Arlette stood in the dining-room door, making her silent announcement that dinner was served. Her round eyes, which usually wore an expression of surprise, were now frightened, and she stared at Kendall as if he were some sort of explosive that was likely to go off at any moment with a tremendous explosion. Then she withdrew her head and could be heard padding out to the kitchen.

“Come on,” said Bert. “Dinner’s on.”

“I don’t want any dinner.”

“You don’t deserve any dinner,” said Bert, hotly, “but you’ve got to eat.” He pushed Ken toward the dining-room. “In with you.”

Kendall obeyed apathetically, took his chair and began to eat automatically, without interest in his food. He had anticipated a sort of barbarous pleasure from his harshness toward Andree, but found it ashes in his mouth. He was ashamed of himself, and then ashamed of himself again for being ashamed. He had done right, exactly right, he insisted. She had deserved what he had given her, but nevertheless he was ashamed of himself. There are two identities in every man, the emotional, the sentimental, the natural—and the intellectual. Either of these identities may perform actions satisfactory to itself but abhorrent to the other. Kendall’s intellectual and logical self was content; his emotional self accused him.... If one would be happy, if he would gain and retain affection, if he would have the best gifts of life for himself and those with whom he comes in contact, he should place confidence in his emotional self rather than his intellectual. The emotions are natural and for the most part kindly. They do not operate by rule and precept, but spontaneously; intellect is artificial and logic is without the warmth of life.... Even the law recognizes a distinction, for it does not punish a crime of emotion with the severity that it metes out to the crime of cold reason. Peter was emotional, he denied his Master, yet was forgiven and stands chief of the companions of Christ; Judas took logical thought and betrayed. He committed the unforgivable sin. The difference was not so much in kind as in cause....

“What would you have done?” he demanded, suddenly, of Bert.

“I wouldn’t have been so infernally brutal.... You and I have been friends a long time, haven’t we?... Well, right now I’m nearer to wanting to give you a thrashing than I thought I could ever come. It was rotten!... Poor kid!... And the way she took it! Without a word or a whimper!... But did you see her face?... I came darn near blubbing.”

“She deserved it.... She did. She did a rotten thing—and anybody would think it was I who was to blame. I won’t be put in the wrong.”

“I’m not going to quarrel with you. You asked me what I thought, and I told you.... I wouldn’t have the confounded conscience you have to live with for a million dollars. I’m no angel. I suppose I do a lot of things the righteous folks back home would think were pretty bad. I’m not much on religion, either. But, all the same, if there is a God, I’ll bet He’s a lot more apt to take a liking to the fellow who is a bit off color, but tries to be sort of kind and tolerant, and not to hurt folks, than He is to the man who lives up to every letter and punctuation mark of the law, and does it like a brute.... From what I’ve seen of you stiff-necked, righteous folks, if I were God I’d be pretty average sore to think I had to have heaven crowded with you. You’d irritate me till I let in a bunch of sinners just to get some decent company....”

“Right is right and wrong is wrong.”

“Huh!... Maybe! But who knows what is right and what is wrong? It’s a guess, and everybody does his own guessing.... There are your Ten Commandments, sure enough, but you can’t regulate the whole world and all it does with ten little rules.... Let’s see! Wasn’t there an eleventh commandment later on? I used to go to Sunday-school myself. Something to the effect that you ought to love your neighbor as yourself? A God that could make that sort of a commandment isn’t going to be too stiff-backed about the other ten. No, sir.... Things are too mixed up for anything to be all wrong or all right. Everything’s a mixture—and the more of that love-your-neighbor stuff there is in it, why, my notion is, the nearer it is to what is really good.”

Ken was surprised. He had never accused Bert of so much abstract speculation, and perhaps Bert had not been speculating consciously before. It was rather that these ideas had been taking root in him and growing spontaneously. Possibly Bert was himself astonished to find himself uttering such ideas.

“It’s over now,” Bert said, presently, “so let’s shut up about it. You’re in a devil of a state of mind, and the only thing to get rid of that is to walk it off. As soon as I finish this cheese I’m going to take you out and walk you till you’re human again—or till you drop.”

“I’ll walk.... I’ll do anything. I want to get outdoors and move.”

“Come on, then, sonny, but be genial—be genial. It’s a walk we’re going for, not a march to the grave.”

