After a moment Smith halted and turned, raising his steady eyes to that pale mirror of living fire above the forest.
"Well," began Kingsbury, irritably, "can't you say something?"
"Nothing more than I have said to her already – though she were Empress of the World!" murmured Smith, staring fixedly at the moon.
"Empress of what? I do not follow you."
"No," said Smith, dreamily, "you must not try to. It is a long journey to the summer moon – a long, long journey. I started when I was a child; I reached it a week ago; I returned to-night. And do you know what I discovered there? Why, man, I discovered the veil of Isis, and I looked behind it. And what do you suppose I found? A child, Kingsbury, a winged child, who laughingly handed me the keys of Eden! What do you think of that?"
But Smith had taken too many liberties with the English language, and Kingsbury was far too mad to speak.
CHAPTER XXV
THE ARMY OF PARIS
I was smoking peacefully in the conservatory of the hotel, when a bellboy brought me the card of Captain le Vicômte de Cluny.
In due time Monsieur the Viscount himself appeared, elegant, graceful, smart; black and scarlet uniform glittering with triple-gold arabesques on sleeve and Képi, spurs chiming with every step.
We chatted amiably for a few moments; then the Captain, standing very erect and stiff, made me a beautiful bow and delivered the following remarkable question:
"Monsieur Van Twillaire, I am come to-day according to the American custom, to beg your permission to pay my addresses to mademoiselle, your daughter."
I inhaled the smoke of my cigarette in my astonishment. That was bad for me. After a silence I asked:
"Which daughter?"
"Mademoiselle Dulcima, monsieur."
After another silence I said:
"I will give you an answer to-morrow at this hour."
We bowed to each other, solemnly shook hands, and parted.
I was smoking restlessly in the conservatory of the hotel when a bellboy brought me the card of Captain le Vicômte de Barsac.
In due time the Vicômte himself appeared, elegant, graceful, smart; black, scarlet, and white uniform glittering with triple-gold arabesques on sleeve and Képi, spurs chiming with every step.
We chatted amiably for a few moments; then the Captain, standing very erect and stiff, made me a beautiful bow and delivered the following remarkable question:
"Monsieur Van Twillaire, I am come to-day according to the American custom, to beg your permission to pay my addresses to mademoiselle, your daughter."
I dropped my cigarette into the empty fireplace.
"Which daughter?" I asked, coldly.
"Mademoiselle Dulcima, monsieur."
After a silence I said:
"I will give you an answer to-morrow at this hour."
We bowed to each other, solemnly shook hands, and parted.
I was smoking violently in the conservatory of the hotel, when a bellboy brought me a card of my old friend, Gillian Van Dieman.
In due time Van Dieman appeared, radiant, smiling, faultlessly groomed.
"Well," said I, "it's about time you came over from Long Island, isn't it? My daughters expected you last week."
"I know," he said, smiling; "I couldn't get away, Peter. Didn't Alida explain?"
"Explain what?" I asked.
"About our engagement."
In my amazement I swallowed some smoke that was not wholesome for me.
"Didn't she tell you she is engaged to marry me?" he asked, laughing.
After a long silence, in which I thought of many things, including the formal offers of Captains de Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, I said I had not heard of it, and added sarcastically that I hoped both he and Alida would pardon my ignorance on any matters which concerned myself.
"Didn't you know that Alida came over here to buy her trousseau?" he inquired coolly.
I did not, and I said so.
"Didn't you know about the little plot that she and I laid to get you to bring her to Paris?" he persisted, much amused.
I glared at him.
"Why, Peter," he said, "when you declared to me in the clubhouse that nothing could get you to Paris unless, through your own stupidity, something happened to your pig – "
I turned on him as red as a beet.
"I know you stole that pig, Van!"
"Yes," he muttered guiltily.
"Then," said I earnestly, "for God's sake let it rest where it is, and marry Alida whenever you like!"
"With your blessing, Peter?" asked Van Dieman, solemnly.
"With my blessing – dammit!"
We shook hands in silence.
"Where is Alida?" he asked presently.
"In her room, surrounded by thousands of dressmakers, hatmakers, mantua-makers, furriers, experts in shoes, lingerie, jewelry, and other inexpensive trifles," said I with satisfaction.
But the infatuated man never winced.
"You will attend to that sort of thing in the future," I remarked.
The reckless man grinned in unfeigned delight.
"Come," said I, wearily, "Alida is in for all day with her trousseau. I've a cab at the door; come on! I was going out to watch the parade at Longchamps. Now you've got to go with me and tell me something about this temperamental French army that seems more numerous in Paris than the civilians."
"What do you want to see soldiers for?" he objected.
"Because," said I, "I had some slight experience with the army this morning just before you arrived; and I want to take a bird's-eye view of the whole affair."
"But I – "
"Oh, we'll return for dinner and then you can see Alida," I added. "But only in my company. You see we are in France, Van, and she is the jeune fille of romance."
"Fudge!" he muttered, following me out to the cab.
"We will drive by the Pont Neuf," he suggested. "You know the proverb?"
"No," said I; "what proverb?"
"The bridegroom who passes by the Pont Neuf will always meet a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. The priest will bless his marriage, the soldier will defend it, the white horse will bear his burdens through life."
