The Forest of Swords 2

The Forest of Swords 2

The priest nodded and his friendly hand lay for a moment on the other's

shoulder.

 

"Come on, Geronimo," said John cheerfully. "As I remember it's nearly a

hundred steps into the lantern, and that's quite a climb."

 

"Not for youth like ours," exclaimed Bougainville, and he ran upward so

lightly that the American had some difficulty in following him. John was

impressed once more by his extraordinary strength and agility, despite

his smallness. He seemed to be a mass of highly wrought steel spring.

But unwilling to be beaten by anybody, John raced with him and the two

stood at the same time upon the utmost crest of the Basilique du

Sacré-Coeur.

 

They paused a few moments for fresh breath and then John put the glasses

to his eye, sweeping them in a slow curve. Through the powerful lenses

he saw the vast circle of Paris, and all the long story of the past that

it called up. Two thousand years of history rolled beneath his feet, and

the spectacle was wholly magnificent.

 

He beheld the great green valley with its hills, green, too, the line of

the Seine cutting the city apart like the flash of a sword blade, the

golden dome of the Hotel des Invalides, the grinning gargoyles of Notre

Dame, the arches and statues and fountains and the long green ribbons

that marked the boulevards.

 

Although the city stood wholly in the sunlight a light haze formed on

the rim of the circling horizon. He now moved the glasses slowly over a

segment there and sought diligently for something. From so high a point

and with such strong aid one could see many miles. He was sure that he

would find what he sought and yet did not wish to see. Presently he

picked out intermittent flashes which he believed were made by sunlight

falling on steel. Then he drew a long and deep breath that was almost

like a sigh.

 

"What is it?" asked Bougainville who had stood patiently by his side.

 

"I fear it is the glitter of lances, my friend, lances carried by German

Uhlans. Will you look?"

 

Bougainville held out his hands eagerly for the glasses, and then drew

them back a little. In his new dignity he would not show sudden emotion.

 

"It will give me gladness to see," he said. "I do not fear the Prussian

lances."

 

John handed him the glasses and he looked long and intently, at times

sweeping them slowly back and forth, but gazing chiefly at the point

under the horizon that had drawn his companion's attention.

 

John meanwhile looked down at the city glittering in the sun, but from

which its people were fleeing, as if its last day had come. It still

seemed impossible that Europe should be wrapped in so great a war and

that the German host should be at the gates of Paris.

 

His eyes turned back toward the point where he had seen the gleam of the

lances and he fancied now that he heard the far throb of the German

guns. The huge howitzers like the one Lannes and he had blown up might

soon be throwing shells a ton or more in weight from a range of a dozen

miles into the very heart of the French capital. An acute depression

seized him. He had strengthened the heart of Lannes, and now his own

heart needed strengthening. How was it possible to stop the German army

which had come so far and so fast that its Uhlans could already see

Paris? The unprepared French had been defeated already, and the slow

English, arriving to find France under the iron heel, must go back and

defend their own island.

 

"The Germans are there. I have not a doubt of it, and I thank you,

Monsieur Scott, for the use of these," said Bougainville, handing the

glasses back to him.

 

"Well, Geronimo," he said, "having seen, what do you say?"

 

"The sight is unpleasant, but it is not hopeless. They call us decadent.

I read, Monsieur Scott, more than you think! Ah, it has been the

bitterness of death for Frenchmen to hear all the world say we are a

dying race, and it has been said so often that some of us ourselves had

begun to believe it! But it is not so! I tell you it is not so, and

we'll soon prove to the Germans who come that it isn't! I have looked

for a sign. I sought for it in all the skies through your glasses, but I

did not find it there. Yet I have found it."

 

"Where?"

 

"In my heart. Every beat tells me that this Paris of ours is not for the

Germans. We will yet turn them back!"

 

He reminded John of Lannes in his dramatic intensity, real and not

affected, a true part of his nature. Its effect, too, upon the American

was powerful. He had given courage to Lannes, and now Bougainville, that

little Apache of the Butte Montmartre, was giving new strength to his

own weakening heart. Fresh life flowed back into his veins and he

remembered that he, too, had beheld a sign, the flash of light on the

Arc de Triomphe.

