Part 4

McCall sympathized with every national aspiration, and when delegates learned that in civilian life he was a writer on one of the great American newspapers they poured their woes and hopes into his ear. Hamilton, as an orthodox Democrat and admirer of President Wilson, listened eagerly.

There were Russian emigrés galore, whose downfall caused McCall to chuckle, although it was harder to delight in the fate of the mysterious Russian noblewoman--tall, slim, straight-shouldered, with brown hair, high cheek bones and great onyx-colored eyes--who hovered about.

There were other beautiful women--tall, fair English-women; animated, little Parisienne brunettes; a few majestic Americans. It was interesting to guess their nationality.

“There’s something about this I’m getting to like,” said Hamilton. “This cosmopolitan atmosphere. I’ve always been with Americans, of a certain class. Here one meets people from all parts of the world. And it’s not just a matter of having money, like in Chicago or New York. Some of the most interesting chaps here have been the painters and writers, fellows just struggling to get a hold on things.

“During the war, when I was quartered in little villages, I got an idea that the French were robbers, who tried to stick the Americans for every cent they could. I got a contempt for them because they didn’t have shower baths and modern plumbing, and apple pie in the restaurants. I see now, sanitary plumbing and all that is only one phase of civilization.”

But though Hamilton was beginning to admire the intellectual democracy of Paris, there was one aspect of it he could not understand. He could accept the presence of Chinamen and Japs and Hindus in the drawing room--but the blacks! Sometimes a Senegalese war hero or even an American negro would become the center of admiring men and women.

Hamilton tried to explain the American viewpoint to his French associates, but they generally shook their heads.

“White supremacy must be maintained at all costs,” Hamilton was arguing with a young French colonel one day.

“Well, what of it?”

“Don’t you see, if we allow them social equality, our white race will disappear.”

“Not if it is naturally superior, how can it?”

“No, I don’t mean it will actually disappear,” went on Hamilton, “but it will become something different. It will become--mulatto. If we allowed the negroes equality, we would become a nation of mulattoes.”

“Mon Dieu!” the Frenchman raised his arms in mock horror. “You tell me your American women would all choose black mates, if you allowed them to? Ha, Ha!”

Before Hamilton could think of a reply, McCall was descending upon him with a vision in black taffeta.

He jumped quickly to his feet. For a moment he had the illusion that he was back in a ballroom in Corinth. Then he remembered who she was. The gown clung softly to her so that it delicately suggested the wearer’s figure. It was distinctly old-fashioned--like a gown Jenny Lind might have worn, and there was a vestee of some fluffy blue material and sprigs of blue forget-me-nots embroidered here and there.

“Meadows! Miss Meadows!”

Meadows extended her hand and smiled.

“We’ve been looking for you, Colonel,” she said.

Hamilton presented Colonel Charbonneau and the latter glanced in surprise at the single bar on Hamilton’s shoulder. Meadows read his astonishment.

“‘Colonel’ is just an honorary title we’ve given him,” she explained. “Because he’s so dignified and old-fashioned.”

Col. Charbonneau threw back his head and laughed.

“Are all colonels supposed to be so dignified?”

“Oh, I was speaking only of our southern American colonels,” replied Meadows. “They’re a special variety.”

“But your young officer was very gallant in defending the American women,” his eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Oh, yes,” flashed back Meadows, “they’re always defending womankind, or the white race or Anglo-Saxon institutions or something. And I sort of like it at that.” She darted the flushed Hamilton a look out of her dancing brown eyes. “Women still live in an age of chivalry--at least some of us do.”

They chatted for a few minutes and then Col. Charbonneau excused himself, and walked away. McCall followed a few minutes later.

“Do you know I expect to rejoin my regiment in a week?” said Hamilton. “We’re going back together, McCall and I. You see both of us got our commissions at the same training camp and we’ve gone through the war together.”

“I suppose the war has bred pretty strong friendships, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s something like the college fraternity spirit, only stronger. There’s McCall, for instance. I owe my life to him. We’ll always be friends. And lately I’ve taken a liking to Dr. Levin. I suppose I owe my life to him too. He’s rather hard to understand at first.”

