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In the Quarter

R >> Robert W. Chambers >> In the Quarter




Gethryn looked up startled.

"Keep cool," whispered Thaxton; "if they think we're Germans we're
done for."

Carleton glanced nervously about. "How they stare," he whispered.
"Their eyes pop out of their heads as if they saw Bismarck."

There was an ominous movement among the throng.

"Vive l'Anarchie! A bas les Prussiens!" yelled a beetle-browed
Italian. "A bas les etrangers!"

"My friend," said Clifford, pleasantly, "you've got a very vile
accent yourself."

"You're a Prussian!" screamed the man.

Every one was now looking at them. Gethryn began to fume.

"I'll thrash that cur if he says Prussian again," said he.

"You'll keep quiet, that's what you'll do," growled Thaxton, looking
anxiously at Rhodes.

"Yes, you will!" said the Colossus, very pale.

"Pig of a Prussian!" shouted a fearful-looking hag, planting herself
in front of Clifford with arms akimbo and head thrust forward. "Pig
of a Prussian spy!"

She glanced at her supporters, who promptly applauded.

"Ah--h--h!" she screamed, her little green eyes shining like a
tiger's -- "Spy! German spy!"

"Madam," said Clifford, politely, "go and wash yourself."

"Hold your cursed tongue, Clifford!" whispered Thaxton. "Do you
want to be torn to pieces?"

Suddenly a man behind Gethryn sprang at his back, and then, amazed and
terrified at his own daring, yelled lustily for help. Gethryn shook
him off as he would a fly, but the last remnant of self-control went
at the same time, and, wheeling, he planted a blow square in the
fellow's neck. The man fell like an ox. In an instant the mob was upon
them. Thaxton received a heavy kick in the ribs, which sent him
reeling against Carleton. Clifford knocked two men down in as many
blows, and, springing back, stood guard over Thaxton until he could
struggle to his feet again. Elliott got a sounding thwack on the nose,
which he neatly returned, adding one on the eye for interest. Gethryn
and Carleton fought back to back. Rhodes began by half strangling a
son of the Commune and then flung him bodily among his howling
compatriots.

"Good Heavens," gasped Rhodes, "we can't keep this up!" And
raising his voice, he cried with all the force of his lungs, "Help!
This way, police!" A shot answered him, and a man, clapping his hands
to his face, tilted heavily forward, the blood spurting between his
fingers.

Then a terrible cry arose, a din in which the Americans caught the
clanging of steel and the neighing of horses. A man was hurled
violently against Gethryn, who, losing in turn his balance, staggered
and fell. Rising to his knees, he saw a great foam-covered horse
rearing almost over him, and a red-faced rider in steel helmet and
tossing plume slashing furiously among the crowd. Next moment he was
dragged to his feet and back into the flying mob.

"Look out," panted Thaxton, "the cavalry -- they've charged --
run!" Gethryn glanced over his shoulder. All along the edge of the
frantic, panic-stricken crowd the gleaming crests of the cavalry
surged and dashed like a huge wave of steel.

Cries, groans, and curses rose and were drowned in the thunder of the
charging horses and the clashing of weapons.

"Spy!" screamed a voice in his ear. Gethryn turned, but the fellow
was legging it for safety.

Suddenly he saw a woman who, pushed and crowded by the mob, stumbled
and fell. In a moment he was by her side, bent over to raise her, was
hurled upon his face, rose blinded by dust and half-stunned, but
dragging her to her feet with him.

Swept onward by the rush, knocked this way and that, he still managed
to support the dazed woman, and by degrees succeeded in controlling
his own course, which he bent toward the Obelisk. As he neared the
goal of comparative safety, exhausted, he suffered himself and the
woman to be carried on by the rush. Then a blinding flash split the
air in front, and the crash of musketry almost in his face hurled him
back.

