SUNRISE
When the taxicab carrying Captain Sengoun and the unknown Russian girl
had finally disappeared far away down the Boulevard in the thin grey
haze of early morning, Neeland looked around him; and it was a scene
unfamiliar, unreal, that met his anxious eyes.
The sun had not yet gilded the chimney tops; east and west, as far as
he could see, the Boulevard stretched away under its double line of
trees between ranks of closed and silent houses, lying still and
mysterious in the misty, bluish-grey light.
Except for police and municipal guards, and two ambulances moving
slowly away from the ruined café, across the street, the vast
Boulevard was deserted; no taxicabs remained; no omnibuses moved; no
early workmen passed, no slow-moving farm wagons and milk wains from
the suburbs; no _chiffoniers_ with scrap-filled sacks on their curved
backs, and steel-hooked staves, furtively sorting and picking among
the night's débris on sidewalk and in gutter.
Here and there in front of half a dozen wrecked cafés little knots of
policemen stood on the glass-littered sidewalk, in low-voiced
consultation; far down the Boulevard, helmets gleamed dully through
the haze where municipal cavalry were quietly riding off the mobs and
gradually pushing them back toward the Montmartre and Villette
quarters, whence they had arrived.
Mounted Municipals still sat their beautiful horses in double line
across the corner of the rue Vilna and parallel streets, closing that
entire quarter where, to judge from a few fitful and far-away pistol
shots, the methodical apache hunt was still in progress.
And it was a strange and sinister phase of Paris that Neeland now
gazed upon through the misty stillness of early morning. For there was
something terrible in the sudden quiet, where the swift and shadowy
fury of earliest dawn had passed: and the wrecked buildings sagged
like corpses, stark and disembowelled, spilling out their dead
intestines indecently under the whitening sky.
Save for the echoes of distant shots, no louder than the breaking of a
splinter--save for the deadened stamp and stir of horses, a low-voiced
order, the fainter clash of spurs and scabbards--an intense stillness
brooded now over the city, ominously prophetic of what fateful
awakening the coming sunrise threatened for the sleeping capital.
Neeland turned and looked at Ilse Dumont. She stood motionless on the
sidewalk, in the clear, colourless light, staring fixedly across the
street at the débris of the gaping, shattered Café des Bulgars. Her
evening gown hung in filmy tinted shreds; her thick, dark hair in
lustrous disorder shadowed her white shoulders; a streak of dry blood
striped one delicate bare arm.
To see her standing there on the sidewalk in the full, unshadowed
morning light, silent, dishevelled, scarcely clothed, seemed to him
part of the ghastly unreality of this sombre and menacing vision, from
which he ought to rouse himself.
She turned her head slowly; her haggard eyes met his without
expression; and he found his tongue with the effort of a man who
strives for utterance through a threatening dream:
"We can't stay here," he said. The sound of his own voice steadied and
cleared his senses. He glanced down at his own attire, blood-stained,
and ragged; felt for the loose end of his collar, rebuttoned it, and
knotted the draggled white tie with the unconscious indifference of
habit.
"What a nightmare!" he muttered to himself. "The world has been turned
upside down over night." He looked up at her: "We can't stay here," he
repeated. "Where do you live?"
She did not appear to hear him. She had already started to move toward
the rue Vilna, where the troopers barring that street still sat their
restive horses. They were watching her and her dishevelled companion
with the sophisticated amusement of men who, by clean daylight,
encounter fagged-out revellers of a riotous night.
Neeland spoke to her again, then followed her and took her arm.
"Where are you going?" he repeated, uneasily.
"I shall give myself up," she replied in a dull voice.
"To whom?"
"To the Municipals over there."
"Give yourself up!" he repeated. "Why?"
She passed a slender hand over her eyes as though unutterably weary:
"Neeland," she said, "I am lost already.... And I am very tired."
"What do you mean?" he demanded, drawing her back under a
_porte-cochère_. "You live somewhere, don't you? If it's safe for you
to go back to your lodgings, I'll take you there. Is it?"
"No."
