Neeland had undressed, bathed his somewhat battered body, and had then thrown himself on the bed, fully intending to rise in a few moments and await breakfast.

But it was a very weary young man who stretched himself out for ten minutes' repose. And, when again he unclosed his eyes, the austere clock on the mantel informed him that it was five--not five in the morning either.

He had slept through the first day of general mobilisation.

Across the lowered latticed blinds late afternoon sunshine struck red.

The crests of the chestnut trees in the rue Soleil d'Or had turned rosy; and a delicate mauve sky, so characteristic of Paris in early autumn, already stretched above the city like a frail tent of silk from which fragile cobweb clouds hung, tinted with saffron and palest rose.

Hoisting the latteen shades, he looked out through lace curtains into the most silent city he had ever beheld. Not that the streets and avenues were deserted: they swarmed with hurrying, silent people and with taxicabs.

Never had he seen so many taxicabs; they streamed by everywhere, rushing at high speed. They pa.s.sed through the rue Soleil d'Or; the rue de la Lune fairly whizzed with them; the splendid avenue was merely a vista of flying taxis; and in every one of them there was a soldier.

Otherwise, except for cyclists, there seemed to be very few soldiers in Paris--an odd fact immediately noticeable.

Also there were no omnibuses to be seen, no private automobiles, no electric vehicles of any sort except great grey army trucks trundling by with a sapper at the wheel.

And, except for the whiz and rush of the motors and the melancholy siren blasts from their horns, an immense silence reigned in the streets.

There was no laughter to be heard, no loud calling, no gay and animated badinage. People who met and stopped conversed in undertones; gestures were sober and rare.

And everywhere, in the intense stillness, Red Cross flags hung motionless in the late afternoon sunshine; everywhere were posted notices warning the Republic of general mobilisation--on dead walls, on tree-boxes, on kiosques, on bulletin boards, on the facades of public and ecclesiastical buildings.

Another ordinance which Neeland could read from where he stood at the window warned all citizens from the streets after eight o'clock in the evening; and on the closed iron shutters of every shop in sight of his window were pasted white strips of paper bearing, in black letters, the same explanation:

"_Ferme a cause de la mobilisation._"

Nowhere could he see the word "war" printed or otherwise displayed.

The conspiracy of silence concerning it seemed the more ominous.

Nor, listening, could he hear the sinister voices of men and boys calling extra editions of the papers. There seemed to be no need for the raising of hoa.r.s.e and threatening voices in the soundless capital.

Men and youths of all ages traversed the avenues and streets with sheafs of fresh, damp newspapers over their ragged arms, but it was the populace who crowded after and importuned them, not they the people; and no sooner did a paper-seller appear than he was stripped of his wares and was counting his coppers under the trees before hurrying away for a fresh supply.

Neeland dressed himself in sections, always returning to the window to look out; and in this manner he achieved his toilet.

Marotte, the old butler, was on the floor below, carrying a tea tray into the wide, sunny sitting-room as Neeland descended.

"I overslept," explained the young American, "and I'm nearly starved.

Is Mademoiselle Carew having tea?"

"Mademoiselle requested tea for two, sir, in case you should awake,"

said the old man solemnly.

Neeland watched him fussing about with cloth and table and silver.

"Have you any news?" he asked after a moment.

"Very little, Monsieur Neeland. The police have ordered all Germans into detention camps--men, women, and children. It is said that there are to be twelve great camps for these unfortunates who are to a.s.semble in the Lycee Condorcet for immediate transportation."

Neeland thought of Ilse Dumont. Presently he asked whether any message had been received from the Princess Mistchenka.

"Madame the Princess telephoned from Havre at four o'clock this afternoon. Mademoiselle Carew has the message."

Neeland, rea.s.sured, nodded:

"No other news, Marotte?"

"The military have taken our automobiles from the garage, and have requisitioned the car which Madame la Princess is now using, ordering us to place it at their disposal as soon as it returns from Havre.

Also, Monsieur le Capitaine Sengoun has telephoned from the Russian Emba.s.sy, but Mademoiselle Carew would not permit Monsieur to be awakened."

"What did Captain Sengoun say?"

"Mademoiselle Carew received the message."

"And did anyone else call me up?" asked Neeland, smiling.

"_Il y avait une fe--une espece de dame_," replied the old man doubtfully, "--who named herself Fifi la Tzigane. I permitted myself to observe to her," added the butler with dignity, "that she had the liberty of writing to you what she thought necessary to communicate."

He had arranged the tea-table. Now he retired, but returned almost immediately to decorate the table with Cloth of Gold roses.

Fussing and pottering about until the ma.s.s of lovely blossoms suited him, he finally presented himself to Neeland for further orders, and, learning that there were none, started to retire with a self-respecting dignity that was not at all impaired by the tears which kept welling up in his aged eyes, and which he always winked away with a _demi-tour_ and a discreet cough correctly stifled by his dry and wrinkled hand.

As he pa.s.sed out the door Neeland said:

"Are you in trouble, Marotte?"

The old man straightened up, and a fierce pride blazed for a moment from his faded eyes:

"Not trouble, monsieur; but--when one has three sons departing for the front--_dame!_--that makes one reflect a little----"

He bowed with the unconscious dignity of a wider liberty, a subtler equality which, for a moment, left such as he indifferent to circ.u.mstances of station.

Neeland stepped forward extending his hand:

"_Bonne chance!_ G.o.d be with France--and with us all who love our liberty. Luck to your three sons!"

"I thank monsieur----" He steadied his voice, bowed in the faultless garments which were his badge of service, and went his way through the silence in the house.

Neeland had walked to the long windows giving on the pretty balcony with its delicate, wrought-iron rails and its brilliant ma.s.ses of geraniums.

Outside, along the Avenue, in absolute silence, a regiment of cuira.s.siers was pa.s.sing, the level sun blazing like sheets of crimson fire across their helmets and breastplates. And now, listening, the far clatter of their horses came to his ears in an immense, unbroken, rattling resonance.

Their gold-fringed standard pa.s.sed, and the sunlight on the naked sabres ran from point to hilt like liquid blood. Sons of the Cuira.s.siers of Morsbronn, grandsons of the Cuira.s.siers of Waterloo--what was their magnificent fate to be?--For splendid it could not fail to be, whether tragic or fortunate.

The American's heart began to hammer in his breast and throb in his throat, closing it with a sudden spasm that seemed to confuse his vision for a moment and turn the distant pa.s.sing regiment to a glittering stream of steel and flame.

Then it had pa.s.sed; the darkly speeding torrent of motor cars alone possessed the Avenue; and Neeland turned away into the room again.

And there, before him, stood Rue Carew.