_ CHAPTER XXVII. WAR
War!
A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly became dour and overcast. Within a day thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Women who were laughing gayly turned suddenly white. Orders were speeded over the wires and through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of France. In a few hours men began to gather in uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves about the gates of stations. They increased in numbers until they were everywhere. Trumpets sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. The very air was tense and vibrant.
War!
People massed in groups. The individual no longer counted. Storekeepers, bankers, dandies, chauffeurs, postmen, gardeners, hotel proprietors became merely Frenchmen. They dropped the clothes that distinguished their caste, and became merely men in uniform.
Foreign visitors no longer counted as individuals. They ran about in panic-stricken groups like vagrant dogs. Those in uniform looked on indifferently, or gave sharp orders turning strangers back from this road or that, this gate or that. A chauffeur in uniform might turn back his millionaire foreign master.
Credit money no longer counted. Banks refused to give out gold, and the shopkeepers and hotel proprietors refused to accept anything but gold. No one knew what might happen, and refused to risk. A man might brandish a letter of credit for ten thousand francs and be refused a glass of wine. A man with a thousand francs in gold was in a better position than a millionaire with only paper.
Monte discovered this when he hurried to his own bankers. With half a million dollars and more to his credit at home, he was not allowed a single louis d'or. Somewhat bewildered, he stood on the steps and counted the gold he happened to have in his pockets. It amounted to some fifty dollars. To all intents and purposes, that embraced his entire capital. In the present emergency his stocks and bonds were of no avail whatever to him. He thought of the cables, but gold could not be cabled--only more credit, which in this grim crisis went for nothing. It was as if he had suddenly been forced into bankruptcy. His fortune temporarily had been swept away.
If that was true of his own, it must be equally true of Marjory's. She was no wealthier now than the sum total of the gold she happened to have in her possession. The thought came to him at first as a shock. What was she going to do? She was upon the point of leaving, and her plans must have been suddenly checked. She was, in effect, a prisoner here. She was stranded as completely as if she were any penniless young woman.
Then some emotion--some feeling indistinctly connected with the grandfather who had crossed the plains in forty-nine--swept over him. It was a primitive exultation. It made him conscious of the muscles in his back and legs. It made him throw back his head and square his shoulders. A moment before, with railroads and steamships at her command, with a hundred men standing ready to do her bidding in response to the magic of her check-book, she had been as much mistress of her little world as any ancient queen.
Sweaty men were rushing fruits from the tropics, silks from India, diamonds from Africa, caviar from the north; others were making ready fine quarters in every corner of the globe; others were weaving cloths and making shoes; others were rehearsing plays and music--all for her and others like her, who had only to call upon their banks to pay for all this toil. Instead of one man to supply her needs, she had a thousand, ten thousand. With the machinery of civilization working smoothly, she had only to nod--and sign a check.
Now, overnight, this had been changed. The machinery was to be put to other uses. Ships that had been carrying silks were needed for men with rifles. Railroads were for troops. The sweat of men was to be in battle. Servants were to be used for the slaughter of other servants. With nations at one another's throats, the very basis of credit, mutual trust and esteem, was gone. She and others like her did not count. Men with the lust for blood in their hearts could not bother with them. They might sit in their rooms and sob, or they might starve. It did not much matter. A check was only a bit of paper. Under such conditions it might be good or not. Gold was what counted--gold and men. Broad backs counted, and stout legs.
Monte took a deep breath. Now--it might be possible that he would count. It was so that his grandfather had counted. He had fought his way across a continent and back for just such another woman as Marjory. Life had been primitive then. It was primitive now. Men and women were forced to stand together and take the long road side by side.
The blood rushed to Monte's head. He must get to her at once. She would need him now--if only for a little while. He must carry her home. She could not go without him.
He started down the steps of the bank, two at a time, and almost ran against her. She was on her way to the bank as he had been, in search of gold. Her eyes greeted him with the welcome her lips would not.