 

"I think we have seen enough here, Geronimo," he said lightly, "and

we'll descend. I've a friend to meet later. Which way do you go from the

church?"

 

"To the army. I shall be in a uniform tonight, and tomorrow maybe I

shall meet the Germans."

 

John held out his hand and the Apache seized it in a firm clasp.

 

"I believe in you, as I hope you believe in me," said young Scott. "I

belong to a company called the Strangers, made up chiefly of Americans

and English, and commanded by Captain Daniel Colton. If you're on the

battle line and hear of the Strangers there too I should like for you to

hunt me up if you can. I'd do the same for you, but I don't yet know to

what force you will belong."

 

Bougainville promised and they walked down to the second platform, where

Father Pelletier was still standing.

 

"What did you see?" he asked of John, unable to hide the eagerness in

his eyes.

 

"Uhlans, Father Pelletier, and I fancied that I heard the echo of a

German forty-two centimeter. Would you care to use the glasses? The view

from this floor is almost as good as it is from the lantern."

 

John distinctly saw the priest shudder.

 

"No," he replied. "I could not bear it. I shall pray today that our

enemies may be confounded; tomorrow I shall throw off the gown of a

priest and put on the coat of a soldier."

 

"Another sign," said John to himself, as they continued the descent.

"Even the priests will fight."

 

When they were once more in the narrow streets of Montmartre, John said

farewell to Bougainville.

 

"Geronimo," he said, "I expect to see you leading a victorious charge

directly into the heart of the German army."

 

"If I can meet your hopes I will, Monsieur Scott," said the young

Frenchman gayly, "and now, _au revoir_, I depart for my uniform and

arms, which must be of the best."

 

John smiled as he walked down the hill. His heart had warmed toward the

little Apache who might not be any Apache at all. Nevertheless the name

Geronimo seemed to suit him, and he meant to think of him by it until

his valor won him a better.

 

He saw from the slopes the same endless stream of people leaving Paris.

They knew that the Germans were near, and report brought them yet

nearer. The tale of the monster guns had traveled fast, and the shells

might be falling among them at any moment. Aeroplanes dotted the skies,

but they paid little attention to them. They still thought of war under

the old conditions, and to the great mass of the people flying machines

were mere toys.

 

But John knew better. Those journeys of his with Lannes through the

heavens and their battles in the air for their lives were unforgettable.

Stopping on the last slope of Montmartre he studied space with his

glasses. He was sure that he saw captive balloons on the horizon where

the German army lay, and one shape larger than the rest looked like a

Zeppelin, but he did not believe those monsters had come so far to the

south and west. They must have an available base.

 

His heart suddenly increased its beat. He saw a darting figure and he

recognized the shape of the German Taube. Then something black shot

downward from it, and there was a crash in the streets of Paris,

followed by terrible cries.

 

He knew what had happened. He caught another glimpse of the Taube

rushing away like a huge carnivorous bird that had already seized its

prey, and then he ran swiftly down the street. The bomb had burst in a

swarm of fugitives and a woman was killed. Several people were wounded,

and a panic had threatened, but the soldiers had restored order already

and ambulances soon took the wounded to hospitals.

 

John went on, shocked to the core. It was a new kind of war. The flying

men might rain death from the air upon a helpless city, but their

victims were more likely to be women and children than armed men. For

the first time the clean blue sky became a sinister blanket from which

dropped destruction.

 

The confusion created by the bomb soon disappeared. The multitude of

Parisians still poured from the city, and long lines of soldiers took

their place. John wondered what the French commanders would do. Surely

theirs was a desperate problem. Would they try to defend Paris, or would

they let it go rather than risk its destruction by bombardment? Yet its

fall was bound to be a terrible blow.

 

Lannes was on the steps of the Opera House at the appointed time,

coming with a brisk manner and a cheerful face.

 

"I want you to go with me to our house beyond the Seine," he said. "It

is a quaint old place hidden away, as so many happy homes are in this

city. You will find nobody there but my mother, my sister Julie, and a

faithful old servant, Antoine Picard, and his daughter, Suzanne."

 

"But I will be a trespasser?"

