Southwark shook hands with him warmly. "It can't be helped, we must own
the carrion. I am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an
American artist," he said with a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined face;
and walked away through the Cours la Reine. Trent swore silently for a moment and then drew out his watch. Seven
o'clock. "Sylvia will be anxious," he thought, and hurried back to the
river. The crowd still huddled shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitiful
congregation, peering out into the night for the signals of the Army of
the Loire: and their hearts beat time to the pounding of the guns, their
eyes lighted with each flash from the bastions, and hope rose with the
drifting rockets. A black cloud hung over the fortifications. From horizon to horizon the
cannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, now capping the spires and domes
with cloud, now blowing in streamers and shreds along the streets, now
descending from the housetops, enveloping quays, bridges, and river, in a
sulphurous mist. And through the smoke pall the lightning of the cannon
played, while from time to time a rift above showed a fathomless black
vault set with stars. He turned again into the rue de Seine, that sad abandoned street, with its
rows of closed shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. He was a
little nervous and wished once or twice for a revolver, but the slinking
forms which passed him in the darkness were too weak with hunger to be
dangerous, he thought, and he passed on unmolested to his doorway. But
there somebody sprang at his throat. Over and over the icy pavement he
rolled with his assailant, tearing at the noose about his neck, and then
with a wrench sprang to his feet. "Get up," he cried to the other. Slowly and with great deliberation, a small gamin picked himself out of
the gutter and surveyed Trent with disgust. "That's a nice clean trick," said Trent; "a whelp of your age! You'll
finish against a dead wall! Give me that cord!" The urchin handed him the noose without a word. Trent struck a match and looked at his assailant. It was the rat-killer of
the day before. "H'm! I thought so," he muttered. "Tiens, c'est toi?" said the gamin tranquilly. The impudence, the overpowering audacity of the ragamuffin took Trent's
breath away. "Do you know, you young strangler," he gasped, "that they shoot thieves of
your age?" The child turned a passionless face to Trent. "Shoot, then." That was too much, and he turned on his heel and entered his hotel. Groping up the unlighted stairway, he at last reached his own landing and
felt about in the darkness for the door. From his studio came the sound of
voices, West's hearty laugh and Fallowby's chuckle, and at last he found
the knob and, pushing back the door, stood a moment confused by the light. "Hello, Jack!" cried West, "you're a pleasant creature, inviting people to
dine and letting them wait. Here's Fallowby weeping with hunger--"

"Shut up," observed the latter, "perhaps he's been out to buy a turkey." "He's been out garroting, look at his noose!" laughed Guernalec. "So now we know where you get your cash!" added West; "vive le coup du
Père François!" Trent shook hands with everybody and laughed at Sylvia's pale face. "I didn't mean to be late; I stopped on the bridge a moment to watch the
bombardment. Were you anxious, Sylvia?" She smiled and murmured, "Oh, no!" but her hand dropped into his and
tightened convulsively. "To the table!" shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop. "Take it easy," observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; "you are not
the host, you know." Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and took
Thorne's arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile's arm through his. Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to Colette, West took in
Sylvia, and Fallowby hovered anxiously in the rear. "You march around the table three times singing the Marseillaise,"
explained Sylvia, "and Monsieur Fallowby pounds on the table and beats
time." Fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest was
drowned in the ringing chorus--

  "Aux armes! Formez vos bataillons!" Around the room they marched singing,

  "Marchons! Marchons!" with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the
table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would
increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed,
from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and
placed in Odile's lap. "And now," said Trent gravely, when everybody was seated, "listen!" and he
read the menu. Beef Soup à la Siège de Paris. Fish. Sardines à la père Lachaise. (White Wine). Rôti (Red Wine). Fresh Beef à la sortie. Vegetables. Canned Beans à la chasse-pot,
  Canned Peas Gravelotte,
  Potatoes Irlandaises,
  Miscellaneous. Cold Corned Beef à la Thieis,
  Stewed Prunes à la Garibaldi. Dessert. Dried prunes--White bread,
  Currant Jelly,
  Tea--Café,
  Liqueurs,
  Pipes and Cigarettes. Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia served the soup. "Isn't it delicious?" sighed Odile. Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture. "Not at all like horse, and I don't care what they say, horse doesn't
taste like beef," whispered Colette to West. Fallowby, who had finished,
began to caress his chin and eye the tureen. "Have some more, old chap?" inquired Trent. "Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more," announced Sylvia; "I am saving
this for the concierge." Fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish. The sardines, hot from the grille, were a great success. While the others
were eating Sylvia ran downstairs with the soup for the old concierge and
her husband, and when she hurried back, flushed and breathless, and had
slipped into her chair with a happy smile at Trent, that young man arose,
and silence fell over the table. For an instant he looked at Sylvia and
thought he had never seen her so beautiful. "You all know," he began, "that to-day is my wife's nineteenth birthday--"

Fallowby, bubbling with enthusiasm, waved his glass in circles about his
head to the terror of Odile and Colette, his neighbours, and Thorne, West
and Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the storm of
applause which the toast of Sylvia had provoked, subsided. Three times the glasses were filled and emptied to Sylvia, and again to
Trent, who protested. "This is irregular," he cried, "the next toast is to the twin Republics,
France and America?" "To the Republics! To the Republics!" they cried, and the toast was drunk
amid shouts of "Vive a France! Vive l'Amérique! Vive la Nation!" Then Trent, with a smile at West, offered the toast, "To a Happy Pair!" and everybody understood, and Sylvia leaned over and kissed Colette, while
Trent bowed to West. The beef was eaten in comparative calm, but when it was finished and a
portion of it set aside for the old people below, Trent cried: "Drink to
Paris! May she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!"