"You see!" he exclaimed, with a quick laugh.
"When you need me I come."
She was dressed in the very traveling costume she had worn when they left Paris together. She was wearing, too, the same hat. It might have been yesterday.
"They refused my check at the hotel," she explained nervously. "They say they must have gold."
"Have you any?" he asked.
"One louis d'or."
"And I have ten," he informed her.
She did not understand why he should be so exultant over this fact.
"I have come here to get enough to pay my bill and buy my ticket. I am leaving this morning."
"They won't give you any," he explained. "Besides, they won't carry you on the train unless you put on a uniform."
"Monte!"
"It's a fact."
"Then--what am I to do?"
She looked quite helpless--deliciously helpless.
He laughed joyously.
"You are bankrupt," he said. "So am I. We have only fifty-five dollars between us. But that is something. Also there is the machine. That will take us over the Italian frontier and to Genoa. I ought to be able to sell it there for something. Come on."
"Where?" she asked.
"We must get the car as soon as possible. I have a notion that with every passing hour it is going to be more difficult to get out."
"But I'm not going with you, Monte. It's--it's impossible!"
"It's the only way, little woman."
He gave her no time to argue about it, but took her arm and hurried her to the garage. It was necessary to walk. Taxis were as if they had never been. They passed groups of soldiers who turned to look at Marjory. The eyes of many were hot with wine, and she was very glad that she was not alone.
At the door of the garage stood a soldier in uniform. As Monte attempted to pass, he was brought to a halt.
"It is not permitted to pass," explained the guard.
"But I want to get my car."
"I 'm afraid monsieur has no car."
"Eh?"
"They have all been taken for la patrie."
"You mean my machine has been confiscated?"
"Borrowed, perhaps. After the victory--" The guard shrugged his shoulders.
Monte shrugged his own shoulders. Then he laughed.
"After all," he said, "that is little enough to do for France. Inform the authorities they are welcome."
He saluted the guard, who returned the salute. Again he took Marjory's arm, and turned toward the hotel.
"There is nothing to do but to walk," he declared.
"Where?"
She could not understand his mood. It was as if this were a holiday instead of a very serious plight.
"Over the border. It is only some twenty-five miles. We can do it easily in two days; but even if it takes three--"
Even if it took a hundred, what did it matter, with her by his side? And by his side she must remain until her credit was restored. With only one louis d'or in her pocket, she was merely a woman, with all the limitations of her sex. She could not take to the open road alone. She did not have the physical strength that dictated the law for vagabonds. She must have a man near to fight for her, or it would go hard. Even Marie would be no protection in time of war.
Dumbly she followed his pace until they reached the hotel. The place was in confusion and the proprietor at his wits' end. In the midst of it, Monte was the only one apparently unmoved.
"Pack one small hand-bag," he ordered. "You must leave your trunks here."
"Yes, Monte," she submitted.
"I'll run back to the Roses, and meet you here in a half-hour. Will you be ready?"
"Yes. Marie will come with us, of course."
He shook his head.
"She must wait here until she can get to Paris. Find out if she has any cash."
"I want her to come with me," she pleaded.
"I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, our fifty-five dollars won't stretch to her. We--we can't afford a maid."
She flushed at his use of "we." Nevertheless, what he said was true enough. That sum was a mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip.
"Be sure to bring your passport," he reminded her. "It is ten-thirty. I 'll be here at eleven."
Hurrying back to his room, he took what he could crowd into his pockets: his safety razor and toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a change of socks. One did not need much on the open road. He carried his sweater--the old crimson sweater with the black "H"--more for her than for himself. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk and left in the care of the hotel.
She was waiting for him when he returned to the Hôtel d'Angleterre.
"You were right about Marie," she acknowledged. "She has two brothers in the army. She has money enough for her fare to Paris, and is going as soon as possible."
"In the meanwhile she is safe enough here. So, en avant!"
He took her bag, and they stepped out into the sunshine. _