"Well, then, I'll take you somewhere else. I'll find somewhere to take
you----"
She shook her head:
"It is useless, Neeland. There is no chance of my leaving the city
now--no chance left--no hope. It is simpler for me to end the matter
this way----"
"Can't you go to the Turkish Embassy!"
She looked up at him in a surprised, hopeless way:
"Do you suppose that any Embassy ever receives a spy in trouble? Do
you really imagine that any government ever admits employing secret
agents, or stirs a finger to aid them when they are in need?"
"I told you I'd stand by you," he reminded her bluntly.
"You have been--kind--Neeland."
"And you have been very loyal to me, Scheherazade. I shall not abandon
you."
"How can you help me? I can't get out of this city. Wherever I go,
now, it will be only a matter of a few hours before I am arrested."
"The American Embassy. There is a _man_ there," he reminded her.
She shrugged her naked shoulders:
"I cannot get within sight of the Trocadero before the secret police
arrest me. Where shall I go? I have no passport, no papers, not even
false ones. If I go to the lodgings where I expected to find shelter
it means my arrest, court martial, and execution in a _caserne_ within
twenty-four hours. And it would involve others who trust me--condemn
them instantly to a firing squad--if I am found by the police in
their company!... No, Neeland. There's no hope for me. Too many know
me in Paris. I took a risk in coming here when war was almost certain.
I took my chances, and lost. It's too late to whimper now."
As he stared at her something suddenly brightened above them; and he
looked up and saw the first sunbeam painting a chimney top with palest
gold.
"Come," he said, "we've got to get out of this! We've got to go
somewhere--find a taxicab and get under shelter----"
She yielded to the pressure of his arm and moved forward beside him.
He halted for a moment on the curb, looking up and down the empty
streets for a cab of any sort, then, with the instinct of a man for
whom the Latin Quarter had once been a refuge and a home, he started
across the Boulevard, his arm clasping hers.
All the housetops were glittering with the sun as they passed the
ranks of the Municipal cavalry.
A young officer looked down mischievously as they traversed the
Boulevard--the only moving objects in that vast and still
perspective.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he murmured. "A night like that is something to remember
in the winter of old age!"
Neeland heard him. The gay, bantering, irresponsible Gallic wit awoke
him to himself; the rising sun, tipping the city's spires with fire,
seemed to relight a little, long-forgotten flame within him. His
sombre features cleared; he said confidently to the girl beside him:
"Don't worry; we'll get you out of it somehow or other. It's been a
rather frightful dream, Scheherazade, nothing worse----"
Her arm suddenly tightened against his and he turned to look at the
shattered Café des Bulgars which they were passing, where two
policemen stood looking at a cat which was picking its way over the
mass of débris, mewing dismally.
One of the policemen, noticing them, smiled sympathetically at their
battered appearance.
"Would you like to have a cat for your lively _ménage_?" he said,
pointing to the melancholy animal which Neeland recognised as the
dignified property of the Cercle Extranationale.
The other policeman, more suspicious, eyed Ilse Dumont closely as she
knelt impulsively and picked up the homeless cat.
"Where are you going in such a state?" he asked, moving over the heaps
of splintered glass toward her.
"Back to the Latin Quarter," said Neeland, so cheerfully that
suspicion vanished and a faint grin replaced the official frown.
"_Allons, mes enfants_," he muttered. "_Faut pas s'attrouper dans la
rue_. Also you both are a scandal. _Allons! Filez! Houp!_ The sun is
up already!"
They went out across the rue Royale toward the Place de la Concorde,
which spread away before them in deserted immensity and beauty.
There were no taxicabs in sight. Ilse, carrying the cat in her arms,
moved beside Neeland through the deathly stillness of the city, as
though she were walking in a dream. Everywhere in the pale blue sky
above them steeple and dome glittered with the sun; there were no
sounds from _quai_ or river; no breeze stirred the trees; nothing
moved on esplanade or bridge; the pale blue August sky grew bluer; the
gilded tip of the obelisk glittered like a living flame.
Neeland turned and looked up the Champs Elysées.
Far away on the surface of the immense avenue a tiny dark speck was
speeding--increasing in size, coming nearer.