They walked over to the rue du Faubourg St.-HonorÉ, which presented to them a face of little second-class shops, dairy products, bakeries, locksmiths, antiques, wine-shops, variety-stores, in front of every second one of which was its cat—a huge, sleek Thomas or a matronly old Tabby keeping an eye on two or three adventurous kittens. The street seemed to have a special leaning toward the feline in pets. But, then, all Paris is a sanctuary for cats, which is remarkable when one takes into account the number of dogs, and even jackals and young foxes, the latter affected by the ladies. It may be that there is a permanent truce between the dogs and cats in Paris. Bert remarked that he had never seen a cat chased by a dog there. Possibly, he declared, it might be the system. American dogs chased cats. It was their moral code to do so; Parisian dogs left cats alone, for a similar reason.

“It’s all a matter of where you live,” he said, in an effort to arouse Kendall. “Maybe there’s a place in the world where they put deacons in jail and look up reverently to burglars. You can’t tell. I suppose folks could agree among themselves to almost anything.”

“Except to alter a natural law,” said Ken, harshly.

“Natural law, eh? What’s a natural law? To be sure, I get you. The shortest distance between two points, and gravitation, and that sort of thing. I guess nobody could change them, but, so far as I can see, they’re the only settled things in the world. Natural laws—pretty good name for them. Means they come right from nature without people’s tinkering with them at all, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the kind of law for me—the sort you can’t disobey and so get in wrong.... But the other kind—what’ll we call ’em—that’s something else again, Mawrus. The kind of law that has to be agreed upon by a majority before it goes to work isn’t such a serious matter in the long run. I mean, it is important only to the majority that agrees on it. Some other majority in the next county might agree to its exact opposite. Like local option. It’s a sin to sell liquor on one side of a fence and a legitimate business on the other.... Huh!... I never got to thinking how funny it all was before.”

How curious it was, thought Kendall, with quickened interest, that Bert should rather clumsily be following a line of reasoning that he himself had followed with deeper study and more particularity during the past weeks!... Could there really be something in it, after all? He had been sure of it yesterday, but yesterday was gone forever, and that had happened since which made the affairs and reasonings of yesterday repulsive to him.... But—the dogmatism, the harsh, uncompromising, puritanical attitude he had chosen to take quivered a very little on its foundations....

They proceeded onward past the Ministry of the Interior on their left, and on their right the building with its great central court, and its archway through which could be seen broad, red-carpeted steps, which was the French White House—the residence of France’s President. Now small cafÉs and wine-shops became more numerous, and the shops to partake of a better quality.

“Hey!” said Bert, stopping, “want to introduce you to a friend.” He stepped into a little wine-shop and spoke to the young woman behind the bar, who lifted her voice loudly, calling a name that Kendall could not catch. In a moment a rather dirty, but very bright-eyed, bull-terrier appeared from the rear and stood looking at Bert expectantly. Bert selected a copper from his pocket and put it in the dog’s mouth. The creature waggled his tail violently and trotted out into the street.

“Watch him,” Bert urged.

The dog trotted into the adjoining baker’s shop, barked once sharply with a note of command. A young woman leaned far over the counter, holding out her hand, into which the dog dropped his coin and stood expectant while she selected a roll and handed it to him. Then, in the most dignified manner, he paced back to Bert, waggled his tail in thanks, waited to be patted, and withdrew under a table to eat his dainty.

“There!” said Bert. “Finest dog in Paris. Wish I could buy him. Say, wasn’t that great?”

“Huh!...” grunted Kendall, rather astonished that anybody could be interested in dogs when the world was coming down in awful ruin as his world was coming down.

Bert was offended. To him that dog was one of the sights of Paris, and, when he returned to America, it would be that animal and his little piece of cleverness that he would describe rather than anything else he had seen in Paris. The dog was worth coming to see.... Notre Dame was just a dingy pile of stones.... Yet, somewhere in him was a strain that was able to speculate on the attitude of God toward Pharisees and sinners....

They continued in silence until they reached the Place du ThÉÂtre FranÇais, with the Palais Royal before them and the ComÉdie FranÇaise, and with the magnificent breadth of the Avenue de l’OpÉra angling sharply to the left. Across the open space was the University Union, and Bert suggested dropping in to see if any acquaintances were lounging about, when suddenly they were hailed from a distance, and, turning, saw Jacques, wooden leg grotesquely swinging at an angle from his body, hat swinging about his head, and cane describing enthusiastic circles. Jacques was trying to run to catch them. His method was to take two hops with his sound leg and then one lurch with the artificial one. There was a devil-may-care jauntiness about this unusual gait and a good-fellowship about his eccentric salutations that, somehow, always gained him a welcome.

