Part 92 (1/2)
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 suns.h.i.+ne 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, rus.h.i.+ng 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 suns.h.i.+ne; 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.”