 

"Not at all. There will be a warm welcome for you. I have told them of

you, how you were my comrade in the air, and how you fought."

 

"Pshaw, Lannes, it was you who did most of the fighting. You've given me

a reputation that I can't carry."

 

"Never mind about the reputation. What have you been doing since I left

you this morning?"

 

"I spent a part of the time in the lantern of the Basilica on

Montmartre, and I had with me a most interesting friend."

 

Lannes looked at him curiously.

 

"You did not speak of any friend in Paris at this time," he said.

 

"I didn't because I never heard of him until a few hours ago. I made his

acquaintance while I was going up Montmartre, but I already consider

him, next to you, the best friend I have in France."

 

"Acquaintanceship seems to grow rapidly with you, Monsieur Jean the

Scott."

 

"It has, but you must remember that our own friendship was pretty

sudden. It developed in a few minutes of flight from soldiers at the

German border."

 

"That is so, but it was soon sealed by great common dangers. Who is your

new friend, John?"

 

"A little Apache named Pierre Louis Bougainville, whom I have nicknamed

Geronimo, after a famous Indian chief of my country. He has already gone

to fight for France, and, Philip, he made an extraordinary impression

upon me, although I don't know just why. He is short like Napoleon, he

has the same large and beautifully shaped head, and the same penetrating

eyes that seem able to look you through and through. Maybe it was a

spark of genius in him that impressed me."

 

"It may be so," said Lannes thoughtfully. "It was said, and said truly

that the First Republic meant the open career to all the talents, and

the Third offers the same chance. One never can tell where military

genius is going to appear and God knows we need it now in whatever shape

or form it may come. Did you hear of the bomb?"

 

"I saw it fall. But, Phil, I don't see the object in such attacks. They

may kill a few people, nearly always the unarmed, but that has no real

effect on a war."

 

"They wish to spread terror, I suppose. Lend me your glasses, John."

 

Lannes studied the heavens a long time, minutely examining every black

speck against the blue, and John stood beside him, waiting patiently.

Meanwhile the throng of fleeing people moved on as before, silent and

somber, even the children saying little. John was again stirred by the

deepest emotion of sympathy and pity. What a tremendous tragedy it would

be if New York were being abandoned thus to a victorious foe! Lannes

himself had seemed to take no notice of the flight, but John judged he

had made a powerful effort of the will to hide the grief and anger that

surely filled his heart.

 

"I don't see anything in the air but our own machines," said Lannes, as

he returned the glasses. "It was evidently a dash by the Taube that

threw the bomb. But we've stayed here long enough. They're waiting for

us at home."

 

He led the way through the multitude, relapsing into silence, but

casting a glance now and then at his own peculiar field, the heavens.

They reached the Place de la Concorde, and stopped there a moment or

two. Lannes looked sadly at the black drapery hanging from the stone

figure that typified the lost city of Strassburg, but John glanced up

the great sweep of the Place to the Arc de Triomphe, where he caught

again the glittering shaft of sunlight that he had accepted as a sign.

 

"We may be looking upon all this for the last time," said Lannes, in a

voice of grief. "Oh, Paris, City of Light, City of the Heart! You may

not understand me, John, but I couldn't bear to come back to Paris

again, much as I love it, if it is to be despoiled and ruled by

Germans."

 

"I do understand you, Philip," said John cheerfully, "but you mustn't

count a city yours until you've taken it. The Germans are near, but

they're not here. Now, lead on. It's not like you to despair!"

 

Lannes shook himself, as if he had laid violent hands upon his own body,

and his face cleared.

 

"That was the last time, John," he said. "I made that promise before,

but I keep it this time. You won't see me gloomy again. Henceforward

it's hope only. Now, we must hurry. My mother and Julie will be growing

anxious, for we are overdue."

 

They crossed the Seine by one of the beautiful stone bridges and entered

a region of narrow and crooked streets, which John thought must be a

part of old Paris. In an American city it would necessarily have been a

quarter of the poor, but John knew that here wealth and distinction were

often hidden behind these modest doors.