“Ah,” he shouted, when yet he was thirty feet away, “I have find you! I have surround you—eh? Where ’ave you been? I have not seen you for longtemps.... And Monsieur Kendall. It ees well. We are friends and camarades.... I have speak about you thees evening—you, Monsieur Kendall. Ho! you have the great good fortune, n’est-ce pas? I give you my felicitations. I salute you.... Ah, messieurs, eet was magnifique, splendide!...”

“What was magnificent, Jacques? Take a breath and start in fresh,” Bert admonished.

Jacques patted Ken on the back. “Oh, he ees a good boy, thees Monsieur Kendall. He deserve the good fortune, mais, messieurs, it ees of a grandeur. Again I make the congratulations.”

“Why? Why? Why?”

“Bicause,” said Jacques, becoming preternaturally solemn, “bicause monsieur ees loved.” He paused. “Oui, he ees loved ver’ well by beautiful yo’ng girl who ees ver’ fidÈle. It ees one beautiful theeng. I make to weep w’en it ees tol’ to me. Vraiment! The tear she stand in my eyes. SacrÉ nom d’une pipe! but it ees the theme for a poem.”

“What in thunder are you talking about? Light on a bough, little bird, light.” Bert grasped Jacques by the shoulder and pretended to hold him down to earth. “Now, little man, come clean. Tell the story and don’t bubble over.”

“It ees the leetle sweetheart of Monsieur Kendall—thees so graceful and beautiful yo’ng girl that has for her name Andree. She weesh for enter into the AcadÉmie and aprÈs to be an actress. It is so.... To do this is ver’ difficile. It is necessary first to have much influence. Monsieur Kendall know thees. Yes. Alors, Monsieur Kendall introduce thees yo’ng girl to Monsieur Robert. I am present and see. Also I warn monsieur that thees Robert loves all young girl.... What would you? The theeng befalls yesterday. As Monsieur Robert emerges from the Metro near the Place St.-Michel he see bifore him thees Mademoiselle Andree, walking weeth her eyes so careful upon the sidewalk—so.” Jacques imitated Andree’s demure glance. “She do not see Robert until he address her. She is startle’—ver’ much startle’, but Monsieur Robert he is polite, oui, he is trÈs-gentil. He ask mademoiselle will she promenade weeth heem, and she cannot refuse. Next he ask will she dine weeth heem, and she ees too sweet and gentle to hurt hees feeling, so she consent....”

Bert felt Kendall grasp his arm with fingers that gripped to the bone.

“Then they eat, this Mademoiselle Andree and Monsieur Robert, and he say to her if she will be kind to heem he make her to enter into the AcadÉmie, and give her hees influence, which is much, that she bicome a success, weeth all Paris at her feet.... It was wonderful chance for poor yo’ng girl, n’est-ce pas? One million girl they jump at it. Truly.... But thees mademoiselle she shake her head and say no—and why, messieurs?... Bicause she love thees yo’ng man here ver’ true and is fidÈle. It ees the truth, and it ees ver’ beautiful.... Monsieur Robert say thees yo’ng man make himself to go away and leave her solitaire. Mademoiselle makes to him the reply that it does not matter—for weeth Monsieur Kendall she have the wonderful little moment of happiness w’ich is more splendid, more magnificent, more to be desired than any other theeng in the worl’ ... bicause it ees the great love.... Yes, she say thees theeng to Robert, who admire so much he kees her hand, and now he tells me and others, and as he tell the tear stands in his eyes. He theenk Mademoiselle Andree she has make the great success, to which nothing can compare, a success much times greater than fame or than glory—bicause it is a success of the soul.... So I make many compliments to Monsieur Kendall—many compliments....”

“Bert ...” said Ken, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Bert....”

“Ees monsieur ill?” asked Jacques.

“No, Jacques. Just out of sorts—worried,” said Bert. “I’m walking it out of him.... Mighty glad to have met you, old man.”

Kendall turned to Jacques. “What you say about Andree—is it true? You are sure?...”