“Hard to understand? He’s simply deeper, more thorough than the average person.”

“I suppose that’s it,” agreed Hamilton. “He criticises things, has so many theories. But when you get to know him he’s all right. You know I’ve never had much to do with Jews before. Not for any particular reason, but because I didn’t come in contact with ’em. But my experience with Levin simply shows that there _are_ some good Jews. I’ve noticed that he’s more like the other men one meets here. I suppose ‘cosmopolitan’ is the word. I suppose you’ve made lots of friends, too.”

“With a woman,” mused Meadows, “it’s different. There’s a certain ‘camaraderie’ among the nurses, but it’s not the same thing as a man’s friendship. Women have no such thing as friendship, in fact. Oh, I suppose I should say seldom. Take man’s club life. Women may organize for a special purpose--to study, to sew, to give plays, to play auction bridge, to knit sweaters--but not for simple friendship. Women in the same set are always antagonistic to each other. They try to outdo each other in the matter of beauty, of dress, of personal charm. They are always competitors for the potential male.”

“But you _have_ friends?”

Meadows laughed. “It’s like this. When the patients--my boys--are convalescent they become sentimental and romantic. Sometimes this friendship, or whatever it is, lasts after they’ve recovered. They come back and invite me out, or bring me candy or flowers.”

“And then what?”

“And then--then they’re men and I’m a woman. They’re disappointed and I don’t see them again.”

Hamilton’s eyes blazed and he clenched his fists. Meadows noticed it.

“Oh, they’re not all like that,” she said. “Only most of them. I have a few real friends, at least I think I have.”

“And am I--?”

“Oh, of course, you’re all right, Colonel. I could see that from the beginning. I said there were _some_ friends.”

“Well, in a week, I’ll be leaving--”

“Oh, we’ll meet again,” Meadows anticipated. “Probably oftener than you think.”

Meadows always avoided sentimental entanglements.

“But I must see you again before I go.”

“Must?”

From across the room came the sound of some one singing Suwanee River--a tenor voice, soft and sweet as a spring night in Georgia.

“Yes, must. I’ve hardly talked to you for five minutes straight. We happen to have been blown together here like atoms of dust. Tomorrow we may be at the opposite ends of the earth.”

“So you’d like to know more about this atom of dust, before I’m blown away. Well, Colonel Dustman, you may call for me Friday. I’ll have the afternoon off. That’s only two days from now. If you can wait.”

Their hostess, the Countess Montfort, whose eyes had been traveling from one face to another, like a mother hen summoning her chicks--was approaching, her plump, pretty face all solicitous smiles.

“Ah, I know you are both in such charming company,” she pouted, “but would you not like to listen to the singing from one of your countrymen? Monsieur Veeliams has such a splendid voice.”

“Friday then,” Hamilton agreed. As Hamilton and Meadows arose, the countess passed on to another group.

“That’s another one of my boys over there--singing--Williams,” said Meadows.

“Williams? I don’t know any Williams--except the nigger whose bed was next to mine.”

“Well, that’s the one.”

“How’d he get in here?”

“The same way you did--walked. No, he didn’t either, he came here in the countess’ own car. He’s still too bandaged up to do much walking. But he got his invitation the same way you did.”

“I thought mine had come through McCall.”

“Indirectly, perhaps. I happen to know the countess. She wanted to meet some interesting Americans. So I gave her your names.”

Williams’ face was hidden from Hamilton, but Hamilton could see that in the circle of his auditors were members of the flower of Parisian society--distinguished diplomats, scholars, writers, women of striking beauty and brilliant attainments. And epigram and pointed repartee were falling from the African lips as adroitly as from the product of the ripest European and Oriental civilizations. The nigger was at home with them.

Hamilton’s face became contorted with rage, his fists clenched.

“You don’t know what you are doing.” He tried to keep his voice from rising. “These people don’t know. They mean well. But if you’d lived in the South as a child and seen what I’ve seen--”

He became suddenly speechless.

“I--I think I’ll not wait,” he finally said. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

His dark eyes blazing, Hamilton turned and strode out of the room. Meadows watched him in amazement. She had admired Hamilton’s air of calm strength, his sincerity, his deference to womankind. But she had never suspected him capable of such an outburst of passion.

