"No, no, let me go, there's no danger." "I know it," replied West calmly; and, dragging Braith into the alley,
pointed to the cellar steps. The iron door was barred. "Colette! Colette!" he called. The door swung inward, and the girl sprang
up the stairs to meet them. At that instant, Braith, glancing behind him,
gave a startled cry, and pushing the two before him into the cellar,
jumped down after them and slammed the iron door. A few seconds later a
heavy jar from the outside shook the hinges. "They are here," muttered West, very pale. "That door," observed Colette calmly, "will hold for ever." Braith examined the low iron structure, now trembling with the blows
rained on it from without. West glanced anxiously at Colette, who
displayed no agitation, and this comforted him. "I don't believe they will spend much time here," said Braith; "they only
rummage in cellars for spirits, I imagine." "Unless they hear that valuables are buried there." "But surely nothing is buried here?" exclaimed Braith uneasily. "Unfortunately there is," growled West. "That miserly landlord of mine--"

A crash from the outside, followed by a yell, cut him short; then blow
after blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking of
metal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole through
which struggled a ray of light. Instantly West knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture fired
every cartridge. For a moment the alley resounded with the racket of the
revolver, then absolute silence followed. Presently a single questioning blow fell upon the door, and a moment later
another and another, and then a sudden crack zigzagged across the iron
plate. "Here," said West, seizing Colette by the wrist, "you follow me, Braith!" and he ran swiftly toward a circular spot of light at the further end of
the cellar. The spot of light came from a barred man-hole above. West
motioned Braith to mount on his shoulders. "Push it over. You _must_!" With little effort Braith lifted the barred cover, scrambled out on his
stomach, and easily raised Colette from West's shoulders. "Quick, old chap!" cried the latter. Braith twisted his legs around a fence-chain and leaned down again. The
cellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air reeked with the stench
of petroleum torches. The iron door still held, but a whole plate of metal
was gone, and now as they looked a figure came creeping through, holding a
torch. "Quick!" whispered Braith. "Jump!" and West hung dangling until Colette
grasped him by the collar, and he was dragged out. Then her nerves gave
way and she wept hysterically, but West threw his arm around her and led
her across the gardens into the next street, where Braith, after replacing
the man-hole cover and piling some stone slabs from the wall over it,
rejoined them. It was almost dark. They hurried through the street, now
only lighted by burning buildings, or the swift glare of the shells. They
gave wide berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the flitting forms of
pillagers among the _débris_. Sometimes they passed a female fury crazed
with drink shrieking anathemas upon the world, or some slouching lout
whose blackened face and hands betrayed his share in the work of
destruction. At last they reached the Seine and passed the bridge, and
then Braith said: "I must go back. I am not sure of Jack and Sylvia." As
he spoke, he made way for a crowd which came trampling across the bridge,
and along the river wall by the d'Orsay barracks. In the midst of it West
caught the measured tread of a platoon. A lantern passed, a file of
bayonets, then another lantern which glimmered on a deathly face behind,
and Colette gasped, "Hartman!" and he was gone. They peered fearfully
across the embankment, holding their breath. There was a shuffle of feet
on the quay, and the gate of the barracks slammed. A lantern shone for a
moment at the postern, the crowd pressed to the grille, then came the
clang of the volley from the stone parade. One by one the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and now
the whole square was in motion. Down from the Champs Elysées and across
the Place de la Concorde straggled the fragments of the battle, a company
here, and a mob there. They poured in from every street followed by women
and children, and a great murmur, borne on the icy wind, swept through the
Arc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue,--"Perdus! perdus!" A ragged end of a battalion was pressing past, the spectre of
annihilation. West groaned. Then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranks
and called West's name, and when he saw it was Trent he cried out. Trent
seized him, white with terror. "Sylvia?" West stared speechless, but Colette moaned, "Oh, Sylvia! Sylvia!--and they
are shelling the Quarter!" "Trent!" shouted Braith; but he was gone, and they could not overtake
them. The bombardment ceased as Trent crossed the Boulevard St. Germain, but the
entrance to the rue de Seine was blocked by a heap of smoking bricks. Everywhere the shells had torn great holes in the pavement. The café was a
wreck of splinters and glass, the book-store tottered, ripped from roof to
basement, and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged outward above a
mass of slate and tin. He climbed over the steaming bricks and hurried into the rue de Tournon. On the corner a fire blazed, lighting up his own street, and on the bank
wall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with a bit of
cinder. "HERE FELL THE FIRST SHELL." The letters stared him in the face. The rat-killer finished and stepped
back to view his work, but catching sight of Trent's bayonet, screamed and
fled, and as Trent staggered across the shattered street, from holes and
crannies in the ruins fierce women fled from their work of pillage,
cursing him. At first he could not find his house, for the tears blinded him, but he
felt along the wall and reached the door. A lantern burned in the
concierge's lodge and the old man lay dead beside it. Faint with fright he
leaned a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the lantern, sprang up the
stairs. He tried to call, but his tongue hardly moved. On the second floor
he saw plaster on the stairway, and on the third the floor was torn and
the concierge lay in a pool of blood across the landing. The next floor
was his, _theirs_. The door hung from its hinges, the walls gaped. He
crept in and sank down by the bed, and there two arms were flung around
his neck, and a tear-stained face sought his own. "Sylvia!" "O Jack! Jack! Jack!" From the tumbled pillow beside them a child wailed. "They brought it; it is mine," she sobbed. "Ours," he whispered, with his arms around them both. Then from the stairs below came Braith's anxious voice. "Trent! Is all well?" THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS

  "Et tout les jours passés dans la tristesse
  Nous sont comptés comme des jours heureux!" I

The street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. It is a pariah among
streets--a street without a Quarter.