Пользователь - WORLDS END

Lanny smiled, and said: "Well, you know it wasn't we who signed that treaty with the Italians."

"True enough," admitted Fessenden. "But then it wasn't we who brought up those Fourteen Points!"

That was why it was a pleasure to meet the English; you could speak frankly, and they didn't flare up and deliver orations. It was true they wanted the Americans to pull some chestnuts out of the fire for them, but it was also true that they would meet you halfway in an effort to be decent. The best of them had really hoped that the American President was going to bring in a new order and were saddened now as they discovered how ill equipped he was for the tremendous task.

Lanny didn't tell his English friend an appalling story which Alston's associates were whispering. The Supreme Council was planning to recognize a new state in Central Europe called Czechoslovakia, to consist principally of territories taken from Germany and Austria. The Czechs, previously known as Bohemians, had a patriotic leader named Masaryk, who had been a professor at the University of Chicago and a personal friend of Wilson. An American journalist talking with Wilson had said: "But, Mr. President, what are you going to do about the Germans in this new country?"

"Are there Germans in Czechoslovakia?" asked Wilson, in surprise.

The answer was: "There are three million of them."

"How strange!" exclaimed the President. "Masaryk never told me that!"

IV

Lanny was worried because he hadn't had any letter from Kurt. After he had been in Paris a month, he wrote again, this time to Herr Meissner, asking that he would kindly drop a line to say how Kurt was. Lanny assumed that whoever the mysterious person in Switzerland might be who had been remailing Kurt's letters to Lanny, Kurt's father would be able to make use of him. Lanny followed his usual practice of not giving his own address, for fear the letter might come into the wrong hands; he just said that he was to be addressed at his mother's home.

Lanny sent his letter in care of Johannes Robin, in Rotterdam, and there came in reply one from Hansi Robin, saying that his father had forwarded the letter as usual. Hansi was now fourteen, and his English was letter-perfect, although somewhat stilted. He told Lanny how his work at the conservatory was progressing, and expressed the hope that Lanny's career in diplomacy was not going to cause him to give up his music entirely. He said how happy he was that his father had become a business associate of Lanny's father and that they all hoped the adventure was going to prove satisfactory. Hansi said that his brother joined in expressing their high regard and sincere good wishes. Freddi, two years younger, added his childish signature to certify that it was true.

Lanny put that letter into his pocket, intending to forward it to his father the next time he wrote; and maybe that was the reason why for the next two or three days his thoughts were so frequently on Kurt Meissner. Lanny was sure that he would get a reply, for the comptroller-general was a business-like person, and it would be no trouble for him to dictate to his secretary a note, saying: "My son is well, but away from home," or: "My son is ill," or whatever it might be. Every time Lanny called for his mail he looked for a letter with a Swiss stamp.

And of course he thought about Schloss Stubendorf, and Kurt's family, and Kurt himself, and wondered what four and a half years of war had done to him. What would he be doing now, or planning? Would he be able to go back to music after battle and wounds, and the wrecking of all his hopes? Around him Lanny saw men who had become adjusted to war and couldn't get readjusted. Some were drinking, or trying to make up for lost time by sleeping with any woman they could pick up on the streets - and the streets were full of them. Would Kurt be like that? Or was Kurt dead, or mutilated as Marcel had been? What other reason could there be for his failure to communicate with the friend to whom he had pledged such devotion? Could it be that he now hated all Americans, because they had torn Germany's prey from out of her jaws?

Such were Lanny's thoughts while taking a walk. Such were his thoughts while he sat in the stuffy, overheated rooms at the Quai d'Orsay, attending exhausting sessions whenever a geographer was likely to be needed. While furious and tiresome quarrels were going on over the ownership of a hundred square miles of rocks or desert, he would turn his thoughts to the days when he and Kurt were diving and swimming off the Cap d'Antibes; or the holiday at the Christmas-card castle, which he saw always as he had seen it the first morning, with freshly fallen snow on its turrets shining in the newly risen sun. There were so many beautiful things in the world - oh, God, why did men have to make it so ugly? Why did they have to rage and scream and bluster, and tell lies so transparent that a geographer and even a secretary were made sick to listen.