"A taxi," he said with a quick breath of relief. "We'll be all right
now."
Nearer and nearer came the speeding vehicle, rushing toward them
between the motionless green ranks of trees. Neeland walked forward
across the square to signal it, waited, watching its approach with a
slight uneasiness.
Now it sped between the rearing stone horses, and now, swerving, swung
to the left toward the rue Royale. And to his disgust and
disappointment he saw it was a private automobile.
"The devil!" he muttered, turning on his heel.
At the same moment, as though the chauffeur had suddenly caught an
order from within the limousine, the car swung directly toward him
once more.
As he rejoined Ilse, who stood clasping the homeless cat to her
breast, listlessly regarding the approaching automobile, the car swept
in a swift circle around the fountain where they stood, stopped short
beside them; and a woman flung open the door and sprang out to the
pavement.
And Ilse Dumont, standing there in the rags of her frail gown,
cuddling to her breast the purring cat, looked up to meet her doom in
the steady gaze of the Princess Naïa Mistchenka.
Every atom of colour left her face, and her ashy lips parted.
Otherwise, she made no sign of fear, no movement.
There was a second's absolute silence; then the dark eyes of the
Princess turned on Neeland.
"Good heavens, James!" she said. "What has happened to you?"
"Nothing," he said gaily, "thanks to Miss Dumont----"
"To _whom_?" interrupted the Princess sharply.
"To Miss Dumont. We got into a silly place where it began to look as
though we'd get our heads knocked off, Sengoun and I. I'm really quite
serious, Princess. If it hadn't been for Miss Dumont--" he shrugged;
"--and that is twice she has saved my idiotic head for me," he added
cheerfully.
The Princess Naïa's dark eyes reverted to Ilse Dumont, and the pallid
girl met them steadily enough. There was no supplication in her own
eyes, no shrinking, only the hopeless tranquillity that looks Destiny
in the face--the gaze riveted unflinchingly upon the descending blow.
"What are _you_ doing in Paris at such a time as this?" said the
Princess.
The girl's white lips parted stiffly:
"Do you need to ask?"
For a full minute the Princess bent a menacing gaze on her in silence;
then:
"What do you expect from _me_?" she demanded in a low voice. And,
stepping nearer: "What have you to expect from anyone in France on
such a day as this?"
Ilse Dumont did not answer. After a moment she dropped her head and
fumbled with the rags of her bodice, as though trying to cover the
delicately rounded shoulders. A shaft of sunlight, reflected from the
obelisk to the fountain, played in golden ripples across her hair.
Neeland looked at the Princess Naïa:
"What you do is none of my business," he said pleasantly, "but--" he
smiled at her and stepped back beside Ilse Dumont, and passed his arm
through hers: "I'm a grateful beast," he added lightly, "and if I've
nine lives to lose, perhaps Miss Dumont will save seven more of them
before I'm entirely done for."
The girl gently disengaged his arm.
"You'll only get yourself into serious trouble," she murmured, "and
you can't help me, dear Neeland."
The Princess Naïa, flushed and exasperated, bit her lip.
"James," she said, "you are behaving absurdly. That woman has nothing
to fear from me now, and she ought to know it!" And, as Ilse lifted
her head and stared at her: "Yes, you ought to know it!" she repeated.
"Your work is ended. It ended today at sunrise. And so did mine. War
is here. There is nothing further for you to do; nothing for me. The
end of everything is beginning. What would your death or mine signify
now, when the dawn of such a day as this is the death warrant for
millions? What do we count for now, Mademoiselle Minna Minti?"
"Do you not mean to give me up, madame?"
"Give you up? No. I mean to get you out of Paris if I can. Give me
your cat, mademoiselle. Please help her, James----"
"You--offer me your limousine?" stammered Ilse.
"Give that cat to me. Of course I do! Do you suppose I mean to leave
you in rags with your cat on the pavement here?" And, to Neeland:
"Where is Alak?"
"Gone home as fit as a fiddle. Am I to receive the hospitality of your
limousine also, dear lady? Look at the state I'm in to travel with two
ladies!"