“Certainement.”

“Of course,” Ken answered, slowly. “I didn’t doubt it.... It sounded like the truth.... I thank you, Jacques. Some day I’ll thank you better.” He held out his hand. “Good night, Jacques.”

He turned away, and Bert, after shaking hands with the exuberant little Frenchman, followed. Jacques stood for a moment staring after them, then waved his cane in the air for no purpose whatever, and said, perplexedly, “Tous les AmÉricains sont fous....”

Ken walked rapidly, as one in haste to reach a definite destination; he did not speak. Bert, keeping pace with him, watched his friend’s face covertly; it was a gray mask without expression, a mask that seemed to tell a tale of years double that which made the total of Kendall’s life.

They diagonaled across the Place Marengo and at a more acute angle through the Place du Louvre to the Quai du Louvre and crossed the Pont Neuf, which carried them over the broader arm of the Seine, the upper point of the CitÉ, where to their left arose the dark mass of the Palais de Justice, and across the narrower branch of the river to the Quai des Augustins. Presently the Place St.-Michel opened before them, and, as Kendall turned into it Bert stopped to demand where they were going.

“To find her,” said Kendall.

Bert nodded. “I thought so.”

It was like Kendall—to start upon a search for her immediately. Just as jealousy, made more vicious by an attack of Puritan conscience, had caused him to drive Andree out of his life, so now that same conscience demanded that immediate reparation be made. If Bert knew his friend, then Kendall would be unable to rest until he had seen Andree, until he had debased himself before her and begged her forgiveness....

“Does she live here?” he asked.

“Near the PanthÉon some place.... I don’t know. I haven’t her address.... Bert, I don’t even know her last name!”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“I don’t know her name.... Somehow that was a part of it—the mystery—not knowing. It—I can’t explain it to you—but she seemed like something dainty and lovely that appeared out of nothingness. I never asked, because I didn’t want to know. She appeared and disappeared—like a fairy.... It was as if she were immaterial and only materialized herself for me—do you understand?”

“I’m darned if I do.”

“I always left her a little ways beyond—on the rue Soufflot. She went on alone toward the PanthÉon. That’s all I know. Just that her name was Andree—and that she could appear and disappear. It was that unreality that made the whole thing possible.”

“A few practical details would make the whole thing a lot more possible now.... What do you aim to do?”

“Wait for her.”

“Huh!... Where?”

“At the corner of the rue Soufflot.... She may pass to-night.”

“And she may not pass for a month.”

“Then I’ll wait a month,” said Kendall, and Bert knew that his friend meant what he said.

They walked on up the boulevard and took seats at a table in that very cafÉ where Kendall had seen Andree and Monsieur Robert the night before. He could see that table, occupied now by a poilu and his sweetheart.... Bert ordered coffee for them, which came in thick glasses accompanied by a bottle of saccharin for the sweetening. Kendall left his glass untouched while his eyes fixed themselves on the street, now becoming ever more rapidly hidden by the dusk. Many people were passing, habituÉs of the Quartier Latin; young men in uniform with girls on their arms, skylarking, humming the chorus of “Madelon”; old women making a last effort of the day to sell bright-colored Rintintins and Ninettes fabricated out of worsteds, those quaint little charms which were all the rage in Paris, and which were supposed to make one safe from Big Bertha and the bomb of the air raid. One young girl passed clinging to the arm of a youth in a broad hat, baggy corduroy trousers, paint-daubed coat, and flowing tie—a figure who might have stepped out of the pages of Henri MÜrger. He seemed the very genius of the Latin Quarter, a hungry peintre with canvas under his arm, and his gay-hearted little mistress who cooked his meals and shared his hunger and poverty brightly.... Kendall watched them go and envied them the thing that was theirs. Now and then a gendarme, wearing his short sword, passed stiffly.... It became darker and darker, and the crowd in the cafÉ thinned itself away until nobody remained but himself and Bert. Impatient waiters began piling up chairs and moving tables against the wall. Dim, hooded, blue street-lights glowed in the distance, making the boulevard ghastly and somber.... The darkness became impenetrable, but still Kendall lingered, hoping, demanding that Andree’s dainty little figure appear.

“No use, Ken,” Bert said. “She won’t come now, and if she did you wouldn’t be able to see her.”

“I can’t go till I’m sure,” Ken answered.