Kurt was only a year older than Lanny, but he had seemed much more; he was so grave, so precise in his thinking, so decided in his purposes, that Lanny had honored him as a teacher. For nearly six years the American had kept that attitude; and now, when Kurt didn't write to him, he was worried, puzzled, hurt. But he kept telling himself that he had no right to be. There was bound to be some reason, to be explained in good time.

V

The streets of Paris were full of picturesque and diverting sights: dapper young officers in Turkey-red pants, looking as if they had just stepped out of bandboxes; poilus trudging home from the front, unshaven, mudstained, bent with weariness; elegant ladies of fashion tripping from their limousines into jewelers' and coiffeurs'; pathetic, consumptive-looking grisettes with blackened eyebrows and scarlet lips. The glory of La Ville Lumiere was sadly dimmed, but there had to be ways for the foreigners to enjoy themselves. There were always crowds of them in the fashionable restaurants, no matter how often the prices were raised; always lines of people trying to get into every place of entertainment. So many had made money out of the war - and they had to have pleasure, even though their world might be coming to an end.

The strolling youth would note these things for a while, and then again be lost in thoughts about the problems of the peace. What was the conference going to do with Upper Silesia? That territory was full of coal mines and many sorts of factories; the French wanted to take it from Germany and give it to Poland - so that in the next war its coal would serve the purposes of France, and not of her hereditary and implacable foe. There was a commission to decide all that, and Professor Alston had been asked to attend it; when Lanny finished his walk he would hear arguments concerning the destiny of the Meissner family! A translator, of course, could take no open part, but he might be able to influence his chief by a whispered word, and his chief might influence the higher-ups in the same way.

So thinking, Lanny strolled on - into what was to prove the strangest adventure of his life up to that time. He had come to a street intersection and stood to let the traffic by. There came a taxi, close to the curb, and as it passed it was forced to slow up by another vehicle ahead. In the taxi sat a single passenger, a man, and at that moment he leaned forward, as if to speak to the driver. His profile came into clear view; and Lanny stared dumfounded. It was Kurt Meissner!

Of course it was absolutely impossible. Kurt, an artillery captain of the Germany army, riding in a Paris taxicab while the two countries were still formally at war! It must be somebody else; and yet from the first moment Lanny knew it wasn't. It hadn't been merely a physical recognition, it was some kind of psychic thing; he knew that it was Kurt as well as he knew that he himself was Lanny Budd. Could this be another apparition, like the one he had seen of Rick? Did it mean that Kurt was dead, or near to death, as Rick had been?

The cab was moving on, and Lanny came out of his daze. His friend was in Paris, and he must get hold of him! He wanted to shout: "Kurt! Kurt!" - but the traffic was noisy, and Lanny's training kept him from making a public disturbance. He began to run, as fast as he could, dodging the pedestrians, and trying to keep his eye on that cab. Perhaps he could catch it at the next crossing; but, no, it was going on faster. Lanny was despairing, when he saw a vacant cab by the curb. He sprang in and cried: "Follow that cab! Quick!"

Taxi drivers have such experiences now and then. It means a pretty girl, or perhaps a fashionable married lady - anyhow, some sort of adventure. The driver leaped into action, and presently they were weaving their way through the traffic, Lanny peering ahead, to pick out one cab from all the others. He made sure he had it, because he could see through the rear window the passenger's gray fedora, which had been a part of the image stamped upon his mind in one quick flash.

VI

They had turned onto the Boulevard Haussmann, with much fast traffic, so there was nothing to do but follow; meanwhile Lanny had a chance to think, and get the aspects of this problem sorted out in his mind. Kurt in Paris, wearing civilian clothes! He couldn't be on any official mission, for there were no enemy missions in France; there had been a lot of talk about having the Central Powers represented at the Peace Conference, but the talk had died down. Nor could Kurt be here on private business, for no enemy aliens were being given passports into France. No, his presence could mean only that he was here on some secret errand, with a false passport. If he were detected, they would try him before a military court and stand him against a wall and shoot him.

Lanny's next thought was that he, a member of the Crillon staff, had no business getting mixed up in such a matter. He ought to tell his taxi driver that it was a mistake, and to turn back. But Lanny hadn't learned to think of himself as an official person, and the idea that he couldn't speak to Kurt just didn't make sense. Whatever his friend might be doing, he was a man of honor and wouldn't do anything to get Lanny into trouble.