 

He began to feel very curious about Lannes' family, but he was careful

to ask no questions. He knew that the young Frenchman was showing great

trust and faith in him by taking him into his home. They stopped

presently before a door, and Lannes rang a bell. The door was opened

cautiously in a few moments, and a great head surmounted by thick, gray

hair was thrust out. A powerful neck and a pair of immense shoulders

followed the head. Sharp eyes under heavy lashes peered forth, but in an

instant, when the man saw who was before him, he threw open the door and

said:

 

"Welcome, Monsieur."

 

John had no doubt that this was the Antoine Picard of whom Lannes had

spoken, and he knew at the first glance that he beheld a real man. Many

people have the idea that all Frenchmen are little, but John knew

better.

 

Antoine Picard was a giant, much over six feet, and with the limbs and

chest of a piano-mover. He was about sixty, but age evidently had made

no impression upon his strength. John judged from his fair complexion

that he was from Normandy. "Here," young Scott said to himself, "is one

of those devoted European family servants of whom I've heard so often."

 

He regarded the man with interest, and Picard, in return, measured and

weighed him with a lightning glance.

 

Lannes laughed.

 

"It's all right, Antoine," he said. "He's the young man from that far

barbarian country called America, who escaped from Germany with me, only

he's no barbarian, but a highly civilized being who not only likes

France, but who fights for her. John, this is Antoine Picard, who rules

and protects this house."

 

John held out his hand, American fashion, and it was engulfed in the

mighty grasp of the Norseman, as he always thought of him afterward.

 

"Madame, your mother, and Mademoiselle, your sister, have been anxious,"

said Picard.

 

"We were delayed," said Lannes.

 

They stepped into a narrow hall, and Picard shut the door behind them,

shooting into place a heavy bolt which sank into its socket with a click

like the closing of the entrance to a fortress. In truth, the whole

aspect of the house reminded John of a stronghold. The narrow hall was

floored with stone, the walls were stone and the light was dim. Lannes

divined John's thoughts.

 

"You'll find it more cheerful, presently," he said. "As for us, we're

used to it, and we love it, although it's so old and cold and dark. It

goes back at least five centuries."

 

"I suppose some king must have slept here once," said John. "In England

they point out every very old house as a place where a king passed the

night, and make reverence accordingly."

 

Lannes laughed gayly.

 

"No king ever slept here so far as I know," he said, "but the great

Marshal Lannes, whose name I am so proud to bear, was in this house more

than once, and to me, a staunch republican, that is greater than having

had a king for a tenant. The Marshal, as you may know, although he took

a title and served an Emperor, was always a republican and in the early

days of the empire often offended Napoleon by his frankness and brusque

truths. But enough of old things; we'll see my mother."

 

He led the way up the steps, of solid stone, between walls thick enough

for a fortress, and knocked at a door. A deep, full voice responded

"Enter!" and pushing open the door Lannes went in, followed by John.

 

It was a large room, with long, low windows, looking out over a sea of

roofs toward the dome of the Invalides and Napoleon's arch of triumph. A

tall woman rose from a chair, and saying "My son!" put her hands upon

Lannes shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. She was fair like her

son, and much less than fifty years of age. There was no stoop in her

shoulders and but little gray in her hair. Her eyes were anxious, but

John saw in them the Spartan determination that marked the women of

France.

 

"My friend, John Scott, of whom I have already spoken to you, Madame my

mother," said Lannes.

 

John bowed. He knew little of French customs, particularly in the heart

of a French family, and he was afraid to extend his hand, but she gave

him hers, and let it rest in his palm a moment.

 

"Philip has told me much of you," she said in her deep, bell-like voice,

"and although I know little of your far America, I can believe the best

of it, if its sons are like you."

 

John flushed at the compliment, which he knew to be so sincere.

 

"Thank you, Madame," he said. "While my country can take no part in this

war, many of my countrymen will fight with you. France helped us once,

and some of us, at least, will help France now."

 

She smiled gravely, and John knew that he was welcome in her house.

Lannes would see to that anyhow, but he wished to make a good impression

on his own account.

 

"I know that Philip risks his life daily," she said. "He has chosen the

most dangerous of all paths, the air, but perhaps in that way he can

serve us most."

 

She spoke with neither complaint nor reproach, merely as if she were stating a fact, and her son added briefly: