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.