The Forest of Swords | Page 8

and through. Maybe it was a spark of genius in him that impressed me."
"It may be so," said Lannes thoughtfully. "It was said, and said truly
that the First Republic meant the open career to all the talents, and the

Third offers the same chance. One never can tell where military genius
is going to appear and God knows we need it now in whatever shape or
form it may come. Did you hear of the bomb?"
"I saw it fall. But, Phil, I don't see the object in such attacks. They may
kill a few people, nearly always the unarmed, but that has no real effect
on a war."
"They wish to spread terror, I suppose. Lend me your glasses, John."
Lannes studied the heavens a long time, minutely examining every
black speck against the blue, and John stood beside him, waiting
patiently. Meanwhile the throng of fleeing people moved on as before,
silent and somber, even the children saying little. John was again
stirred by the deepest emotion of sympathy and pity. What a
tremendous tragedy it would be if New York were being abandoned
thus to a victorious foe! Lannes himself had seemed to take no notice
of the flight, but John judged he had made a powerful effort of the will
to hide the grief and anger that surely filled his heart.
"I don't see anything in the air but our own machines," said Lannes, as
he returned the glasses. "It was evidently a dash by the Taube that
threw the bomb. But we've stayed here long enough. They're waiting
for us at home."
He led the way through the multitude, relapsing into silence, but
casting a glance now and then at his own peculiar field, the heavens.
They reached the Place de la Concorde, and stopped there a moment or
two. Lannes looked sadly at the black drapery hanging from the stone
figure that typified the lost city of Strassburg, but John glanced up the
great sweep of the Place to the Arc de Triomphe, where he caught
again the glittering shaft of sunlight that he had accepted as a sign.
"We may be looking upon all this for the last time," said Lannes, in a
voice of grief. "Oh, Paris, City of Light, City of the Heart! You may not
understand me, John, but I couldn't bear to come back to Paris again,
much as I love it, if it is to be despoiled and ruled by Germans."

"I do understand you, Philip," said John cheerfully, "but you mustn't
count a city yours until you've taken it. The Germans are near, but
they're not here. Now, lead on. It's not like you to despair!"
Lannes shook himself, as if he had laid violent hands upon his own
body, and his face cleared.
"That was the last time, John," he said. "I made that promise before, but
I keep it this time. You won't see me gloomy again. Henceforward it's
hope only. Now, we must hurry. My mother and Julie will be growing
anxious, for we are overdue."
They crossed the Seine by one of the beautiful stone bridges and
entered a region of narrow and crooked streets, which John thought
must be a part of old Paris. In an American city it would necessarily
have been a quarter of the poor, but John knew that here wealth and
distinction were often hidden behind these modest doors.
He began to feel very curious about Lannes' family, but he was careful
to ask no questions. He knew that the young Frenchman was showing
great trust and faith in him by taking him into his home. They stopped
presently before a door, and Lannes rang a bell. The door was opened
cautiously in a few moments, and a great head surmounted by thick,
gray hair was thrust out. A powerful neck and a pair of immense
shoulders followed the head. Sharp eyes under heavy lashes peered
forth, but in an instant, when the man saw who was before him, he
threw open the door and said:
"Welcome, Monsieur."
John had no doubt that this was the Antoine Picard of whom Lannes
had spoken, and he knew at the first glance that he beheld a real man.
Many people have the idea that all Frenchmen are little, but John knew
better.
Antoine Picard was a giant, much over six feet, and with the limbs and
chest of a piano-mover. He was about sixty, but age evidently had
made no impression upon his strength. John judged from his fair

complexion that he was from Normandy. "Here," young Scott said to
himself, "is one of those devoted European family servants of whom
I've heard so often."
He regarded the man with interest, and Picard, in return, measured and
weighed him with a