XVIIIIn ParisOn leaving the Section, I was feeling too tired and dejected to experience any deep regrets that I would not be with my friends for the celebration which had been planned upon reaching Bar le Duc. Also I was feeling a little depressed in starting off for Paris broke, penniless, not a franc in my pocket. As a matter of fact I had been in that financial condition (if such a condition can be called financial) for nearly two months, because a cablegram which I had sent to the United States the latter part of July had not reached its destination. Whether it had been lost in the ocean or had been confiscated and hypothecated for what it was worth by the enemy, I shall never know. Enough to say that I was broke.During those long weary days and nights and weeks, I had not possessed the price of a cigarette and during that time I had grown to have the firmest convictions that anyone who is opposed to sending tobacco to the Allies is either most happily ignorant of the nerve-racking strain of war or is out and out pro-German.Yet I was not allowed to suffer too much, for my friends in the Section, evidently believing that I was honest, were very kind to me, so I managed to have a smoke with a fair degree of regularity. I borrowed two francs from Stockwell with which I bought a pipe in which I smoked Ned Townsend’s “granulated” or even the terrible French tobacco when I thought that Ned Townsend might feel that I was imposing on him too much. I was rather clumsy at rolling cigarettes, but Frank Farnham was very helpful in that respect. He became so accustomed to performing this kind service for me that all I had to do was to look at him and say, “Farney” and out would come his bag of tobacco.A few days before leaving the Section, I had written in to Paris to despatch a second cablegram to the United States and I hoped upon reaching Paris I would find the essential reply waiting for me at the banking house of Morgan-Harjes.Just as I was about to get into the Staff car to start for Paris, it was “Farney” who came up to me and handed me twenty francs to see me through the journey.It was midnight when I reached Paris and I was completely tired out. I engaged a taxicab and told the chauffeur to drive to Henry’s, Number Eleven, Rue Volney. Henry’s Hotel had been the semi-official headquarters of Section One in Paris practically since the war started. Here at least I could make myself known.To be sure, I had some excellent letters to people in Paris but I certainty was not going to use them to establish credit, and I did not feel up to social calls.Before the war, Henry’s had been something of a rendezvous for rich sporting men, those who followed the races and the like. Since the war, it was still patronized by those who had gone there before and also by aviators, ambulanciers, army officers, French, English and American. Henry had a transient business and he also held a clientèle. When I had been there in June, I had seen certain well dressed, well groomed young and middle aged men drifting in at certain hours. I saw these same faces there again in September and also saw them again in December. I wondered what their occupations might be, either real or ostensible. Almost any day between five and six, Henry could be seen shaking dice with his clientèle.Henry was a little short trim fellow with a florid face, grey moustache and usually dressed immaculately in a frock coat. He wore glasses when he took inventory of the cash register. When he took inventory of people, he usually squinted his eyes into little slits, so that people who were being inventoried would scarcely realize that they were being noticed. Among foreigners and Parisians, Henry was one of the characters of the city. I say “was,” because Henry has since passed on to another world. When I reached there the hotel was closed but a ring on the bell brought the concièrge to the door in his pajamas and bath robe. I was shown to a room with a bed in it, white pillows, clean sheets—and it was very nice.I was not long in getting to bed and not much longer in getting to sleep, but in my sleep I was once more back at Verdun. I could hear the aeroplanes whirring overhead—I could hear the bursting shells—I could see the dead horses on the crowded roads, the rats and filth, the desolation of the front. Not a very peaceful sleep; and when I awoke I felt somewhat confused as I looked over toward the windows and saw the heavy curtains drawn together. A clock was ticking on the mantel. It was nearly nine o’clock. Beside the bed I observed a telephone and without raising my head from the soft, comfortable, clean white pillow, I reached for it. I might be broke, but at least I was going to have one good meal to fortify me for the day. The office answered the call. “Grapefruit,” I said; “soft boiled eggs, toast with butter on it, coffee—and a pack of cigarettes.” I ordered an expensive brand of cigarettes, as I was afraid it might hurt my credit to call for cheap ones. Then I closed my eyes and dozed peacefully.A little later in the morning, I met Henry. We sat down on the sofa at the foot of the stairs, and I told him Ned Townsend, Stevenson and the other men in the Section had sent him their best regards. Then I told him I was broke but added quickly that I expected a cablegram any day—perhaps to-day. Henry was very nice and polite about it and told me not to worry.When I went out of the hotel, I intended to go over to the offices of Morgan-Harjes and learn whether a reply had come to my second cablegram, but I really did not feel strong enough to stand any unfavorable news. A hack driver coming along Rue Volney cracked his whip and I almost fell on the pavement. My nerves seemed to be temporarily shattered. I still had a few francs left that “Farney” had given me, so I called a taxi-cab and drove to 21 Rue Reynouard, the headquarters of the American Field Service. Dr. Lines looked me over and informed me that my heart was in bad condition and that I needed a complete rest. He suggested sending me out to a convalescent hospital in the country, but I did not feel well enough to go to a hospital—I did not want to see the inside of a hospital and—besides, I was waiting for a cablegram from the States. Later in the day I pulled myself together and went down Boulevard Haussmann to the offices of Morgan-Harjes. About that place I remembered having written to my partner in the banking business, that while their furniture is not as handsome as ours, they seemed to have more customers.At Morgan-Harjes there was no news for me.I went back to Henry’s and retired for the afternoon. I arose for supper, which I had in the café—and signed for it; a short walk as far as the Café de la Paix, back to Henry’s and to bed, back to sleep, back to Verdun—back to the shrieking shells, the whirr of the aeroplanes, the rats, and the crowded, bloodstained roads.Waking the next morning, I reached for the telephone, breakfasted in bed and dozed until noon, then walked over to Morgan-Harjes.No news—After a fashion I have learned to study expression in faces; and on the days immediately following, when I got out of bed and went to Morgan-Harjes, I could tell by the expression of the clerk’s face before he spoke to me that there was no news. I also noticed by the expression on Henry’s face that I should begin to worry. He was not wearing his glasses but he was squinting his eyes.I spent most of my time in bed. I needed the rest. The crowds, the boulevards, the early evening café life, the movies, the Follies—none of these had any allurement for me. I think it was on the fifth day that I ran into my poet friend young Bob Hillyer of Harvard and South Orange, New Jersey. He too had been out to the front with an Ambulance Section and was now on his way back to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he was going to accept a professorship in the university which has made that town fairly famous.I was very glad to see Bob Hillyer again in spite of the fact that he told me I looked perfectly terrible and should really return to the States and not think of going back to the front. He asked me to dinner with himself and a friend of his. I protested, mildly suggesting that they take dinner with me at Henry’s, but the stronger will prevailed and the three of us had dinner together at a little quiet outdoor café underneath the awnings.They walked back to Henry’s with me, where my pride and hospitality got the better of my judgment.Wouldn’t they come in and have a little cordial before going along?Certainly!We went inside—the cordials were ordered—I laid down three francs.“Four francs, fifty, Mr. Rice,” said George, who had come to know me by name from having served me my breakfast in bed.I picked up the three francs, put them in my pocket and said, “Please put it on my bill, George.” It is really terrible to be apparently well-to-do and not have any money to do it with.Hillyer and his friend said “Good-night,” and I promptly went to bed. It was a little past midnight I think and I had been fast asleep for some time, back at Verdun with the bursting shells and scurrying and scurrilous rats, when I suddenly became conscious of the fact that a firm hand was resting on each one of my shoulders. I awoke with a start and there stood Ned Townsend smiling broadly.“Get up,” he said. “Don’t you know it is your turn out to post?” At the foot of the bed stood “Red” Day. They had just reached Paris and informed me they had come on from the front to cheer me up a bit. “Farney” was with them too.Why say I was glad to see them all? They sat on the side of the bed and told me about the banquet at Bar le Duc and Ned told me that “Red” and “Farney” were slated for the Croix de Guerre, which was very good news.Townsend had received the Croix de Guerre a long time before.We had late breakfast together and they paid for it and then I went around to Morgan-Harjes. I read the expression on the clerk’s face as I stepped up to the window. When I left, I discovered there was a spring to my step which had been absent on the previous days.I walked rapidly back to Henry’s and into the hotel. Henry was in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. As he saw me, I observed the expression on his face—he was not wearing his glasses but his eyes were squinted into little slits. I knew what was coming as he said he would like to speak to me. I cheerfully replied: “It is all right, the cablegram has come.”When I saw Ned Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney,” I told them they were to have supper at a certain quiet little café of mine, opposite the “Chinese Umbrella.”