Men threw up their hands and sank in a heap or spun round and pitched
headlong. For a moment he swayed in the drifting smoke. A blast of
hot, sickening air enveloped him. Then a dull red cloud seemed to
settle slowly, crushing, grinding him into the earth.

Three

When Gethryn unclosed his eyes the dazzling sunlight almost blinded
him. A thousand grotesque figures danced before him, a hot red vapor
seemed to envelop him. He felt a dull pain in his ears and a numb
sensation about the legs. Gradually he recalled the scene that had
just passed; the flying crowd lashed by that pitiless iron scourge;
the cruel panic; the mad, suffocating rush; and then that crash of
thunder which had crushed him.

He lay quite still, not offering to move. A strange languor seemed to
weigh down his very heart. The air reeked with powder smoke. Not a
breath was stirring.

Presently the numbness in his knees changed to a hot, pricking throb.
He tried to move his legs, but found he could not. Then a sudden
thought sent the blood with a rush to his heart. Perhaps he no longer
had any legs! He remembered to have heard of legless men whose phantom
members caused them many uncomfortable sensations. He certainly had a
dull pain where his legs belonged, but the question was, had he legs
also? The doubt was too much, and with a faint cry he struggled to
rise.

"The devil!" exclaimed a voice close to his head, and a pair of
startled eyes met his own. " The devil!" repeated the owner of the
eyes, as if to a apostrophize some particular one. He was a bird-like
little fellow, with thin canary-colored hair and eyebrows and
colorless eyes, and he was seated upon a campstool about two feet from
Gethryn's head.

He blinked at Gethryn. "These Frenchmen," said he, "have as many
lives as a cat."

"Thanks!" said Gethryn, smiling faintly.

"An Englishman! The devil!" shouted the pale-eyed man, hopping in
haste from his campstool and dropping a well-thumbed sketching-block
as he did so.

"Don't be an ass," suggested Gethryn; "you'd much better help me to
get up."

"Look here," cried the other, "how was I to know you were not done
for?"

"What's the matter with me?" said Gethryn. "Are my -- my legs
gone?"

The little man glanced at Gethryn's shoes.

No, they're all there, unless you originally had more than the normal
number -- in fact I'm afraid -- I think you're all right.

Gethryn stared at him.

"And what the devil am I to do with this sketch?" he continued,
kicking the fallen block. "I've been at it for an hour. It isn't half
bad, you know. I was going to call it `Love in Death.' It was for the
London Illustrated Mirror."

Gethryn lay quite still. He had decided the little fellow was mad.

"Dead in each other's arms!" continued the stranger, sentimentally.
"She so fair -- he so brave -- "

Gethryn sprang up impatiently, but only a little way. Something held
him down and he fell back.

"Do you want to get up?" asked the stranger.

"I should rather think so."

The other bent down and placed his hands under Gethryn's arms, and --
half helped, half by his own impatient efforts -- Rex sat up, leaning
against the other man. A sharp twinge shot through the numbness of his
legs, and his eyes, seeking the cause, fell upon the body of a woman.
She lay across his knees, apparently dead. Rex remembered her now for
the first time.

"Lift her," he said weakly.

The little man with some difficulty succeeded in moving the body; then
Gethryn, putting one arm around the other's neck, struggled up. He was
stiff, and toppled about a little, but before long he was pretty
steady on his feet.

"The woman," he said, "perhaps she is not dead."

"Dead she is," said the Artist of the Mirror cheerfully, gathering
up his pencils, which lay scattered on the steps of the pedestal. He
leaned over the little heap of crumpled clothing.

"Shot, I fancy," he muttered.

Gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored
to his limbs, went over to the place where she lay.

"Have you a flask?" he asked. The little Artist eyed him
suspiciously.

"Are you a newspaperman?"

"No, an art student."

"Nothing to do with newspapers?"

"No."

"I don't drink," said the queer little person.

"I never said you did," said Gethryn. "Have you a flask, or haven't
you?"

The stranger slowly produced one, and poured a few drops into his pink
palm.

