Three Soldiers Part 67

"Impertinent! You heard my brother call me that.... He went back to the front that night, poor little chap.... He's only nineteen ... he's very clever.... O, how happy I am now that the war's over."

"You are older than he?"

"Two years.... I am the head of the family.... It is a dignified position."

"Have you always lived in Paris?"

"No, we are from Laon.... It's the war."

"Refugees?"

"Don't call us that.... We work."

Andrews laughed.

"Are you going far?" she asked peering in his face.

"No, I live up here.... My name is the same as yours."

"Jean? How funny!"

"Where are you going?"

"Rue Descartes.... Behind St. Etienne."

"I live near you."

"But you mustn't come. The concierge is a tigress.... Etienne calls her Mme. Clemenceau."

"Who? The saint?"

"No, you silly--my brother. He is a socialist. He's a typesetter at l'Humanite."

"Really? I often read l'Humanite."

"Poor boy, he used to swear he'd never go in the army. He thought of going to America."

"That wouldn't do him any good now," said Andrews bitterly. "What do you do?"

"I?" a gruff bitterness came into her voice. "Why should I tell you? I work at a dressmaker's."

"Like Louise?"

"You've heard Louise? Oh, how I cried."

"Why did it make you sad?"

"Oh, I don't know.... But I'm learning stenography.... But here we are!"

The great bulk of the Pantheon stood up dimly through the rain beside them. In front the tower of St. Etienne-du-Mont was just visible. The rain roared about them.

"Oh, how wet I am!" said Jeanne.

"Look, they are giving Louise day after tomorrow at the Opera Comique.... Won't you come; with me?"

"No, I should cry too much."

"I'll cry too."

"But it's not..."

"Cest l'armistice," interrupted Andrews.

They both laughed!

"All right! Meet me at the cafe at the end of the Boul' Mich' at a quarter past seven.... But you probably won't come."

"I swear I will," cried Andrews eagerly.

"We'll see!" She darted away down the street beside St. Etienne-du-Mont.

Andrews was left alone amid the seethe of the rain and the tumultuous gurgle of water-spouts. He felt calm and tired.

When he got to his room, he found he had no matches in his pocket.

No light came from the window through which he could hear the hissing clamor of the rain in the court. He stumbled over a chair.

"Are you drunk?" came Walters's voice swathed in bedclothes. "There are matches on the table."

"But where the h.e.l.l's the table?"

At last his hand, groping over the table, closed on the matchbox.

The match's red and white flicker dazzled him. He blinked his eyes; the lashes were still full of raindrops. When he had lit a candle and set it amongst the music papers upon the table, he tore off his dripping clothes.

"I just met the most charming girl, Walters," Andrews stood naked beside the pile of his clothes, rubbing himself with a towel. "Gee! I was wet.... But she was the most charming person I've met since I've been in Paris."

"I thought you said you let the girls alone."

"Wh.o.r.es, I must have said."

"Well! Any girl you could pick up on the street...."

"Nonsense!"

"I guess they are all that way in this d.a.m.ned country.... G.o.d, it will do me good to see a nice sweet wholesome American girl."

Andrews did not answer. He blew out the light and got into bed.

"But I've got a new job," Walters went on. "I'm working in the school detachment office."