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CHAPTER IV
The mind of the boy was very full as he passed out of the hotel, so fullthat he scarcely noticed the whip of cold air that stung his face or thewhite mantle that lay upon the streets, wrapping in a silver sheath allthat was sordid, all that was dirty and unpicturesque in that corner ofParis. The human note had been touched in that moment in the_salle-a-manger,_ and his ears still tingled to its sound. Alarm,disgust, and a strange exultant satisfaction warred within him in amanner to be comprehended by his own soul alone.
As he stepped out into the rue de Dunkerque he scarcely questioned inwhat direction his feet should carry him. North, south, east, or westwere equal on that first day. Everywhere was promise--everywhere a call.Nonchalantly and without intention he turned to the left and foundhimself once more in face of the Gare du Nord.
It is a good thing to rejoice in spite of the world; it is an infinitelybetter thing to rejoice in company with it. With solitude and freedom,the alarm, the disgust receded, and as he went forward the exultationgrew, until once again his mercurial spirits lifted him as upon wings.
The majority of passers-by at this morning hour were workers--work-girlsout upon their errands, business men going to or from the _cafes_; buthere and there was to be seen an artist, consciously indifferent toappearances; here and there an artisan, unconsciously picturesque in hiscoarse working-clothes; here and there a well-dressed woman, sunningherself in the cold, bright air like a bird of gay plumage. It was theworld in miniature, and it stirred and piqued his interest. A wish tostop one of these people, and to pour forth his longings, his hopes, hisdreams, surged within him in a glow of fellowship and, smiling tohimself at the pleasant wildness of the thought, he made his way throughthe wider spaces of the Place Lafayette and the Square Montholon intothe long, busy rue Lafayette.
Here, in the rue Lafayette, the gloomy aspects of the district he hadmade his own dropped behind him, and a wealth of bustle and gayetygreeted and fascinated him. Here the sun seemed fuller, the traffic wasmore dense, and the shops offered visions to please every sense. Wineshops were here, curio shops, shops all golden and tempting with cheesesand butter, and hat shops that foretold the spring in a glitter of bluesand greens. He passed on, jostling the crowd good-humoredly, beingjostled in the same spirit, hugging his freedom with a silent joy.
Down the rue Halevy he went and on into the Place de l'Opera; but herehe slackened his pace, and something of his _insouciance_ dropped fromhim. The wide space filled with its cosmopolitan crowd, the opera-houseitself, so aloof in its dark splendor, spoke to him of anotherParis--the Paris that might be Vienna, Petersburg, London, for all ithas to say of individual life. His mood changed; he paused and lookedback over his shoulder in the direction from whence he had come. But thehesitation was fleeting; a quick courage followed on the doubt. Theadventurer must take life in every aspect--must face all questions, allmoments! He turned up the collar of his coat, as though preparing toface a chillier region, and went forward boldly as before.
One or two narrow streets brought him out upon the Place de Rivoli,where Joan of Arc sat astride her golden horse, and where great heaps offlowers were stacked at the street corners--mimosa, lilac, violets. Hehalted irresistibly to glance at these flowers breathing of the south,and to glance at the shining statue. Then he crossed the rue de Rivoliand, passing through the garden of the Tuileries, emerged upon the Placede la Concorde.
On the Place de la Concorde the cool, clean hand of the morning haddrawn its most striking picture; here, in the great, unsheltered spaces,the frost had fallen heavily, softening and beautifying to aninconceivable degree. The suggestion of modernity that ordinarily hangsover the place was veiled, and the subtle hints of history stole forth,binding the imagination. It needed but a touch to materialize the dreamas the boy crossed the white roadway, shadowed by the white statuary,and with an odd appropriateness the touch was given.
One moment his mind was a sea of shifting visions, the next it wascaught and held by an inevitably thrilling sound--the sound of feettramping to a martial tune. The touch had been given: the vague visionsof tradition and history crystallized into a picture, and his heartleaped to the pulsing, steady tramp, to the clash of fife and drumringing out upon the fine cold air.