"We may as well try," he said, and began to chafe her forehead.
"Here, take the whiskey -- let it trickle, so, between her teeth.
Don't spill any more than you can help," he added.

"Has she been shot?" asked Gethryn.

"Crushed, maybe."

"Poor little thing, look at her roll of music!" said Gethryn, wiping
a few drops of blood from her pallid face, and glancing
compassionately at the helpless, dust-covered figure.

"I'm afraid it's no use -- "

"Give her some more whiskey, quick!" interrupted the stranger.

Gethryn tremblingly poured a few more drops between the parted lips. A
faint color came into her temples. She moved, shivered from head to
foot, and then, with a half-choked sob, opened her eyes.

"Mon Dieu, comme je souffre!"

"Where do you suffer?" said Gethryn gently.

"The arm; I think it is broken."

Gethryn stood up and looked about for help. The Place was nearly
deserted. The blue-jacketed hussars were still standing over by the
Avenue, and an occasional heavy, red-faced cuirassier walked his
sweating horse slowly up and down the square. A few policemen lounged
against the river wall, chatting with the sentries, and far down the
dusty Rue Royale, the cannon winked and blinked before the Church of
the Madeleine.

The rumble of wheels caused him to turn. A clumsy, blue-covered wagon
drew up at the second fountain. It was a military ambulance. A
red-capped trooper sprang down jingling from one of the horses, and
was joined by two others who had followed the ambulance and who also
dismounted. Then the three approached a group of policemen who were
lifting something from the pavement. At the same moment he heard
voices beside him, and turning, found that the girl had risen and was
sitting on the campstool, her head leaning against the little
stranger's shoulder.

An officer stood looking down at her. His boots were spotless. The
band of purple on his red and gold cap showed that he was a surgeon.

"Can we be of any assistance to madame?" he inquired.

"I was looking for a cab," said Gethryn, "but perhaps she is not
strong enough to be taken to her home."

A frightened look came into the girl's face and she glanced anxiously
at the ambulance. The surgeon knelt quietly beside her.

"Madame is not seriously hurt," he said, after a rapid examination.
"The right arm is a little strained, but it will be nothing, I assure
you, Madame; a matter of a few days, that is all."

He rose and stood brushing the knees of his trousers with his
handkerchief. "Monsieur is a foreigner?"

Gethryn smiled. "The accent?"

"On the contrary, I assure you, Monsieur," cried the officer with
more politeness than truth. He eyed the ambulance. "The people of
Paris have learned a lesson today," he said.

A trooper clattered up, leading an officer's horse, and dismounted,
saluting. The young surgeon glanced at his watch.

"Picard," he said, "stop a closed cab and send it here."

The trooper wheeled his horse and galloped away across the square, and
the officer turned to the others.

"Madame, I trust, will soon recover," he said courteously. "Madame,
messieurs, I have the honor to salute you." And with many a clink and
jingle, he sprang into the saddle and clattered away in the wake of
the slowly moving ambulance.

At the corner of the Rue Royale, Gethryn saw the trooper stop a cab
and point to the Obelisk. He went over and asked the canary-colored
stranger, "Will you take her home, or shall I?"

"Why, you, of course; you brought her here."

"No, I didn't. I never saw her until I noticed her being pushed about
by the crowd." He caught the girl's eye and colored furiously, hoping
she did not suspect the nature of their discussion. Before her
helplessness it seemed so brutal.

The cab drew up before the Obelisk and a gruff voice cried, "V'la!
M'ssieurs! -- 'dames!"

"Put your arm on my shoulder -- so," said Gethryn, and the two men
raised her gently. Once in the cab, she sank back, looking limp and
white. Gethryn turned sharply to the other man.

"Shall I go?"

"Rather," replied the little stranger, pleasantly.

Opening his coat in haste, he produced a square of pasteboard. "My
card," he said, offering one to Gethryn, who bowed and fumbled in his
pockets. As usual, his card-case was in another coat.