The Princess Naïa's dark eyes glimmered; she tucked the cat
comfortably against her shoulder and motioned Ilse into the car.
"I'm afraid I'll have to take you, James. What on earth has happened
to you?" she added, as he put her into the car, nodded to the
chauffeur, and, springing in beside her, slammed the door.
"I'll tell you in two words," he explained gaily. "Prince Erlik and I
started for a stroll and landed, ultimately, in the Café des Bulgars.
And presently a number of gentlemen began to shoot up the place, and
Miss Dumont stood by us like a brick."
The Princess Mistchenka lifted the cat from her lap and placed it in
the arms of Ilse Dumont.
"That ought to win our gratitude, I'm sure," she said politely to the
girl. "We Russians never forget such pleasant obligations. There is a
Cossack jingle:
"To those who befriend our friends
Our duty never ends."
Ilse Dumont bent low over the purring cat in her lap; the Princess
watched her askance from moment to moment, and Neeland furtively noted
the contrast between these women--one in rags and haggard disorder;
the other so trim, pretty, and fresh in her morning walking suit.
"James," she said abruptly, "we've had a most horrid night, Ruhannah
and I. The child waited up for you, it seems--I thought she'd gone to
bed--and she came to my room about two in the morning--the little
goose--as though men didn't stay out all night!"
"I'm terribly sorry," he said contritely.
"You ought to be.... And Ruhannah was so disturbed that I put on
something and got out of bed. And after a while"--the Princess glanced
sardonically at Ilse Dumont--"I telephoned to various sources of
information and was informed concerning the rather lively episodes of
your nocturnal career with Sengoun. And when I learned that you and he
had been seen to enter the Café des Bulgars, I became sufficiently
alarmed to notify several people who might be interested in the
matter."
"One of those people," said Neeland, smiling, "was escorted to her
home by Captain Sengoun, I think."
The Princess glanced out of the window where the early morning sun
glimmered on the trees as the car flew swiftly through the Champs
Elysées.
"I heard that there were some men killed there last night," she said
without turning.
"Several, I believe," admitted Neeland.
"Were _you_ there, then?"
"Yes," he replied, uncomfortably.
"Did you know anybody who was killed, James?"
"Yes, by sight."
She turned to him:
"Who?"
"There was a man named Kestner; another named Weishelm. Three American
gamblers were killed also."
"And Karl Breslau?" inquired the Princess coolly.
There was a moment's silence.
"No. I think he got away across the roofs of the houses," replied
Neeland.
Ilse Dumont, bent over the cat in her lap, stared absently into its
green eyes where it lay playfully patting the rags that hung from her
torn bodice.
Perhaps she was thinking of the dead man where he lay in the crowded
café--the dead man who had confronted her with bloodshot eyes and
lifted pistol--whose voice, thick with rage, had denounced her--whose
stammering, untaught tongue stumbled over the foreign words with which
he meant to send her to her death--this dead man who once had been
_her_ man--long ago--very, very long ago when there was no bitterness
in life, no pain, no treachery--when life was young in the Western
World, and Fate gaily beckoned her, wearing a smiling mask and crowned
with flowers.
"I hope," remarked the Princess Mistchenka, "that it is sufficiently
early in the morning for you to escape observation, James."
"I'm a scandal; I know it," he admitted, as the car swung into the rue
Soleil d'Or.
The Princess turned to the drooping girl beside her and laid a gloved
hand lightly on her shoulder.
"My dear," she said gently, "there is only one chance for you, and if
we let it pass it will not come again--under military law."
Ilse lifted her head, held it high, even tilted back a little.
The Princess said:
"Twenty-four hours will be given for all Germans to leave France.
But--you took your nationality from the man you married. You are
American."
The girl flushed painfully:
"I do not care to take shelter under his name," she said.
"It is the only way. And you must get to the coast in my car. There is
no time to lose. Every vehicle, private and public, will be seized for
military uses this morning. Every train will be crowded; every foot of
room occupied on the Channel boats. There is only one thing for you to
do--travel with me to Havre as my American maid."
"Madame--would you do that--for me?"