There was a lull in the other conversations which suddenly carried Williams’ voice through the room. He had been describing the attitude of colored soldiers on the eve of battle. He told how the members of an infantry regiment to which he had been attached sat on the fire-step, a few hours before going over the top, harmonizing old plantation tunes.

“Of course, I should have three other men to make it sound better--to form a quartette. But you can get the idea. Picture it--a cold, raw night, with the water falling, drizzling; mud and rotting bodies; terrific explosions, like a hundred boiler shops going at once; death and cold and hell all over. Now imagine this as sung by the quartette--“Massa’s in de Col’, Col’ Groun’.”

In a plaintive, vibrant tenor, Williams sang again:

“_Massa’s in de col’, col’ groun’, An’ we’s all gwine be with him in de mawnin’._”

IX

Promptly at noon, Friday, Hamilton was ringing the bell at the nurses’ home. Meadows, enveloped in a blue cloak, opened the door for him.

“Right on time,” she laughed, extending her hand. “Do you wish to come in? All right, then, we’ll go ahead.”

Hamilton wondered what Meadows thought of his conduct at the reception--his sudden leaving--his angry denunciation of the colored race--as they walked together to the curb.

Through the stark trees a bright December sun was shining. Hundreds of students of the Sorbonne, a few blocks away, were on the streets, coming from their morning classes, talking, shouting, laughing, singing. Hamilton was about to signal a cab.

“Oh, let’s walk,” said Meadows impulsively. “It’s such a beautiful day.

“But first”--she halted, and shook her finger at him, “before we go on--wherever we’re going--you haven’t told me--you must promise not to run away from me in case we should happen to run across Williams or some other colored patient and I answer his greeting.”

“I suppose I do owe you an apology for my outburst at the reception,” Hamilton replied. “But seriously, I don’t know if I shouldn’t run away. That happens to be one thing I feel strongly about. I suppose you’ve never lived in the South.”

Meadows shook her head.

“Well, then, you can have no conception of what the negro problem means to the Southerner. Of course I shouldn’t have lost my temper. A person never should do that. And the French, who before the war probably saw a negro once a year--and then a genius, one of those freaks that is apt to come out of any race--don’t understand.”

“Well, maybe I don’t understand, either. And another thing I don’t understand--where you’re taking me.”

“Oh, I thought we’d have lunch at some restaurant and then take in a vaudeville.”

“Let’s just ramble through the Luxembourg Gardens,” suggested Meadows. “It’s only a few blocks away and it will give us the afternoon to ourselves.”

“All right, the Luxembourg Gardens it will be then,” agreed Hamilton. “Perhaps you could suggest the restaurant. As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing Paris mostly by night, and specializing in only indecent cafés.”

Meadows did know just the café, only a few blocks down Rue de St. Jacques and around the corner, a relatively obscure place for most Americans, but the haunt of tourists “who really know,” and the less impecunious students. It was a rather unimposing place, from the outside. One entered it after stumbling down a flight of decrepit stairs and opening an ancient door. But inside everything was inviting. It was called the Black Cat and everything was done in black and orange, with black cats forming the principal motif of ornament. Black cats ran around the wall in a stencilled pattern and basked in front of the cozy fireplace in the form of cast-iron statuettes. Hamilton noticed that a log was blazing briskly. Black cats grimaced from under the shades of the table lamps and from the salt and pepper shakers. And, as Hamilton sat down, he noticed that even the backs of the chairs were ferocious chats noirs.

The proprietor himself, or so it seemed--no other person in the world could possibly have taken such an interest in the patrons--greeted them with a smile and conducted them personally to a table. He was a short, dark, stout man, with carefully curled jet-black mustache, who smiled and bowed perpetually, like an automaton.

One of a half-dozen waiters who had been hurrying about, placed menus, decorated with hungry black cats, in front of them with a flourish and--oh, so humbly!--suggested dishes for the Americans’ consideration.

“Oh, you must try one of their omelettes. They’re famous for them,” said Meadows. “Monsieur Barbiton--that’s that grinning Billiken--can do more things with eggs than any other three chefs in Paris, which means the world.”