"I'm sorry I have none," he said at length, "but my name is
Reginald Gethryn, and I shall give myself the pleasure of calling to
thank you for -- "

"For nothing," laughed the other, "excepting for the sketch, which
you may have when you come to see me."

"Thanks, and au revoir," glancing at the card. "Au revoir, Mr
Bulfinch."

He was giving the signal to the cabby when his new acquaintance
stopped him.

"You're quite sure -- you -- er -- don't know any newspapermen?"

"Quite."

"All right -- all right -- and -- er -- just don't mention about my
having a flask, if you do meet any of them. I -- er -- keep it for
others. I don't drink."

"Certainly not," began Gethryn, but Mr T. Hoppley Bulfinch had
seized his campstool and trotted away across the square.

Gethryn leaned into the cab.

"Will you give me your address?" he asked gently.

"Rue Monsieur le Prince -- 430 -- " she whispered. "Do you know
where it is?"

"Yes," said Gethryn. It was his own number.

"Rue Monsieur le Prince 430", he repeated to the driver, and
stepping in, softly shut the door.

Four

Rain was falling steadily. The sparrows huddled under the eaves, or
hopped disconsolately along the windowsills, uttering short,
ill-tempered chirps. The wind was rising, blowing in quick, sharp
gusts and sweeping the forest of rain spears, rank upon rank, in mad
dashes against the glass-roofed studio.

Gethryn, curled up in a corner of his sofa, listlessly watched the
showers of pink and white blossoms which whirled and eddied down from
the rocking chestnuts, falling into the windy court in little heaps.
One or two stiff-legged flies crawled rheumatically along the window
glass, only to fall on their backs and lie there buzzing.

The two bull pups had silently watched the antics of these maudlin
creatures, but their interest changed to indignation when one sodden
insect attempted a final ascent and fell noisily upon the floor under
their very noses. Then they rose as one dog and leaped madly upon the
intruder, or meant to; but being pups, and uncertain in their
estimation of distances, they brought up with startled yelps against
the wall. Gethryn took them in his arms, where they found consolation
in chewing the buttons off his coat. The parrot had driven the raven
nearly crazy by turning upside down and staring at him for fifteen
minutes of insulting silence. Mrs Gummidge was engaged in a matronly
and sedate toilet, interrupting herself now and then to bestow a
critical glance upon the parrot. She heartily approved of his attitude
toward the raven, and although the old cynic cared nothing for Mrs
Gummidge's opinion, he found a sour satisfaction in warning her of her
enemy's hostile intentions. This he always did with a croak, causing
Mrs Gummidge to look up just in time, and the raven to hop back
disconcerted.

The rain beat a constant tattoo on the roof, and this, mingling with
the drowsy purr of the cat, who was now marching to and fro with tail
erect in front of Gethryn, exercised a soothing influence, and
presently a snore so shocked the parrot that he felt obliged to
relieve his mind by a series of intricate gymnastics upon his perch.

Gethryn was roused by a violent hammering on his door. The room had
grown dark, and night had come on while he slept.

"All right -- coming," he shouted, groping his way across the room.
Slipping the bolt, he opened the door and looked out, but could see
nothing in the dark hallway. Then he felt himself seized and hugged
and dragged back into his studio, where he was treated to a heavy slap
on the shoulder. Then someone struck a match and presently, by the
light of a candle, he saw Clifford and Elliott, and farther back in
the shade another form which he thought he knew.

Clifford began, "Here you are! We thought you were dead -- killed
through my infernal fooling." He turned very red, and stammered,
"Tell him, Elliott."

"Why, you see," said Elliott, "we've been hunting for you high and
low since the fight yesterday afternoon. Clifford was nearly crazy. He
said it was his fault. We went to the Morgue and then to the
hospitals, and finally to the police -- " A knock interrupted him,
and a policeman appeared at the door.

Clifford looked sheepish.