"Why, I've got to," said the Princess Mistchenka with a shrug. "I am
not a barbarian to leave you to a firing squad, I hope."
The car had stopped; the chauffeur descended and came around to open
the door.
"Caron," said the Princess, "no servants are stirring yet. Take my
key, find a cloak and bring it out--and a coat for Monsieur
Neeland--the one that Captain Sengoun left the other evening. Have you
plenty of gasoline?"
"Plenty, madame."
"Good. We leave for Havre in five minutes. Bring the cloak and coat
quickly."
The chauffeur hastened to the door, unlocked it, disappeared, then
came out carrying a voluminous wrap and a man's opera cloak. The
Princess threw the one over Ilse Dumont; Neeland enveloped himself in
the other.
"Now," murmured the Princess Naïa, "it will look more like a late
automobile party than an ambulance after a free fight--if any early
servants are watching us."
She descended from the car; Ilse Dumont followed, still clasping the
cat under her cloak; and Neeland followed her.
"Be very quiet," whispered the Princess. "There is no necessity for
servants to observe what we do----"
A small and tremulous voice from the head of the stairs interrupted
her:
"Naïa! Is it you?"
"Hush, Ruhannah! Yes, darling, it is I. Everything is all right and
you may go back to bed----"
"Naïa! Where is Mr. Neeland?" continued the voice, fearfully.
"He is here, Rue! He is all right. Go back to your room, dear. I have
a reason for asking you."
Listening, she heard a door close above; then she touched Ilse on the
shoulder and motioned her to follow up the stairs. Halfway up the
Princess halted, bent swiftly over the banisters:
"James!" she called softly.
"Yes?"
"Go into the pantry and find a fruit basket and fill it with whatever
food you can find. Hurry, please."
He discovered the pantry presently, and a basket of fruit there.
Poking about he contrived to disinter from various tins and ice-boxes
some cold chicken and biscuits and a bottle of claret. These he
wrapped hastily in a napkin which he found there, placed them in the
basket of fruit, and came out into the hall just as Ilse Dumont, in
the collar and cuffs and travelling coat of a servant, descended,
carrying a satchel and a suitcase.
"Good business!" he whispered, delighted. "You're all right now,
Scheherazade! And for heaven's sake, keep out of France hereafter. Do
you promise?"
He had taken the satchel and bag from her and handed both, and the
fruit basket, to Caron, who stood outside the door.
In the shadowy hall those two confronted each other now, probably for
the last time. He took both her hands in his.
"Good-bye, Scheherazade dear," he said, with a new seriousness in his
voice which made the tone of it almost tender.
"G-good-bye----" The girl's voice choked; she bent her head and rested
her face on the hands he held clasped in his.
He felt her hot tears falling, felt the slender fingers within his
own tighten convulsively; felt her lips against his hand--an instant
only; then she turned and slipped through the open door.
A moment later the Princess Naïa appeared on the stairs, descending
lightly and swiftly, her motor coat over her arm.
"Jim," she said in a low voice, "it's the wretched girl's only chance.
They know about her; they're looking for her now. But I am trusted by
my Ambassador; I shall have what papers I ask for; I shall get her
through to an American steamer."
"Princess Naïa, you are splendid!"
"You don't think so, Jim; you never did.... Be nice to Rue. The child
has been dreadfully frightened about you.... And," added the Princess
Mistchenka with a gaily forced smile, resting her hand on Neeland's
shoulder for an instant, "don't ever kiss Rue Carew unless you mean it
with every atom of your heart and soul.... I know the child.... And I
know you. Be generous to her, James. All women need it, I think, from
such men as you--such men as you," she added laughingly, "who know not
what they do."
If there was a subtle constraint in her pretty laughter, if her gay
gesture lacked spontaneity, he did not perceive it. His face had
flushed a trifle under her sudden badinage.
"Good-bye," he said. "You _are_ splendid, and I _do_ think so. I know
you'll win through."
"I shall. I always do--except with you," she added audaciously. And
"Look for me tomorrow!" she called back to him through the open door;
and slammed it behind her, leaving him standing there alone in the
dark and curtained house.