A FUGITIVE
"No, madam does not know me; but she must see me. Oh, I know she will
see me. Tell her, please, it is a girl from New York all alone in
Paris who needs her help."
The butler looked again at the card the visitor had given him. Quick
suspicion flashed into his tired eyes--the same suspicion that had all
Paris mad.
"Ger-son--Mademoiselle Ger-son. That name, excuse me, if I say
it--that name ees----"
"It sounds German; yes. Haven't I had that told me a thousand times
these last few days?" The girl's shoulders drooped limply, and she
tried to smile, but somehow failed. "But it's my name, and I'm an
American--been an American twenty-two years. Please--please!"
"Madam the ambassador's wife; she ees overwhelm wiz woark." The butler
gave the door an insinuating push. Jane Gerson's patent-leather boot
stopped it. She made a quick rummage in her bag, and when she withdrew
her hand, a bit of bank paper crinkled in it. The butler pocketed the
note with perfect legerdemain, smiled a formal thanks and invited Jane
into the dark cool hallway of the embassy. She dropped on a
skin-covered couch, utterly spent. Hours she had passed moving, foot
by foot, in an interminable line, up to a little wicket in a steamship
office, only to be told, "Every boat's sold out." Other grilling hours
she had passed similarly before the express office, to find, at last,
that her little paper booklet of checks was as worthless as a steamship
folder. Food even lacked, because the money she offered was not
acceptable. For a week she had lived in the seething caldron that was
Paris in war time, harried, buffeted, trampled and stampeded--a chip on
the froth of madness. This day, the third of August, found Jane Gerson
summoning the last remnants of her flagging nerve to the supreme
endeavor. Upon her visit to the embassy depended everything: her
safety, the future she was battling for. But now, with the first
barrier passed, she found herself suddenly faint and weak.
"Madam the ambassador's wife will see you. Come!" The butler's voice
sounded from afar off, though Jane saw the gleaming buckles at his
knees very close. The pounding of her heart almost choked her as she
rose to follow him. Down a long hall and into a richly furnished
drawing-room, now strangely transformed by the presence of desks,
filing cabinets, and busy girl stenographers; the click of typewriters
and rustle of papers gave the air of an office at top pressure. The
butler showed Jane to a couch near the portières and withdrew. From
the tangle of desks at the opposite end of the room, a woman with a
kindly face crossed, with hand extended. Jane rose, grasped the hand
and squeezed convulsively.
"You are----"
"Yes, my dear, I am the wife of the ambassador. Be seated and tell me
all your troubles. We are pretty busy here, but not too busy to
help--if we can."
Jane looked into the sympathetic eyes of the ambassador's wife, and
what she found there was like a draft of water to her parched soul.
The elder woman, smiling down into the white face, wherein the large
brown eyes burned unnaturally bright, saw a trembling of the lips
instantly conquered by a rallying will, and she patted the small hand
hearteningly.
"Dear lady," Jane began, almost as a little child, "I must get out of
Paris, and I've come to you to help me. Every way is closed except
through you."
"So many hundreds like you, poor girl. All want to get back to the
home country, and we are so helpless to aid every one." The lady of
the embassy thought, as she cast a swift glance over the slender
shoulders and diminutive figure beneath them, that here, indeed, was a
babe in the woods. The blatant, self-assured tourist demanding
assistance from her country's representative as a right she knew; also
the shifty, sloe-eyed demi-vierge who wanted no questions asked. But
such a one as this little person----
"You see, I am a buyer for Hildebrand's store in New York." Jane was
rushing breathlessly to the heart of her tragedy. "This is my very
first trip as buyer, and--it will be my last unless I can get through
the lines and back to New York. I have seventy of the very last gowns
from Poiret, from Paquin and Worth--you know what they will mean in the
old town back home--and I must--just simply must get them through. You
understand! With them, Hildebrand can crow over every other gown shop
in New York. He can be supreme, and I will be--well, I will be made!"