Kurt's cab turned off the boulevard, into the Neuilly district. "I can drive up alongside him now," said Lanny's driver; but Lanny said: "No, just follow him." He would wait until Kurt got out, so that they could meet without witnesses.

Watching ahead, Lanny saw the passenger turn round; evidently he discovered that he was being followed, for his cab began turning corners rapidly, as no sane taxicab would have done. Lanny could imagine Kurt saying: "Ten francs extra if you shake off that fellow behind us." Lanny said: "Ten francs extra if you don't let that fellow get away from us."

So began a crazy chase in and about the environs of Paris. Lanny's driver had been a dispatch rider on the upper Meuse front, so he called back to his passenger; he looked like an apache, and behaved like one. They turned corners on two wheels, and Lanny leaned out of the window to balance the cab. They dashed through cross-wise traffic - and they held onto the other car. More than once Lanny saw the passenger in front turning round to look-always holding his gray fedora below the level of his eyes. Lanny took off his hat and waved it, to give his friend every opportunity to recognize him. But it had no effect.

However, Lanny's apache was better than the other one. Kurt's taxi stopped suddenly in front of a department store, and Lanny's came up with screeching brakes behind it. Kurt got out, paid his driver, and turned to go into the store; Lanny came running, having also paid quickly. He realized the need of caution, and didn't call out; he came up behind the other and whispered: "Kurt, it's me - Lanny."

A strange thing happened. The other turned and gazed into Lanny's face, coldly, haughtily. "You are mistaken, sir." Lanny had spoken in English, and the answer was given in French.

Of course it was Kurt Meissner; a Kurt with features more careworn, stern, and mature; his straw-colored hair, usually cut close, had grown longer; but it was Kurt's face, and the voice was Kurt's.

Lanny, having had time to think matters out, wasn't going to give up easily. He murmured: "I understand your position. You must know that I am your friend and you can trust me. I still feel as I have always done."

The other kept up his cold stare. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, in very good French. "It is a case of mistaken identity. I have never met you."

He started away again; but Lanny walked with him. "All right," he said, his voice low. "I understand what is the matter. But if you get into trouble and need help, remember that I'm at the Crillon.

But don't think that I've turned into an official person. I'm doing what I can to help make a decent peace, and you and I are not very far apart."

One of the clerks of the store came forward with inquiry in his manner, and Kurt asked for some gloves. Lanny turned and started to leave. But then he thought: "Maybe Kurt will think it over and change his mind." So he waited, just inside the door of the store. When the other had completed his purchase and was going out, sure enough, he said: "You may come with me, sir, if you wish."

VII

The two of them went out to the street, and walked in silence for quite a while, Kurt looking behind them to make sure they were not being followed. Then they would take a glance at each other. More than four years had passed since their last meeting in London; they had been boys and now they were men. The German officer had lines in his long thin face; he walked as if he were bowed with care - but of course that might have been because he was trying not to look like a military man. It was plain that he was deeply moved.

"Lanny," he exclaimed, suddenly, "may I have your word of honor not to mention this meeting to any person under any circumstances?"

"I have an idea of your position, Kurt. You can trust me."

"It is not merely a matter of my own life. It might have extremely unpleasant consequences for you."

"I am willing to take the risk. I am sure that you are not doing anything dishonorable."

They walked on; and finally Kurt broke out: "Forgive me if I am not a friend at present. I am bound by circumstances about which I cannot say a word. My time is not my own - nor my life."

"I promise not to misunderstand," replied the other. "Let me tell you about my job, and perhaps you can judge about trusting me." He spoke in English, thinking it would be less likely to be caught by any passer-by. He told how he had come to be at the Crillon, and gave a picture of the Peace Conference as it appeared to a translator-secretary.

Kurt couldn't bear to listen to it. He broke in. "Do you know what is being done to my people by the blockade? The food allowance is one-third of normal, and the child death-rate has doubled. Of course our enemies would like them all to die, so there wouldn't be any more of us in the world. But is that what President Wilson promised?"

Lanny replied: "There isn't a man I know in the American delegation who doesn't consider it a shame. They have protested again and again. Mr. Hoover is in Paris now, wringing his hands over the situation."

"Wringing Mr. Hoover's hands won't feed the starving babies. Why doesn't President Wilson threaten to quit unless Clemenceau gives way?"

"He can't be sure what that would do. The others might go on and have their way just the same. It's hard to get a sane peace after a mad war."