"The young gentleman who is missing -- this is his room?" inquired
the policeman.

"Oh, he's found -- he's all right," said Clifford, hurriedly. The
officer stared.

"Here he is," said Elliott, pointing to Rex.

The man transferred his stare to Gethryn, but did not offer to move.

"I am the supposed deceased," laughed Rex, with a little bow.

"But how am I to know?" said the officer.

"Why, here I am."

"But," said the man, suspiciously, "I want to know how I am to
know?"

"Nonsense," said Elliott, laughing.

"But, Monsieur," expostulated the officer, politely.

"This is Reginald Gethryn, artist, I tell you!"

The policeman shrugged his shoulders. He was noncommittal and very
polite.

"Messieurs," he said, "my orders are to lock up this room."

"But it's my room, I can't spare my room," laughed Gethryn. "From
whom did you take your orders?"

"From Monsieur the Prefect of the Seine."

"Oh, it is all right, then," said Gethryn. "Take a seat."

He went to his desk, wrote a hasty note, and then called the man.
"Read that, if you please, Monsieur Sergeant de Ville."

The man's eyes grew round. "Certainly, Monsieur, I will take the note
to the Prefect," he said; "Monsieur will pardon the intrusion."

"Don't mention it," said Rex, smiling, and slipped a franc into his
big red fist. The officer pocketed it with a demure "Merci,
Monsieur," and presently the clank of his bayonet died away on the
stairs.

"Well," said Elliott, "you're found." Clifford was beginning again
with self-reproaches and self-abasement, but Rex broke in: "You
fellows are awfully good -- I do assure you I appreciate it. But I
wasn't in any more danger than the rest of you. What about Thaxton and
the Colossus and Carleton?" He grew anxious as he named them.

"We all got off with no trouble at all, only we missed you -- and
then the troops fired, and they chased us over the bridge and
scattered us in the Quarter, and we all drifted one by one into the
Café des Écoles. And then you didn't come, and we waited till after
dinner, and finally came here to find your door locked -- "

"Oh!" burst out Clifford, "I tell you, Rex -- damn it! I will
express my feelings!"

"No, you won't," said Rex; "drop 'em, old boy, don't express 'em.
Here we are -- that's enough, isn't it, Shakespeare?"

The bird had climbed to Gethryn's shoulder and was cocking his eye
fondly at Clifford. They were dear friends. Once he had walked up
Clifford's arm and had grabbed him by the ear, for which Clifford,
more in sorrow than in anger, soaked him in cold water. Since that,
their mutual understanding had been perfect.

"Where are you going to, you old fiend?" said Clifford, tickling the
parrot's throat.

"Hell!" shrieked the bird.

"Good Heavens! I never taught him that," said Gethryn.

Clifford smiled, without committing himself.

"But where were you, Rex?" asked Elliott.

Rex flushed. "Hullo," cried Clifford, "here's Reginald blushing. If
I didn't know him better I'd swear there's a woman in it." The dark
figure at the end of the room rose and walked swiftly over, and Rex
saw that it was Braith, as he had supposed.

"I swear I forgot him," laughed Elliott. "What a queer bird you
are, Braith, squatting over there as silent as a stuffed owl!"

"He has been walking his legs off after you," began Clifford, but
Braith cut him short with a brusque --

"Where were you, Rex?"

Gethryn winced. "I'd rather -- I think" -- he began, slowly --

"Excuse me -- it's not my business," growled Braith, throwing
himself into a seat and beginning to rub Mrs Gummidge the wrong way.
"Confound the cat!" he added, examining some red parallel lines
which suddenly decorated the back of his hand.

"She won't stand rubbing the wrong way," said Rex, smiling uneasily.

"Like the rest of us," said Elliott.

"More fool he who tries it," said Braith, and looked at Gethryn with
an affectionate smile that made him turn redder than before.

"Rex," began Clifford again, with that fine tact for which he was
celebrated, "own up! You spent last night warbling under the windows
of Lisette."

