"I told you I'd stand by you," he reminded her bluntly.
"You have been--kind--Neeland."
"And you have been very loyal to me, Scheherazade. I shall not abandon
you."
"How can you help me? I can't get out of this city. Wherever I go,
now, it will be only a matter of a few hours before I am arrested."
"The American Embassy. There is a man there," he reminded her.
She shrugged her naked shoulders:
"I cannot get within sight of the Trocadero before the secret police
arrest me. Where shall I go? I have no passport, no papers, not even
false ones. If I go to the lodgings where I expected to find shelter
it means my arrest, court martial, and execution in a caserne within
twenty-four hours. And it would involve others who trust me--condemn
them instantly to a firing squad--if I am found by the police in
their company!... No, Neeland. There's no hope for me. Too many know
me in Paris. I took a risk in coming here when war was almost certain.
I took my chances, and lost. It's too late to whimper now."
As he stared at her something suddenly brightened above them; and he
looked up and saw the first sunbeam painting a chimney top with palest
gold.
"Come," he said, "we've got to get out of this! We've got to go
somewhere--find a taxicab and get under shelter----"
She yielded to the pressure of his arm and moved forward beside him.
He halted for a moment on the curb, looking up and down the empty
streets for a cab of any sort, then, with the instinct of a man for
whom the Latin Quarter had once been a refuge and a home, he started
across the Boulevard, his arm clasping hers.
All the housetops were glittering with the sun as they passed the
ranks of the Municipal cavalry.
A young officer looked down mischievously as they traversed the
Boulevard--the only moving objects in that vast and still
perspective.
"Mon Dieu!" he murmured. "A night like that is something to remember
in the winter of old age!"
Neeland heard him. The gay, bantering, irresponsible Gallic wit awoke
him to himself; the rising sun, tipping the city's spires with fire,
seemed to relight a little, long-forgotten flame within him. His
sombre features cleared; he said confidently to the girl beside him: "Don't worry; we'll get you out of it somehow or other. It's been a
rather frightful dream, Scheherazade, nothing worse----"
Her arm suddenly tightened against his and he turned to look at the
shattered Café des Bulgars which they were passing, where two
policemen stood looking at a cat which was picking its way over the
mass of débris, mewing dismally.