Part 22 (1/2)

”Ah, Monsieur Brune!” she exclaimed, grasping his hand. ”Did you know that a dirty Prussian had sent a bomb right down through the skylight of the good Bents' and now all their things are wrecked?”

”The Bents'!” gasped Kent. ”Was any one hurt?”

”And that we can't say. The young lady has not been sleeping there lately but yesterday she came and got the key and did not return it, so I thought she must have slept there last night! This morning we can find no trace of her. The bomb did much damage, but surely it could not have destroyed her completely.”

”Destroyed her! What young lady?”

”Why, Mademoiselle Kean, of course.”

Kent was glad of the strong arm of Jim Castleman. He certainly needed a support but only for a moment. He pushed through the crowd and made his way to the shattered wall of the studio. The bomb had not done so much damage as might have been expected. The front wall was fallen and the skylight was broken all over the floor. The chairs and easels were piled up like jackstraws at the beginning of a game. The bedrooms were uninjured but the balcony where Judy and Molly had slept that happy winter in Paris had fallen.

Would Judy have slept up on the roost just for auld lang syne or would she have occupied a more comfortable bedroom? If she had been blown into such small bits that there was nothing to tell the tale, why should these other things have escaped? There were the blue tea cups in the china closet uninjured, although most of them were turned over, showing that the shock had reached them, too. What was that blue thing lying on the divan in the corner under untold debris?

Kent pulled off the timbers and broken gla.s.s and unearthed Judy's blue serge dress, which was waiting to be dyed a dismal black. He clasped it in his arms in an agony of apprehension. Letters fell out of the pocket.

He recognized his mother's handwriting, also Molly's. So, Judy had heard from Kentucky! He stuffed them back in the jacket.

”Jim, I simply don't believe she was here. I couldn't have slept all night like such a lummux if she--if she----”

”Yes, old fellow! I know! I don't believe she was here, either.”

”I just know I would have had some premonition of it! I would have been conscious of it if anything had been happening to Judy,” which showed that Kent Brown was his mother's own son. He was not going to mourn the loss of a loved one until he was sure the loved one was gone, and he had her own unfailing faith that something could not have happened to one he cared for without his being aware of it.

”Sure you would!” declared Jim, not at all sure but relieved that his friend was taking that view of the matter.

”I know something that will be a positive proof whether she was here or not last night.” Kent walked firmly to the bath room, which was behind the bed rooms and out of the path of the bomb. He threw open the door and looked eagerly on the little gla.s.s shelf for a tooth brush.

”Not a sign of one. I know and you know that if Judy had been here last night her tooth brush would have been here, too. I am sure now! Come on, and let's look somewhere else.”

Kent went out with Judy's serge dress over his arm. The concierge looked sadly after him: ”Her dress is all he has to cherish now. The poor young man! I used to see he was in love with her when Mrs. Brune was in the Bents' studio and her son occupied the one to the right with Mr.

Kinsella. Oh, la la! _Mais la vie est amer!_”

The crowd dispersed, since there was nothing more to see and the hour for _dejeuner a la fourchette_ was approaching. The concierge went off to visit her daughter who was ill. The studios were all empty now and her duties were light. Her husband was to see that no one entered the court to carry off the Bents' things, which were exposed pitifully to the gaze of the public until the authorities could do something. He, good man, waited a little while and then made his way to a neighbouring _bra.s.serie_ to get his tumbler of absinthe, and one tumbler led to another and forgetfulness followed soon, and the Bents' studio properties were but dreams to his befuddled brain.

Judy had spent a busy morning. Marie had gone to carry tarts to ”the regiment” and all of the waiting in the shop fell on her. She did it gladly, thankful that she was so busy she could not think. She measured soup and weighed spinach and potato salad and wrapped up tarts until her back ached. Finally Mere Tricot came in from the baking of more tarts.

”My child, go out for a while. You need the air. I am here now to feed these gourmands.”

”All right, Mother! I want to get my dress at the studio. Marie says she will dye it for me.”

”Certainly! Certainly! We can save many a sou by doing it ourselves. Go, child!”

Judy put on her little mourning bonnet and sadly found her way to the Rue Brea.

”I wonder where the bomb hit last night. Pere Tricot said near the Luxembourg.”

What was her amazement to find the poor studio in ruins. No concierge to tell her a thing about it, for her lodge was locked tight and no one near. Judy picked her way sadly over the fallen front wall.

”I'll get my dress, anyhow.” But although she was sure it had been on the divan in the studio, no dress was to be found.