Then, "Oh, it's too
bad!--really, men are tiresome when they think they know everything! And I
warn you that if Monsieur West is vain enough to imagine that Colette--"

From the north another shell came whistling and quavering through the sky,
passing above them with long-drawn screech which left the windows singing. "That," he blurted out, "was too near for comfort." They were silent for a while, then he spoke again gaily: "Go on, Sylvia,
and wither poor West;" but she only sighed, "Oh, dear, I can never seem to
get used to the shells." He sat down on the arm of the chair beside her. Her scissors fell jingling to the floor; she tossed the unfinished frock
after them, and putting both arms about his neck drew him down into her
lap. "Don't go out to-night, Jack." He kissed her uplifted face; "You know I must; don't make it hard for me." "But when I hear the shells and--and know you are out in the city--"

"But they all fall in Montmartre--"

"They may all fall in the Beaux Arts; you said yourself that two struck
the Quai d'Orsay--"

"Mere accident--"

"Jack, have pity on me! Take me with you!" "And who will there be to get dinner?" She rose and flung herself on the bed. "Oh, I can't get used to it, and I know you must go, but I beg you not to
be late to dinner. If you knew what I suffer! I--I--cannot help it, and
you must be patient with me, dear." He said, "It is as safe there as it is in our own house." She watched him fill for her the alcohol lamp, and when he had lighted it
and had taken his hat to go, she jumped up and clung to him in silence. After a moment he said: "Now, Sylvia, remember my courage is sustained by
yours. Come, I must go!" She did not move, and he repeated: "I must go." Then she stepped back and he thought she was going to speak and waited,
but she only looked at him, and, a little impatiently, he kissed her
again, saying: "Don't worry, dearest." When he had reached the last flight of stairs on his way to the street a
woman hobbled out of the house-keeper's lodge waving a letter and calling:
"Monsieur Jack! Monsieur Jack! this was left by Monsieur Fallowby!" He took the letter, and leaning on the threshold of the lodge, read it:

"Dear Jack,

"I believe Braith is dead broke and I'm sure Fallowby is. Braith swears he
isn't, and Fallowby swears he is, so you can draw your own conclusions. I've got a scheme for a dinner, and if it works, I will let you fellows
in. "Yours faithfully,

"West. "P.S.--Fallowby has shaken Hartman and his gang, thank the Lord! There is
something rotten there,--or it may be he's only a miser. "P.P.S.--I'm more desperately in love than ever, but I'm sure she does not
care a straw for me." "All right," said Trent, with a smile, to the concierge; "but tell me, how
is Papa Cottard?" The old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in the
lodge. "Père Cottard!" he cried cheerily, "how goes the wound to-day?" He walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. An old man was lying
among the tumbled sheets. "Better?" smiled Trent. "Better," repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, "Have you any
news, Monsieur Jack?" "I haven't been out to-day. I will bring you any rumour I may hear, though
goodness knows I've got enough of rumours," he muttered to himself. Then
aloud: "Cheer up; you're looking better." "And the sortie?" "Oh, the sortie, that's for this week. General Trochu sent orders last
night." "It will be terrible." "It will be sickening," thought Trent as he went not into the street and
turned the corner toward the rue de Seine; "slaughter, slaughter, phew! I'm glad I'm not going." The street was almost deserted. A few women muffled in tattered military
capes crept along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly clad gamin hovered
over the sewer-hole on the corner of the Boulevard. A rope around his
waist held his rags together. From the rope hung a rat, still warm and
bleeding. "There's another in there," he yelled at Trent; "I hit him but he got
away." Trent crossed the street and asked: "How much?" "Two francs for a quarter of a fat one; that's what they give at the St.
Germain Market." A violent fit of coughing interrupted him, but he wiped his face with the
palm of his hand and looked cunningly at Trent. "Last week you could buy a rat for six francs, but," and here he swore
vilely, "the rats have quit the rue de Seine and they kill them now over
by the new hospital. I'll let you have this for seven francs; I can sell
it for ten in the Isle St. Louis." "You lie," said Trent, "and let me tell you that if you try to swindle
anybody in this quarter the people will make short work of you and your
rats." He stood a moment eyeing the gamin, who pretended to snivel. Then he
tossed him a franc, laughing. The child caught it, and thrusting it into
his mouth wheeled about to the sewer-hole. For a second he crouched,
motionless, alert, his eyes on the bars of the drain, then leaping forward
he hurled a stone into the gutter, and Trent left him to finish a fierce
grey rat that writhed squealing at the mouth of the sewer. "Suppose Braith should come to that," he thought; "poor little chap;" and
hurrying, he turned in the dirty passage des Beaux Arts and entered the
third house to the left. "Monsieur is at home," quavered the old concierge. Home? A garret absolutely bare, save for the iron bedstead in the corner
and the iron basin and pitcher on the floor. West appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned Trent
to enter. Braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, looked up,
laughed, and shook hands. "Any news?" The perfunctory question was answered as usual by: "Nothing but the
cannon." Trent sat down on the bed. "Where on earth did you get that?" he demanded, pointing to a
half-finished chicken nestling in a wash-basin. West grinned. "Are you millionaires, you two? Out with it." Braith, looking a little ashamed, began, "Oh, it's one of West's
exploits," but was cut short by West, who said he would tell the story
himself. "You see, before the siege, I had a letter of introduction to a '_type_'
here, a fat banker, German-American variety. You know the species, I see. Well, of course I forgot to present the letter, but this morning, judging
it to be a favourable opportunity, I called on him. "The villain lives in comfort;--fires, my boy!--fires in the ante-rooms! The Buttons finally condescends to carry my letter and card up, leaving me
standing in the hallway, which I did not like, so I entered the first room
I saw and nearly fainted at the sight of a banquet on a table by the fire. Down comes Buttons, very insolent. No, oh, no, his master, 'is not at
home, and in fact is too busy to receive letters of introduction just now;
the siege, and many business difficulties--'

"I deliver a kick to Buttons, pick up this chicken from the table, toss my
card on to the empty plate, and addressing Buttons as a species of
Prussian pig, march out with the honours of war." Trent shook his head.