As a matter of fact, passing the Pont Neuf, we did see a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. But it is a rare thing not to meet this combination on the largest, longest, oldest, and busiest bridge in Paris. All three mascots are as common in Paris as are English sparrows in the Bois de Boulogne.
I bought a book on the quay, then re-entered the taxi and directed the driver to take us to the race-course at Longchamps.
Our way led up the Champs Elysées, and, while we whirled along, Van Dieman very kindly told me as much about the French army as I now write, and for the accuracy of which I refer to my future son-in-law.
There are, in permanent garrison in Paris, about thirty thousand troops stationed. This does not include the famous Republican Guard corps, which is in reality a sort of municipal gendarmerie, composed of several battalions of infantry, several squadrons of gorgeous cavalry, and a world-famous band, which corresponds in functions to our own Marine Band at Washington.
The barracks of the regular troops are scattered about the city, and occupy strategic positions as the armouries of our National Guard are supposed to do. All palaces, museums of importance, and government buildings are guarded day and night by infantry. The cavalry guard only their own barracks; the marines, engineers, and artillery the same.
At night the infantry and cavalry of the Republican Guard post sentinels at all theatres, balls, and public functions. In front of the Opera only are the cavalry mounted on their horses, except when public functions occur at the Elysées or the Hôtel de Ville.
In the dozen great fortresses that surround the walls of Paris, thousands of fortress artillery are stationed. In the suburbs and outlying villages artillery and regiments of heavy and light cavalry have their permanent barracks – dragoons, cuirassiers, chasseurs-à-cheval, field batteries, and mounted batteries. At Saint Cloud are dragoons and remount troopers; at Versailles the engineers and cuirassiers rule the region; and the entire Department of the Seine is patrolled by gendarmes, mounted and on foot.
When we reached the beautiful meadow of Longchamps, with its grand-stand covered with waving flags and the sunshine glowing on thousands of brilliant parasols, we left the taxi, and found a place on what a New Yorker would call "the bleachers." The bleachers were covered with pretty women, so we were not in bad company. As for the great central stand, where the President of the Republic sat surrounded by shoals of brilliant officers, it was a mass of colour from flagstaff to pelouse.
The band of the Republican Guards was thundering out one of Sousa's marches; the vast green plain glittered with masses of troops. Suddenly three cannon-shots followed one another in quick order; the band ended its march with a long double roll of drums; the Minister of War had arrived.
"They're coming," said Van Dieman. "Look! Here come the Saint-Cyrians. They lead the march one year, and the Polytechnic leads it the next. But I wish they could see West Point – just once."
The cadets from Saint-Cyr came marching past, solid ranks of scarlet, blue, and silver. They marched pretty well; they ride better, I am told. After them came the Polytechnic, in black and red and gold, the queer cocked hats of the cadets forming a quaint contrast to the toy soldier headgear of the Saint-Cyr soldiers. Following came battalion after battalion of engineers in sombre uniforms of red and dark blue, then a bizarre battalion of Turcos or Algerian Riflemen in turbans and pale blue Turkish uniforms, then a company of Zouaves in scarlet and white and blue, then some special corps which was not very remarkable for anything except the bad fit of its clothing.
After them marched solid columns of line infantry, great endless masses of dull red and blue, passing steadily until the eye wearied of the monotony.
Trumpets were sounding now; and suddenly, the superb French artillery passed at a trot, battery after battery, the six guns and six caissons of each in mathematically perfect alignment, all the gunners mounted, and not a man sitting on limber or caisson.
In my excitement I rose and joined the roar of cheers which greeted the artillerymen as battery after battery passed, six guns abreast.
"Sit down," said Van Dieman, laughing. "Look! Here come the cavalry!"
In two long double ranks, ten thousand horsemen were galloping diagonally across the plain – Hussars in pale robin's-egg blue and black and scarlet, Chasseurs-à-cheval in light blue and silver tunics, Dragoons armed with long lances from which fluttered a forest of red-and-white pennons, Cuirassiers cased in steel helmets and corselets – all coming at a gallop, sweeping on with the earth shaking under the thunder of forty thousand horses' hoofs, faster, faster, while in the excitement the vast throng of spectators leaped up on the benches to see.
There was a rumble, a rolling shock, a blast from a hundred trumpets. "Halt!"
Then, with the sound of the rushing of an ocean, ten thousand swords swept from their steel scabbards, and a thundering cheer shook the very sky: "Vive la Républic!"
That evening we dined together at the Hôtel – Alida, Dulcima, Van Dieman, and I.
Alida wore a new ring set with a brilliant that matched her shining, happy eyes. I hoped Van Dieman might appear foolish and ill at ease, but he did not.
"There is," said he, "a certain rare brand of champagne in the secret cellars of this famous café. It is pink as a rose in colour, and drier than a British cigar. It is the only wine, except the Czar's Tokay, fit to drink to the happiness of the only perfect woman in the world."
"And her equally perfect sister, father and fiancé," said I. "So pray order this wonderful wine, Van, and let me note the brand; for I very much fear that we shall need another bottle at no distant date."
"Why?" asked Dulcima, colouring to her hair.
"Because," said I, "the French army is expected to encamp to-morrow before this hotel."
"Cavalry or artillery?" she asked faintly.
"Both," said I; "so let us thank Heaven that we escape the infantry, at least. Alida, my dear, your health, happiness, and long, long life!"
We drank the toast standing.