Gladiator (17 page)

Bands played and feet marched. His blood rose to a boiling-point. A Frenchman flung himself at Hugo's table. “And you—why aren't you a soldier?”

“I will be,” Hugo replied.

“Bravo! We shall revenge ourselves.” The man gulped a glass of wine, slapped Hugo's shoulder, and was gone. Then a girl talked to Hugo. Then another man.

Hugo dwelt on the politics of the war and its sociology only in the most perfunctory manner. It was time the imperialistic ambitions of the Central Powers were ended. A war was inevitable for that purpose. France and England had been attacked. They were defending themselves. He would assist
them.
Even the problem of citizenship and the tangle of red tape his enlistment might involve did not impress him. He could see the field of battle and hear the roar of guns, a picture conjured up by his knowledge of the old wars. What a soldier he would be!

While his mind was still leaping and throbbing and his head was whirling, darkness descended. He would give away his life, do his duty and a hundred times more than his duty. Here was the thing that was intended for him, the weapon forged for his hand, the task designed for his undertaking. War. In war he could bring to a full fruition the majesty of his strength. No need to fear it there, no need to be ashamed of it. He felt himself almost the Messiah of war, the man created at the precise instant he was required. His call to serve was sounding in his ears. And the bands played.

The chaos did not diminish at night, but, rather, it increased. He went with milling crowds to a bulletin board. The Germans had commenced to move. They had entered Belgium in violation of treaties long held sacred. Belgium was resisting and Liége was shaking at the devastation of the great howitzers. A terrible crime. Hugo shook with the rage of the crowd. The first outrages and violations, highly magnified, were reported. The blond beast would have to be broken.

“God damn,” a voice drawled at Hugo's side. He turned. A tall, lean man stood there, a man who was unquestionably American. Hugo spoke in instant excitement.

“There sure is hell to pay.”

The man turned his head and saw Hugo. He stared at him rather superciliously, at his slightly seedy clothes and his strong, unusual face. “American?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's have a drink.”

They separated themselves from the mob and went to a crowded café. The man sat down and Hugo took a chair at his side. “As you put it,” the man said, “there is hell to pay. Let's drink on the payment.”

Hugo
felt in him a certain aloofness, a detachment that checked his desire to throw himself into flamboyant conversation. “My name's Danner,” he said.

“Mine's Shayne, Thomas Mathew Shayne. I'm from New York.”

“So am I, in a way. I was on a ship that was stranded here by the war. At loose ends now.”

Shayne nodded. He was not particularly friendly for a person who had met a countryman in a strange city. Hugo did not realize that Shayne had been besieged all day by distant acquaintances and total strangers for assistance in leaving France, or that he expected a request for money from Hugo momentarily. And Shayne did not seem particularly wrought up by the condition of war. They lifted their glasses and drank. Hugo lost a little of his ardour.

“Nice mess.”

“Time, though. Time the Germans got their answer.”

Shayne's haughty eyebrows lifted. His wide, thin mouth smiled. “Perhaps. I just came from Germany. Seemed like a nice, peaceful country three weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Hugo wondered if there were many pro-German Americans. His companion answered the thought.

“Not that I don't believe the Germans are wrong. But war is such—such a damn fool thing.”

“Well, it can't be helped.”

“No, it can't. We're all going to go out and get killed, though.”

“We?”

“Sure. America will get in it. That's part of the game. America is more dangerous to Germany than France—or England, for that matter.”

“That's a rather cold-blooded viewpoint.”

Shayne nodded. “I've been raised on it.
Garçon, l'addition, s'il vous plaît.
” He reached for his pocketbook simultaneously with Hugo. “I'm sorry you're stranded,” he said, “and if a hundred francs will help, I'll be glad to let you have it. I can't do more.”

Hugo's
jaw dropped. He laughed a little. “Good lord, man, I said my ship was stuck. Not me. And these drinks are mine.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a huge roll of American bills and a packet of French notes.

