha!... All my friends
there, regard. Messieurs Bert and Ken-dall—my frien’s.... My
frien’s—Messieurs Bert and Ken-dall. Now we are acquaint’, is it not?
So.... You see that yo’ng man who spill soup on his coat. He is Monsieur
Robert, great comedian at the Comédie Française. _Oui_, he make the
first prize at the _Académie_ one year ago.... That other, with the hair
_so_.... He is _espagnol_.... _Oui_. Also an actor, but not a comedian.
He does _so_.” Jacques illustrated by scowling horribly in imitation of
the tragic method. “He also make the first prize at the _Académie_
before two year.... They are ver’ clever.” Both young men so described
got to their feet and came across to shake hands. “Those others,”
continued Jacques, in full voice, “are jus’ boys an’ girl. You
onderstand? Not anybody.... That one who look so jealous at hees girl—he
make the dress for ladies. _Oui._ He have much money, but no brains.” At
this _mot_ everybody shouted with laughter, and the girl who accompanied
the maker of dresses disentangled herself from him and came across to
sit down by Kendall, putting her cheek up to him.
“She wants you should kees,” said Jacques, and Kendall shamefacedly
planted a hurried kiss on her cheek. “And now you shall see—thees yo’ng
man with her, he is ver’ jealous. Perhaps he shall beat her w’en they
arrive at home.... _Oui...._”
Kendall proffered a cigarette to Jacques, and then extended his case
toward the young actors across the aisle. They were real American
cigarettes, one of which will do more to carry you into the good graces
of a _poilu_ than many bottles of _vin ordinaire_. Both young men came
across, not too eagerly, and helped themselves. Monsieur Robert, the
younger, and a very handsome, boyish, pleasing young man, seated himself
in the chair the dressmaker’s companion had just vacated. He understood
a word of English, but dared not venture an attempt to speak it;
however, he was exceedingly cordial in French. Kendall managed to
understand most that he said. It was a very laughable, but somewhat
_risqué_, account of a conversation he had essayed with an Englishwoman
during a recent engagement in London, carried on through the agency of a
dictionary. Purely through accident the young man’s finger had pointed
to a certain word when it should have been directed to quite
another—with the result that he received a sound box on the ear. He told
the thing with such boyish delight, and with such naïve joy in the
outraged prudery of the Englishwoman, that Kendall laughed as he had
laughed at nothing for months. This pleased the young actor. If Kendall
had been diplomatically angling for Monsieur Robert’s friendship, he
could not have contrived better.
Suddenly he remembered Andree. “You must know a famous actor,” she had
commanded him. Andree desired the good offices of an actor in her effort
to enter the _Académie_—and this young gentleman had carried off the
first prize in that national institution but a year before.... He
regarded Monsieur Robert with new interest.
While Kendall and Monsieur Robert made merry, if difficult,
conversational progress, Bert was instructing Jacques in colloquial
American in a manner to which his rather grotesque sense of humor was
peculiarly adapted. “If you meet a lady,” he was saying, “and she bids
you good afternoon, the thing to say, if you want to be really polite,
is, ‘Go jump in the lake.’ Of course you don’t say this to a lady the
first time you meet her, because it is rather friendly, but possibly the
second time. Do you understand?”
“But surely.... Go jump in the lake.... Ah, it has a sound, has it not?
I like that.” He stood up, placed his hand on his heart and bowed to
Bert profoundly. “Ah, madame,” he said, in honeyed tones, “you should go
to jump in the lake.... Is it so you say it? It is a phrase. I shall
remember it. And what does one say if—”
Kendall lost the next lesson, for Monsieur Robert arose and shook hands
warmly. “I hope you shall dine here often,” he said. “Me, I always dine
here.... So we shall become better acquainted.”
Others of the company took their departure to their theaters or with
their actor companions, or to write their criticisms, and as they went
out, laughing and jostling, each stopped at the table of the Americans
to shake hands and to say good evening. It was all very genial and
companionable—a sort of family affair—but very un-American and droll.
Kendall and Bert took their departure soon afterward. The evening was
rather hot, but they determined to walk home, a distance of a couple of
miles. As they were passing the Hôtel Wagram, Kendall glanced inside and
saw, standing just within the lobby, the Miss Knox who had been his
playmate on the voyage across the Atlantic.
“Wait a minute. Here’s a girl I know,” he said to Bert, and led his
companion inside.
“Well, Captain Ware!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering if I should ever
see you again. What have you been doing? Have you been to the front?”
“No. I’m anchored in Paris. And you?”
“I’ve been down at Tours, but now I’ve been ordered to report at
headquarters here. I don’t know where I shall be sent.”
“Better get assigned to Paris,” he said, rashly, “then we can play
around together.”
“I don’t know.... I’d rather be nearer things. It’s more interesting.”
“Anyhow, you’ll be here a day or two. Can’t you take dinner with me
to-morrow”——he stopped, hesitated, got a bit red, and finished,
lamely—“soon?”
“It looks as if I might have competition as a playmate,” she said,
dryly. “Is she nice? Who is she? Red Cross or Y. M. C. A.?”
“Neither.”
She laughed. “And your French is so miserable,” she said. “How do you
talk to her?”
“She speaks some English,” said Kendall, falling into a trap which had
not been set for him, and Bert and Maude Knox laughed as he reddened
with embarrassment.
“Is she pretty?” Miss Knox demanded of Bert.
“I don’t think so,” Bert said, solemnly. “He keeps her under cover. She
must be homely or he’d let her be seen.”
“Now I won’t buy you a dinner,” Kendall said.
“When I am so hungry!” she said, dolefully.
“Don’t blame Ken,” Bert said. “She hardly lets him have an evening to
himself.”
“Well,” said Miss Knox, “if you do get a night off I’ll be glad to see
you. Probably I won’t be here but a couple of days, though. You come,
too, Captain Stanley, if you like.”
“And pay for half of the dinner,” said Bert. “That’s fair. Half the
young lady, half the dinner-check. Simple justice.”
“Now I’ve got to run up to my room. I think—mind, I only think—I’m going
to have a bath. If the bathtub is still there, and if the water hasn’t
stopped running, and if a few other things haven’t happened to the
plumbing—Good night.... Don’t think of coming, Captain Ware, if it will
make any trouble with your friend.”
The two young officers walked on up the street. Kendall did not feel
like talking. He was thinking about Andree and comparing her with Maude
Knox. He was wondering what Andree would think of Maude, and what Maude
would think of Andree. Also he wondered a bit what Maude thought about
_him_ and what sort of an affair she believed him to be carrying on with
Andree.... Not that it mattered to him in the least what she thought,
but—
At last they stood before the building in which their apartment was
located. Bert pulled the bell and presently the lock clicked. They
pushed open the huge door and stepped into the blackness of the court,
lighting matches to find the light-button. It was a climb of four
flights of stairs to their rooms, which they entered with some pride of
possession and sat down to have a final smoke before going to bed.
“I wonder what the _concierge_ will say to our bringing the girls here
for dinner to-morrow night?” Kendall said, for the point still worried
him.
“Young man,” said Bert, drowsily, “you aren’t in Detroit. Go to the
window and reassure yourself. This is Paris....”