All humanity is drawn by the sight of soldiers. There is a primitiveexhilaration in the idea of marching men that will last while thenations live. Stung by the same impulse that affected every man andwoman in the Place de la Concorde, the boy paused--his head up, hispulses quickened, his eyes and ears strained toward the sound.
It was a regiment of infantry marching down the Cours la Reine anddefiling out upon the Place de la Concorde toward the rue de Rivoli. Bya common impulse he paused, and by an equally common desire to be closeto the object of interest, he ran forward to where a little crowd hadgathered in the soldiers' route.
The French soldier is not individually interesting, and this body of menlooked insignificant enough upon close inspection. Yet it was aregiment; it stirred the fancy; and the boy gazed with keen interest atthe small figures in the ill-fitting uniforms and at the faces, many asyoung as his own, that denied past him in confusing numbers. On and onthe regiment wound, a coiling line of dull red and bluish-gray againstthe frosty background, the feet tramping steadily, the fifes and drumsbeating out with an incessant clamor.
Then, without warning, a new interest touched the knot of watchers, athrill passed from one member of the crowd to another, and hats wereraised. The colors were being borne by: Frenchmen were saluting theirflag.
The knowledge sprang to the boy's mind with the swiftness and poignancyof an inspiration. This body of men might be insignificant, but itrepresented the army of France--a thing of infinite tradition, ofinfinite romance. The blood mounted to his face, his heart beat faster,and with a strange, half-shy sense of participating in some fine moment,his hand went up to his hat.
Unconsciously he made a picture as he stood there, his dark hair stirredby the light, early air, his young face beautiful in its suddenenthusiasm; and to one pair of eyes in the little crowd it seemed betterworth watching than the passing soldiers.
The owner of these eyes had been observant of him from the moment thathe had run forward, drawn by the rattle of the drums; and now, as if inacceptance of an anticipated opportunity, he forced a way through theknot of people and, pausing behind the boy, addressed him in an easy,familiar voice, as one friend might address another.
"Isn't it odd," he said, "to look at those insignificant creatures, andto think that the soldiers of France have kissed the women and thrashedthe men the world over?"
Had a gun been discharged close to his car the boy could not havestarted more violently. Fear leaped into his eyes, he wheeled round;then a sharp, nervous laugh of relief escaped him.
"How you frightened me!" he exclaimed. "Oh, how you frightened me!" Thenhe laughed again.
His travelling companion of the night before smiled down on him from hissuperior height, and the boy noted for the first time that this smilehad a peculiarly attractive way of communicating itself from theclean-shaven lips to the grayish-green eyes of the stranger, banishingthe slightly satirical look that marked his face in repose.
"Well?" The Irishman was still studying him.
"Well? We're all on the knees of the gods, you see! 'Twas written thatwe were to meet; you can't avoid me."
The flag had been carried past; the boy replaced his hat, glad of amoment in which to collect his thoughts. What must he do? The questionbeat in his brain. Wisdom whispered avoidance of this stranger. To-daywas the first day; was it wise to bring into it anything from yesterday?No, it was not wise--reason upheld wisdom. He pulled his hat into place,his lips came together in an obstinate line, and he raised his eyes.
The sun was dancing on a silvery world, from the rue de Rivoli the fifesand drums still rattled out their march, close beside him the Irishmanwas looking at him with his pleasant smile.
Suddenly, as a daring horseman might give rein to a yo
ung horse,rejoicing in the risk, the boy discarded wisdom and its whispering curb;his nature leaped forth in sudden comradeship, and impulsively he heldout his hand.
"Monsieur, forgive me!" he said. "The gods know best!"
He said the words in English, perfectly, easily, with that faintest ofall foreign intonations--the intonation that clings to the Russianvoice.