So they went to work, Lanny at his table, and the father talking to harassed and exhausted military men. This went on until after seven o'clock, when Robbie said they'd eat, no matter' what happened to Europe. “Let's go to a place where real Parisians eat,” he suggested. “Fellow I know will be there.”
They got into a taxi, and he gave an address on the Rue Mont-martre. “We're to meet a journalist; a man who has worthwhile connections, and often brings me tips. I give him a couple of hundred-franc notes. It's the custom of the country.”
It was a place Lanny had never heard of before. There were many tables on the sidewalk, but Robbie passed these by and strolled inside; he looked about, and went toward a table where sat a little man with heavy dark mustache and beard, pince-nez on a black silk cord, and a black tie. The man jumped up when he saw him. “Ah, M. Bood!” he exclaimed, trying to say it American fashion, but not succeeding.
“Bon jour, M. Pastier” replied Robbie, and introduced Lanny: “Mon secrétaire.” The man looked puzzled; for not many businessmen have secretaries fourteen years old. Robbie laughed, and added: “Aussi mon fils.”
“Ah, votre fils!” exclaimed the Frenchman, exuberantly, and shook hands with the lad. “C'est le crown prince, hein?”
“J'e l'espeer,” replied Robbie; his French was no better than M. Pastier's American.
The other invited them to sit down. They ordered, and Robbie included a large bottle of wine, knowing that his acquaintance would assist them. The Frenchman was a voluble talker, and impressed Lanny greatly. The boy was too young to realize that persons in this profession sometimes pretend to know more than they can know. To listen to him you would have thought he was the intimate friend of all the prominent members of the cabinet, and had talked with several of them that afternoon.
He reported that Germany had been making desperate efforts to detach France from her Russian engagements. “The German ambassador pleaded with friends of mine at the Quai d'Orsay. 'There is and should be no need for two highly civilized nations to engage in strife. Russia is a barbarous state, a Tatar empire, essentially Asiatic' So they argue. They would prefer to devour us at a second meal,” added the Frenchman, his black eyes shining.
“Naturellement,” said Robbie.
“But we have an alliance; the word of France has been given! Imagine, if you can, the insolence of these Teutons — they demand of us the fortresses of Toul and Verdun, as guarantees of our abandonment of the Russian alliance. Is it probable that we built them for that?”
“Pas probable,” assented the American.
“When the French people hear that, they will rise as one man!” exclaimed the journalist, and illustrated with a vigorous rising of both arms.
“What will your workers do, your Socialists?” asked Robbie. It was a question which troubled everybody.
The other said: “Look,” and indicated with his eyes. “Over there at that table by the window. The question is being settled tonight.” The American saw eight or ten men sitting at dinner, talking among themselves. They might have been journalists like M. Pastier, or perhaps doctors or lawyers. At the head of the table was a large stoutish man with a heavy gray beard, a broad face, and grand-fatherly appearance. “Jaurès,” whispered the Frenchman.
Lanny had heard the name; he knew it was one of the Socialist leaders, and that he made eloquent speeches in the Chamber of Deputies. What Lanny saw was a heavy-set old gentleman with baggy clothes, talking excitedly, with many gestures. “They are Socialist editors and deputies,” explained M. Pastier. “They have just returned from the conference at Brussels.”
The three watched for a while, and others in the restaurant did the same. The Socialists were men of the people, deciding the affairs of the people, and there was no need for them to hide themselves. Lanny decided that their leader must be a kind old gentleman, but he look exhausted and harassed.
“It is a grave problem for them,” explained the journalist; “for they are internationalists, and against war. But Jaurès spoke plainly to the Germans at Brussels — if they obey their Kaiser and march, there will be nothing for the French workers to do but defend their patrie. Have you seen L'Humanité this morning?”
“I don't patronize it,” said Robbie.
“Jaurès speaks of 'Man's irremediable need to save his family and his country even through armed nationalism.'”
“Too bad he didn't discover that before he began advocating the general strike in case of war!”
“Jaurès is an honest man; I say it, even though I have opposed him. I have known him for many years. Would you be interested to meet him?”
“No, thanks,” said Robbie, coldly. “He's a bit out of my line.” He led the conversation to the chances of British intervention in the expected war. He had his reasons for wanting to know about that; it would be worth many hundred-franc notes to Budd Gunmakers.
After dinner father and son strolled along the boulevards and looked at the crowds. When they got to the Crillon, there was another cablegram. Lanny began insisting that he wasn't at all tired; surely he could work till bedtime, and so on — when the telephone rang, and Robbie answered. “What?” he cried, and then: “Mon Dieu!” and: “What will that mean?” He listened for a while, then hung up the receiver and said: “Jaurès has been shot!”
It was the boy's turn to exclaim and question. “Right where we left him,” said the father. “Fellow on the street pushed the window curtains aside and put a couple of bullets into the back of his head.”
“He's dead?”
“So Pastier reports.”
“Who did it, Robbie?”
“Some patriot, they suppose; somebody who thought he was going to oppose the war.”
“What will happen now?”
Robbie shrugged his shoulders, almost as if he had been a Frenchman. “It's just one life. If war starts, there'll be a million others. C'est la guerre, as the French say. Pastier says that Germany's expected to declare war on Russia tomorrow; and if so, France is in.”
VII
It was hard upon a young fellow who had just assumed an important and responsible position to have to be distracted by the sex problem. Lanny learned how it interferes with business, and all the other serious things of life; he said a plague upon it — for the first time in his life, but not for the last. Here he was, the next morning, comfortably fixed by the window in his bedroom, with the code material and a long message from Connecticut, badly delayed by congestion of the cables. But instead of looking up the word “mar-ketless,” he was sitting lost in thought, and presently interrupting his father's reading of the mail. “Robbie, don't you think one of us ought to see Beauty for a few minutes?”
“Anything special?” asked the other, absentmindedly.
“Harry told her last night that she'd have to make up her mind, or he's going back to the States without her. She says it's an ultimatum.”
“Well, there's a lot of ultimatums being served right now. One more hardly counts.”
“Don't joke, Robbie. She's terribly upset.”
“What's she doing?”