On leaving the Section, I was feeling too tired and dejected to experience any deep regrets that I would not be with my friends for the celebration which had been planned upon reaching Bar le Duc. Also I was feeling a little depressed in starting off for Paris broke, penniless, not a franc in my pocket. As a matter of fact I had been in that financial condition (if such a condition can be called financial) for nearly two months, because a cablegram which I had sent to the United States the latter part of July had not reached its destination. Whether it had been lost in the ocean or had been confiscated and hypothecated for what it was worth by the enemy, I shall never know. Enough to say that I was broke.
During those long weary days and nights and weeks, I had not possessed the price of a cigarette and during that time I had grown to have the firmest convictions that anyone who is opposed to sending tobacco to the Allies is either most happily ignorant of the nerve-racking strain of war or is out and out pro-German.
Yet I was not allowed to suffer too much, for my friends in the Section, evidently believing that I was honest, were very kind to me, so I managed to have a smoke with a fair degree of regularity. I borrowed two francs from Stockwell with which I bought a pipe in which I smoked Ned Townsend’s “granulated” or even the terrible French tobacco when I thought that Ned Townsend might feel that I was imposing on him too much. I was rather clumsy at rolling cigarettes, but Frank Farnham was very helpful in that respect. He became so accustomed to performing this kind service for me that all I had to do was to look at him and say, “Farney” and out would come his bag of tobacco.
A few days before leaving the Section, I had written in to Paris to despatch a second cablegram to the United States and I hoped upon reaching Paris I would find the essential reply waiting for me at the banking house of Morgan-Harjes.
Just as I was about to get into the Staff car to start for Paris, it was “Farney” who came up to me and handed me twenty francs to see me through the journey.
It was midnight when I reached Paris and I was completely tired out. I engaged a taxicab and told the chauffeur to drive to Henry’s, Number Eleven, Rue Volney. Henry’s Hotel had been the semi-official headquarters of Section One in Paris practically since the war started. Here at least I could make myself known.
To be sure, I had some excellent letters to people in Paris but I certainty was not going to use them to establish credit, and I did not feel up to social calls.
Before the war, Henry’s had been something of a rendezvous for rich sporting men, those who followed the races and the like. Since the war, it was still patronized by those who had gone there before and also by aviators, ambulanciers, army officers, French, English and American. Henry had a transient business and he also held a clientèle. When I had been there in June, I had seen certain well dressed, well groomed young and middle aged men drifting in at certain hours. I saw these same faces there again in September and also saw them again in December. I wondered what their occupations might be, either real or ostensible. Almost any day between five and six, Henry could be seen shaking dice with his clientèle.
Henry was a little short trim fellow with a florid face, grey moustache and usually dressed immaculately in a frock coat. He wore glasses when he took inventory of the cash register. When he took inventory of people, he usually squinted his eyes into little slits, so that people who were being inventoried would scarcely realize that they were being noticed. Among foreigners and Parisians, Henry was one of the characters of the city. I say “was,” because Henry has since passed on to another world. When I reached there the hotel was closed but a ring on the bell brought the concièrge to the door in his pajamas and bath robe. I was shown to a room with a bed in it, white pillows, clean sheets—and it was very nice.
I was not long in getting to bed and not much longer in getting to sleep, but in my sleep I was once more back at Verdun. I could hear the aeroplanes whirring overhead—I could hear the bursting shells—I could see the dead horses on the crowded roads, the rats and filth, the desolation of the front. Not a very peaceful sleep; and when I awoke I felt somewhat confused as I looked over toward the windows and saw the heavy curtains drawn together. A clock was ticking on the mantel. It was nearly nine o’clock. Beside the bed I observed a telephone and without raising my head from the soft, comfortable, clean white pillow, I reached for it. I might be broke, but at least I was going to have one good meal to fortify me for the day. The office answered the call. “Grapefruit,” I said; “soft boiled eggs, toast with butter on it, coffee—and a pack of cigarettes.” I ordered an expensive brand of cigarettes, as I was afraid it might hurt my credit to call for cheap ones. Then I closed my eyes and dozed peacefully.
A little later in the morning, I met Henry. We sat down on the sofa at the foot of the stairs, and I told him Ned Townsend, Stevenson and the other men in the Section had sent him their best regards. Then I told him I was broke but added quickly that I expected a cablegram any day—perhaps to-day. Henry was very nice and polite about it and told me not to worry.