“Let’s walk, then. More chance of seeing her out on the sidewalk.”

They arose and sauntered slowly toward the PanthÉon, crossing the very spot where Andree had given Kendall that first kiss.... They retraced their steps. The streets were now all but deserted; only here and there was a hurrying figure, or upon some bench along the curb a pair of lovers sitting close and whispering in each other’s ears.

“It’s eleven o’clock,” said Bert. “Come on home.”

“Yes,” said Ken. “It is too late now. She won’t come to-night....”

Suddenly the air was rent by the wail of the siren; the avions were coming! One heard cries of anger or fright, saw dark blots resolve into hurried action as loiterers sought places of refuge.... A fire-engine swept by with gnome-like black figures clinging to it, and that voice like some horrid wail from the pit rising from it as a fireman turned the handle of the siren.... It was a voice that matched Kendall’s humor—a voice of despair, a voice that made audible a thing which described to his ear all that was evil and squalid and treacherous and unforgivable that lurked in the black and stealthy warrens of the world....

“Let’s get out of this,” said Bert.

Kendall did not want to go, and the less so now that there was danger.... Andree was in danger and, somehow, he felt that his place, if it could not be with her, was as near to her as he could station himself. He was alarmed. People were killed in these air raids. There were always casualties.... What if a bomb—what if he should never be able to see Andree again to make matters right with her? How if he should be prevented from entreating her pardon for the ugly wrong he had done her and for his brutality—he could recognize it as brutality now.

Yet, mixed with all his self-accusation, his bitter heartache and wretchedness, there ran a vein of relief—actual relief, and of something like comfort. The pendulum of his subconscious self was swaying downward, preparatory to the upward sweep in the opposite direction.... The world was good, there was good in the world. All was not suspicion and sin; one might have faith in humanity.... The vestibule of the home church with its crowd of bigots seemed cold and untrue now, though they had appeared the one safe and living thing in the world so short a time ago.... Andree was good. He had not been mistaken in her; and if Andree was good, then other things and people must be good likewise.... Even Paris....

They descended into the Metro whose underground platforms were crowded with refuge-seekers of all classes and ages, who clustered together and railed against the boche. It was impossible to find a seat.... In half an hour many were sitting on the concrete floor: mothers with children sleeping in their laps; youths supporting the heads of sweethearts on willing shoulders; sleepy and frowsy old men and slatternly old women with hair that hung gray and unpleasant before their eyes. A gendarme prevented any from ascending the stairs to the open air.

It seemed hours, though it was only a trifle more than an hour before the “all clear” was sounded. The mighty clamor of the barrage and of falling bombs had penetrated only as a dim rumble to that depth. There had been no excitement, no exhilaration, only damp, cold discomfort. The refugees made their way stiffly to the out-of-doors, Kendall and Bert in their midst.

“If I should never find her—” Ken said, uneasily.

“You will.”

“But if she should refuse to listen.”

“Um.... I shouldn’t blame her. But you know her, son, better than I. I saw her eyes to-night—and I shouldn’t worry. They were the sort of eyes that forgive much.”

“Yes,” said Kendall, slowly. “But she will remember. She is that sort, too. She will never forget—and this thing will always be there, never to be gotten rid of.... She will look at me, and I will see it in her eyes, that she is wondering and that she is afraid—that I might do such a thing again....”

“The trouble with you is too darn much imagination,” Bert said, disgustedly. “Let’s get to bed. Work goes on to-morrow, whatever happens.”

Work would go on and life would go on; death would continue to claim its own and births would replenish the races of the earth; there would be sorrow and joy, sin and repentance, squalor and luxury, in spite of anything that happened to him.... Kendall seized upon this thought. He was infinitely small, of less than negligible importance in the world’s scheme.... Events would transpire as usual, and the story of mankind would continue adding to itself chapter by chapter. It was inevitable.... Just as it was inevitable that the motif of the story should be love, and that so long as it should continue to be love the good should predominate the evil, and the ending, though it might threaten to be tragic, must be happy for the majority. He saw, for the first time, that a world in which love is the first essential cannot be a lost world nor an unhappy world. He wondered if love, in whatever form it showed itself, was not merely the essence of good masquerading under another style. In that case to love was to be virtuous.... He inclined to believe it. The reflection made him easier of mind.

“I think I can sleep,” he said to Bert, and they turned their faces homeward.