Shayne hesitated. His calmness was not severely shaken, however. “I'm sorry, old man. You see, all day I've been fighting off starving and startled Americans and I thought you were one. I apologize for my mistake.” He looked at Hugo with more interest. “As a matter of fact, I'm a little skittish about patriotism. And about war. Of course, I'm going to be in it. The first entertaining thing that has happened in a dog's age. But I'm a conscientious objector on principles. I rather thought I'd enlist in the Foreign Legion to-morrow.”

He was an unfamiliar type to Hugo. He represented the American who had been educated at home and abroad, who had acquired a wide horizon for his views, who was bored with the routine of his existence. His clothes were elegant and impeccable. His face was very nearly inscrutable. Although he was only a few years older than Hugo, he made the latter feel youthful.

They had a brace of drinks, two more and two more. All about them was bedlam, as if the emotions of man had suddenly been let loose to sweep him off his feet. Grief, joy, rage, lust, fear were all obviously there in almost equal proportions.

Shayne extended his hand. “They have something to fight for, at least. Something besides money and glory. A grudge. I wonder what it is that makes me want to get in? I do.”

“So do I.”

Shayne shook his head. “I wouldn't if I were you. Still, you will probably be compelled to in a while.” He looked at his watch. “Do you care to take dinner with me? I had an engagement with an aunt who is on the verge of apoplexy because two of the Boston Shaynes are in Munich. It scarcely seems appropriate at the moment. I detest her, anyway. What do you say?”

“
I'd like to have dinner with you.”

They walked down the Cannebière. At a restaurant on the east side near the foot of the thoroughfare they found a table in the corner. A pair of waiters hastened to take their order. The place was riotous with voices and the musical sounds of dining. On a special table was a great demijohn of 1870 cognac, which was fast being drained by the guests. Shayne consulted with his companion and then ordered in fluent French. The meal that was brought approached a perfection of service and a superiority of cooking that Hugo had never experienced. And always the babble, the blare of bands, the swelling and fading persistence of the stringed orchestra, the stream of purple Châteauneuf du Pape and its flinty taste, the glitter of the lights and the bright colours on the mosaics that represented the principal cities of Europe. It was a splendid meal.

“I'm afraid I'll have to ask your name again,” Shayne said.

“Danner. Hugo Danner.”

“Good God! Not the football player?”

“I did play football—some time ago.”

“I saw you against Cornell—when was it?—two years ago. You were magnificent. How does it happen that—”

“That I'm here?” Hugo looked directly into Shayne's eyes.

“Well—I have no intention of prying into your affairs.”

“Then I'll tell you. Why not?” Hugo drank his wine. “I killed a man—in the game—and quit. Beat it.”

Shayne accepted the statement calmly. “That's tough. I can understand your desire to get out from under. Things like that are bad when you're young.”

“What else could I have done?”

“Nothing. What are you going to do? Rather, what were you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Hugo answered slowly. “What do you do? What do people generally do?” He felt the question was drunken, but Shayne accepted it at its face value.

“I'm one of those people who have too much money to be able to do anything I really care about, most of the time. The
family
keeps me in sight and control. But I'm going to cut away to-morrow.”

“In the Foreign Legion? I'll go with you.”

“Splendid!” They shook hands across the table.

Three hours later found them at another café. They had been walking part of the time in the throngs on the street. For a while they had stood outside a newspaper office watching the bulletins. They were quite drunk.

“Old man,” Shayne said, “I'm mighty glad I found you.”

“Me, too, old egg. Where do we go next?”

“I don't know. What's your favourite vice? We can locate it in Marseilles.”

Hugo frowned. “Well, vice is so limited in its scope.”

His companion chuckled. “Isn't it? I've always said vice was narrow. The next time I see Aunt Emma I'm going to say: ‘Emma, vice is becoming too narrow in its scope.' She'll be furious and it will bring her to an early demise and I'll inherit a lot more money, and that will be the real tragedy. She's a useless old fool, Aunt Emma. Never did a valuable thing in her life. Goes in for charity—just like we go in for golf and whatnot. Oh, well, to hell with Aunt Emma.”

Hugo banged his glass on the table. “
Garçon! Encore deux whiskey à l'eau
and to hell with Aunt Emma.”