While waiting for their omelettes, Hamilton and Meadows looked about the room. It was larger than one would think upon first entering, much larger than one would imagine from the outside--but cozy. There was a comfortable clatter of dishes and a buzz of voices. The diners were mostly Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, shrugging their shoulders and gesticulating over their food. Here and there appeared the sombre uniform of an American or English officer.

“How much warmer every one seems here,” remarked Meadows, groping about in her mind for the right adjective. “Here they come to discuss things--art, poetry, philosophy, politics. In a Broadway restaurant people come to eat and get over the _business_ as quickly as possible.”

Hamilton laughed.

“Oh, I suppose we’re too efficient. Afraid to waste time. In the South, though, we take things a bit easier.”

“But are we Americans really so efficient?” queried Meadows. “We hurry about a great deal, but do we get anywhere?”

“Well, we are tremendously advanced in technical matters--in machine production. We can make things faster and cheaper than any other country in the world. The average American workingman probably produces twice as much as the best workingman in Europe.”

Hamilton paused. The waiter was approaching with a tray of hors d’œuvres--olives, radishes, appetizing little fish that Hamilton failed to recognize. He selected a radish and emphasized points with it between bites. He was entering into the atmosphere of the place.

“But in order to get this production, the business man has to work like the deuce. He’s at his desk early in the morning and late at night. He runs into a restaurant at noon, grabs a ham sandwich, a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, eats it in a cramped position from the arm of a chair, and rushes back again. He’s not a captain, but a slave of industry.”

Hamilton went on lugubriously, with mock dramatic force. “There’s your plutocrat. Your silk-hatted, obese gentleman of the cartoons. As a matter of fact he is usually thin and suffering from dyspepsia. This is the object of the attack of the representatives of the pee-pul--the demagogues. This is your hated capitalist. I prefer the man who has sense enough to see that there is nothing essentially noble in work and who devotes his time to the pleasures of life.”

Over the omelettes, which after the first bite, Hamilton decided were worth all their reputation, the discussion was resumed.

“Isn’t that a rather narrow view to take?” asked Meadows. “Devoting one’s life to mere pleasure.”

“It’s the very highest. What are the higher things in life but means to increasing our pleasure? What is all our culture--manners, art, literature, music? Even religion is the sole pleasure of the millions who are too incompetent or unfortunate to enjoy the material pleasures of life, the pleasures of the flesh. There is no rational occupation for man, aside from what is absolutely necessary for his subsistence, except the pursuit of pleasure.”

“But haven’t you any place for duty in your philosophy?” put in Meadows. “Your views are interesting, but obviously only applicable to a small class. Obviously every one couldn’t go about hunting pleasure.”

“Certainly, it’s a class philosophy,” replied Hamilton. “I don’t pretend to prescribe a philosophy that fits every one. It’s simply my own private brand. It would be just as ridiculous for me to have a philosophy that is more universally applicable, as it would be for me to drink beer instead of Château Yquem, because it suits more palates.”

“And you don’t care about the beer drinker?”

“On the whole, he’s just as well off as your average American capitalist. He eats more, sleeps as long, and satisfies practically the same desires. Both read the same newspapers and attend the same movies. And the beer drinker doesn’t have to worry about his wife eloping with the chauffeur.”

“So you admit the morality of the beer drinkers, only I don’t like that term.”

“That,” interrupted Hamilton, his eyes gleaming, “is because your appetite also has been developed beyond the beer stage.”

“Anyway you admit that his morality is higher.”

“Not at all. His wife very obviously cannot elope with a chauffeur, because there’s no chauffeur to elope with. In fact, she may already be married to him.”

They both laid down their forks and laughed.

“You’ve aroused a tremendous appetite in me for Château Yquem,” said Meadows mischievously. And Hamilton ordered a bottle, after the waiter had assured him that the oldest bottle in Paris lay in the wine cellar of the Black Cat.

“After a swallow I may learn to appreciate your point of view better,” she said.

“There’s no pleasanter way of learning that I know of.”