"Or Frisette," said Elliott, "or Cosette."

"Or Babette, Lisette, Frisette, Cosette, Babette!" chanted the two
young men in a sort of catch.

Braith so seldom swore, that the round oath with which he broke into
their vocal exercises stopped them through sheer astonishment. But
Clifford, determined on self-assertion and loving an argument,
especially out of season, turned on Braith and began:

"Why should not Youth love?"

"Love! Bah!" said Braith.

"Why Bah?" he persisted, stimulated by the disgust of Braith. "Now
if a man -- take Elliott, for example -- "

"Take yourself," cried the other.

"Well -- myself, for example. Suppose when my hours of weary toil are
over -- returning to my lonely cell, I encounter the blue eyes of
Ninette on the way, or the brown eyes of Cosette, or perhaps the black
eyes of -- "

Braith stamped impatiently.

"Lisette," said Clifford, sweetly. "Why should I not refresh my
drooping spirits by adoring Lisette -- Cos--- "

"Oh, come, you said that before," said Gethryn. "You're getting to
be a bore, Clifford."

"You at least can no longer reproach me," said the other, with a
quick look that increased Gethryn's embarrassment.

"Let him talk his talk of bewitching grisettes, and gay students,"
said Braith, more angry than Rex had ever seen him. "He's never
content except when he's dangling after some fool worse than himself.
Damn this `Bohemian love' rot! I've been here longer than you have,
Clifford," he said, suddenly softening and turning half
apologetically to the latter, who nodded to intimate that he hadn't
taken offense. "I've seen all that shabby romance turn into such
reality as you wouldn't like to face. I've seen promising lives go out
in ruin and disgrace -- here in this very street -- in this very house
-- lives that started exactly on the lines that you are finding so
mighty pleasant just now."

Clifford was in danger of being silenced. That would never do.

"Papa Braith," he smiled, "is it that you too have been through the
mill? Shall I present your compliments to the miller? I'm going. Come,
Elliott."

Elliott took up his hat and followed.

"Braith," he said, "we'll drink your health as we go through the
mill."

"Remember that the mill grinds slowly but surely," said Braith.

"He speaks in parables," laughed Clifford, halfway downstairs, and
the two took up the catch they had improvised, singing, "Lisette --
Cosette -- Ninette -- " in thirds more or less out of tune, until
Gethryn shut the door on the last echoes that came up from the hall
below.

Gethryn came back and sat down, and Braith took a seat beside him, but
neither spoke. Braith had his pipe and Rex his cigarette.

When the former was ready, he began to speak. He could not conceal the
effort it cost him, but that wore away after he had been talking a
while.

"Rex," he began, "when I say that we are friends, I mean, for my
own part, that you are more to me than any man alive; and now I am
going to tell you my story. Don't interrupt me. I have only just
courage enough; if any of it oozes out, I may not be able to go on.
Well, I have been through the mill. Clifford was right. They say it is
a phase through which all men must pass. I say, must or not, if you
pass through it you don't come out without a stain. You're never the
same man after. Don't imagine I mean that I was brutally dissolute. I
don't want you to think worse of me than I deserve. I kept a clean
tongue in my head -- always. So do you. I never got drunk -- neither
do you. I kept a distance between myself and the women whom those
fellows were celebrating in song just now -- so do you. How much is
due in both of us to principle, and how much to fastidiousness, Rex? I
found out for myself at last, and perhaps your turn will not be long
in coming. After avoiding entanglements for just three years -- " He
looked at Rex, who dropped his head -- "I gave in to a temptation as
coarse, vulgar and silly as any I had ever despised. Why? Heaven
knows. She was as vulgar a leech as ever fastened on a calf like
myself. But I didn't think so then. I was wildly in love with her. She
said she was madly in love with me." Braith made a grimace of such
disgust that Rex would have laughed, only he saw in time that it was
self-disgust which made Braith's mouth look so set and hard.

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