“Like to play roulette?”

“Like to try.”

They climbed into a taxi. Shayne gave an address and they were driven to another quarter of the town. In a room packed with people in evening clothes they played for an hour. Several people spoke to Shayne and he introduced Hugo to them. Shayne won and Hugo lost. They went out into the night. The streets were quieter in that part of town. Two girls accosted them.

“That gives me an idea,” Shayne said. “Let's find a phone. Maybe we can get Marcelle and Claudine.”

Marcelle and Claudine met them at the door of the old house. Their arms were laden with champagne bottles. The
interior
of the dwelling belied its cold, grey, ancient stones. Hugo did not remember much of what followed that evening. Short, unrelated fragments stuck in his mind—Shayne chasing the white form of Marcelle up and down the stairs; himself in a huge bath-tub washing a back in front of him, his surprise when he saw daylight through the wooden shutters of the house.

Someone was shaking him. “Come on, soldier. The leave's up.”

He opened his eyes and collected his thoughts. He grinned at Shayne. “All right. But if I had to defend myself right now—I'd fail against a good strong mouse.”

“We'll fix that. Hey! Marcelle! Got any Fernet-Branca?”

The girl came with two large glasses of the pick-me-up. Hugo swallowed the bitter brown fluid and shuddered. Claudine awoke. “
Chéri!
” she sighed, and kissed him.

They sat on the edge of the bed. “Boy!” Hugo said. “What a binge!”

“You like eet?” Claudine murmured.

He took her hand. “Loved it, darling. And now we're going to war.”

“Ah!” she said, and, at the door: “
Bonne chance!
”

Shayne left Hugo, after agreeing on a time and place for their meeting in the afternoon. The hours passed slowly. Hugo took another drink, and then, exerting his judgment and will, he refrained from taking more. At noon he partook of a light meal. He thought, or imagined, that the ecstasy of the day before was showing some signs of decline. It occurred to him that the people might be very sober and quiet before the war was a thing to be written into the history of France.

The sun was shining. He found a place in the shade where he could avoid it. He ordered a glass of beer, tasted it, and forgot to finish it. The elation of his first hours had passed. But the thing within him that had caused it was by no means dead. As he sat there, his muscles tensed with the picturization of what was soon to be. He saw the grim shadows of the enemy. He felt the hot splash of blood. For one suspended second he
was
ashamed of himself, and then he stamped out that shame as being something very much akin to cowardice.

He wondered why Shayne was joining the Legion and what sort of person he was underneath his rather haughty exterior. A man of character, evidently, and one who was weary of the world to which he had been privileged. Hugo's reverie veered to his mother and father. He tried to imagine what they would think of his enlistment, of him in the war; and even what they thought of him from the scant and scattered information he had supplied. He was sure that he would justify himself. He felt purged and free and noble. His strength was a thing of wreck and ruin, given to the world at a time when wreck and ruin were needed to set it right. It was odd that such a product should emerge from the dusty brain of a college professor in a Bible-ridden town.

Hugo had not possessed a religion for a long time. Now, wondering on another tangent if the war might not bring about his end, he thought about it. He realized that he would hate himself for murmuring a prayer or asking protection. He was gamer than the Cross-obsessed weaklings who were not wise enough to look life in the face and not brave enough to draw the true conclusions from what they saw. True conclusions? He meditated. What did it matter—agnosticism, atheism, pantheism—anything but the savage and anthropomorphic twaddle that had been doled out since the Israelites singled out Jehovah from among their many gods. He would not commit himself. He would go back with his death to the place where he had been before he was born and feel no more regret than he had in that oblivious past. Meanwhile he would fight! He moved restively and waited for Shayne with growing impatience.

Until that chaotic and gorgeous hour he had lived for nothing, proved nothing, accomplished nothing. Society was no better in any way because he had lived. He excepted the lives he had saved, the few favours he had done. That was nothing in proportion to his powers. He was his own measure, and by
his
own efforts would he satisfy himself. War! He flexed his arms. War. His black eyes burned with a formidable light.