When I went out of the hotel, I intended to go over to the offices of Morgan-Harjes and learn whether a reply had come to my second cablegram, but I really did not feel strong enough to stand any unfavorable news. A hack driver coming along Rue Volney cracked his whip and I almost fell on the pavement. My nerves seemed to be temporarily shattered. I still had a few francs left that “Farney” had given me, so I called a taxi-cab and drove to 21 Rue Reynouard, the headquarters of the American Field Service. Dr. Lines looked me over and informed me that my heart was in bad condition and that I needed a complete rest. He suggested sending me out to a convalescent hospital in the country, but I did not feel well enough to go to a hospital—I did not want to see the inside of a hospital and—besides, I was waiting for a cablegram from the States. Later in the day I pulled myself together and went down Boulevard Haussmann to the offices of Morgan-Harjes. About that place I remembered having written to my partner in the banking business, that while their furniture is not as handsome as ours, they seemed to have more customers.
At Morgan-Harjes there was no news for me.
I went back to Henry’s and retired for the afternoon. I arose for supper, which I had in the café—and signed for it; a short walk as far as the Café de la Paix, back to Henry’s and to bed, back to sleep, back to Verdun—back to the shrieking shells, the whirr of the aeroplanes, the rats, and the crowded, bloodstained roads.
Waking the next morning, I reached for the telephone, breakfasted in bed and dozed until noon, then walked over to Morgan-Harjes.
No news—
After a fashion I have learned to study expression in faces; and on the days immediately following, when I got out of bed and went to Morgan-Harjes, I could tell by the expression of the clerk’s face before he spoke to me that there was no news. I also noticed by the expression on Henry’s face that I should begin to worry. He was not wearing his glasses but he was squinting his eyes.
I spent most of my time in bed. I needed the rest. The crowds, the boulevards, the early evening café life, the movies, the Follies—none of these had any allurement for me. I think it was on the fifth day that I ran into my poet friend young Bob Hillyer of Harvard and South Orange, New Jersey. He too had been out to the front with an Ambulance Section and was now on his way back to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he was going to accept a professorship in the university which has made that town fairly famous.
I was very glad to see Bob Hillyer again in spite of the fact that he told me I looked perfectly terrible and should really return to the States and not think of going back to the front. He asked me to dinner with himself and a friend of his. I protested, mildly suggesting that they take dinner with me at Henry’s, but the stronger will prevailed and the three of us had dinner together at a little quiet outdoor café underneath the awnings.
They walked back to Henry’s with me, where my pride and hospitality got the better of my judgment.
Wouldn’t they come in and have a little cordial before going along?
Certainly!
We went inside—the cordials were ordered—I laid down three francs.
“Four francs, fifty, Mr. Rice,” said George, who had come to know me by name from having served me my breakfast in bed.
I picked up the three francs, put them in my pocket and said, “Please put it on my bill, George.” It is really terrible to be apparently well-to-do and not have any money to do it with.
Hillyer and his friend said “Good-night,” and I promptly went to bed. It was a little past midnight I think and I had been fast asleep for some time, back at Verdun with the bursting shells and scurrying and scurrilous rats, when I suddenly became conscious of the fact that a firm hand was resting on each one of my shoulders. I awoke with a start and there stood Ned Townsend smiling broadly.
“Get up,” he said. “Don’t you know it is your turn out to post?” At the foot of the bed stood “Red” Day. They had just reached Paris and informed me they had come on from the front to cheer me up a bit. “Farney” was with them too.
Why say I was glad to see them all? They sat on the side of the bed and told me about the banquet at Bar le Duc and Ned told me that “Red” and “Farney” were slated for the Croix de Guerre, which was very good news.
Townsend had received the Croix de Guerre a long time before.
We had late breakfast together and they paid for it and then I went around to Morgan-Harjes. I read the expression on the clerk’s face as I stepped up to the window. When I left, I discovered there was a spring to my step which had been absent on the previous days.
I walked rapidly back to Henry’s and into the hotel. Henry was in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. As he saw me, I observed the expression on his face—he was not wearing his glasses but his eyes were squinted into little slits. I knew what was coming as he said he would like to speak to me. I cheerfully replied: “It is all right, the cablegram has come.”
When I saw Ned Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney,” I told them they were to have supper at a certain quiet little café of mine, opposite the “Chinese Umbrella.”