Hamilton watched Meadows lift the glass to her lips, her dark eyes sparkling as brightly as the yellow wine. He had never noticed how charmingly her lips were curved before. A ridiculous idea came into his mind and he promptly dismissed it. Certainly he was not falling in love with her. This was merely companionship--intellectual companionship. And, of course, there was Margaret, to whom he was engaged and whom he really loved. Meadows made a little face, whether it was expressive of dislike or of coquetry Hamilton was not certain.

“Boo!” said Meadows, setting it down. “I’m afraid I’ll have to remain a plain American bourgeoise.”

“You couldn’t do that,” Hamilton made a mock bow, supposed to be imitative of the restaurant proprietor. “You couldn’t, even if you did remain a bourgeoise.”

“You’re perfectly horrible today, Colonel!” Meadows laughed. Over his wine and pastry he watched the changing expressions in her face. Were her eyes actually larger than Margaret’s? There _was_ a resemblance between them. Meadows seemed more cosmopolitan, yet hardly less girlish. He watched the high lights in her hair, where the sun fell on it through the window. Then her lips again. They were very much like Margaret’s. He wondered whether she would go out with other officers after he was gone. Probably, he decided. And would he ever see her again? He imagined Margaret meeting Meadows and perhaps thanking her. He was conscious of her voice going on and it soothed him in a strange way. Vaguely it made him feel as though he were with Margaret. This, he reasoned with himself, was no treachery. Meadows was simply a medium for the expression of a certain mood. She represented Margaret.

“I bet you haven’t heard a word I said.”

Hamilton came out of his trance.

“Why, yes I have.” He groped blindly. “You were asking me if--if--”

“See, you haven’t been listening to me. You’ve sat that way for ten minutes, staring at something.”

Hamilton didn’t wish to say it, fought against saying it, and said it, although still in his tone of light banter.

“I was staring into your eyes. You know how one loses oneself while gazing into a crystal.”

Now that he had said it, it sounded flat, stilted. But even so, flattery of some kind was his only possible defense. Meadows made a little bow.

“While you were crystal-gazing you mumbled something about your idea of aristocracy and business efficiency.”

“Oh, did I? It’s simply that an aristocracy, freed from the necessity of work, that is, free to seek pleasure, is necessary if we are to have any culture--any civilization higher than a factory civilization.”

“Then you’d have to have a class that works and another class that lives on the fruits of their labor.”

“Exactly.”

“Now I understand your attitude toward the Negro. You’d have them slaves.”

“Slaves, servants or laborers--in their definite place--it doesn’t matter. And a cultured, leisure class instead of the efficient business man. But that isn’t what we’re here for--to discuss sociology. I want to know more about you. This may be our last time together.”

He leaned across the table, conscious that his hands were moving toward hers across the cloth. But he stopped them.

“You know I’m going to rejoin my regiment Monday. Another month in barracks and then I’ll be sailing back.”

They rose, Hamilton helped her into her cloak, paid his pour boire to the waiter and picked up his check.

“They’re not so inefficient,” he said, glancing at the figures.

“Who? The French?”

“Yes, they put a half dozen hors d’œuvres on the table that aren’t on the menu and charge you for the whole plate if you take just a single radish or olive or whatever it is. Well, c’est la guerre. Poor devils, they need it.”

X

They were walking down the magnificent Rue Soufflet, Hamilton immersed in thought, Meadows keeping up the burden of conversation. At the corner of Rue de St. Jacques, Meadows pointed out the bronze tablet of the old Porte St. Jacques and for a moment they paused to decipher it. Between the Parthenon, which glittered from an eminence to the east and Boulevard St. Michel ahead, crowds of students were walking leisurely arm in arm, arguing, gesticulating, singing. Men with beards and boyish faces, voluptuous velvet hats; thin, threadbare coats. There were pale young men, with negligent clothing and an air of being mildly intoxicated. Over the buildings to the north rose the towers of the Sorbonne.

The students formed a background--a restless current, sparkling, gay, animated, against which moved other figures; girls in gay clothes, coats to their knees, bobbed hair, stopping to flirt; men of affairs hurrying to the boulevard; officers, including a score of foreigners doing the Latin Quartier. Crippled soldiers. On the road the stream of taxis and motor cars.