The kindly eyes were still smiling, and the woman's heart, which is
unchanged even in the breast of an ambassador's wife, was leaping to
the magic lure of that simple word--gowns.
"But--but the banks refuse to give me a cent on my letter of credit.
The express office says my checks, which I brought along for
incidentals, can not be cashed. The steamship companies will not sell
a berth in the steerage, even, out of Havre or Antwerp or
Southampton--everything gobbled up. You can't get trunks on an
aeroplane, or I'd try that. I just don't know where to turn, and so
I've come to you. You must know some way out."
Jane unconsciously clasped her hands in supplication, and upon her
face, flushed now with the warmth of her pleading, was the dawning of
hope. It was as if the girl were assured that once the ambassador's
wife heard her story, by some magic she could solve the difficulties.
The older woman read this trust, and was touched by it.
"Have you thought of catching a boat at Gibraltar?" she asked. "They
are not so crowded; people haven't begun to rush out of Italy yet."
"But nobody will honor my letter of credit," Jane mourned. "And,
besides, all the trains south of Paris are given up to the
mobilization. Nobody can ride on them but soldiers." The lady of the
embassy knit her brows for a few minutes while Jane anxiously scanned
her face. Finally she spoke:
"The ambassador knows a gentleman--a large-hearted American gentleman
here in Paris--who has promised his willingness to help in deserving
cases by advancing money on letters of credit. And with money there is
a way--just a possible way--of getting to Gibraltar. Leave your letter
of credit with me, my dear; go to the police station in the district
where you live and get your pass through the lines, just as a
precaution against the possibility of your being able to leave
to-night. Then come back here and see me at four o'clock.
Perhaps--just a chance----"
Hildebrand's buyer seized the hands of the embassy's lady ecstatically,
tumbled words of thanks crowding to her lips. When she went out into
the street, the sun was shining as it had not shone for her for a
dreary terrible week.
At seven o'clock that night a big Roman-nosed automobile, long and low
and powerful as a torpedo on wheels, pulled up at the door of the
American embassy. Two bulky osier baskets were strapped on the back of
its tonneau; in the rear seat were many rugs. A young chap with a
sharp shrewd face--an American--sat behind the wheel.
The door of the embassy opened, and Jane Gerson, swathed in veils, and
with a gray duster buttoned tight about her, danced out; behind her
followed the ambassador, the lady of the embassy and a bevy of girls,
the volunteer aids of the overworked representative's staff. Jane's
arms went about the ambassador's wife in an impulsive hug of gratitude
and good-by; the ambassador received a hearty handshake for his "God
speed you!" A waving of hands and fluttering of handkerchiefs, and the
car leaped forward. Jane Gerson leaned far over the back, and, through
cupped hands, she shouted: "I'll paint Hildebrand's sign on the Rock of
Gibraltar!"
Over bridges and through outlying faubourgs sped the car until the
Barrier was gained. There crossed bayonets denying passage, an officer
with a pocket flash pawing over pass and passport, a curt dismissal,
and once more the motor purred its speed song, and the lights of the
road flashed by. More picket lines, more sprouting of armed men from
the dark, and flashing of lights upon official signatures. On the
heights appeared the hump-shouldered bastions of the great outer forts,
squatting like huge fighting beasts of the night, ready to spring upon
the invader. Bugles sounded; the white arms of search-lights swung
back and forth across the arc of night in their ceaseless calisthenics;
a murmuring and stamping of many men and beasts was everywhere.
The ultimate picket line gained and passed, the car leaped forward with
the bound of some freed animal, its twin headlights feeling far ahead
the road to the south. Behind lay Paris, the city of dread.
Ahead--far ahead, where the continent is spiked down with a rock,
Gibraltar. Beyond that the safe haven from this madness of the
millions--America.
Jane Gerson stretched out her arms to the vision and laughed shrilly.