A Little Garrison Part 27

It is past eight o'clock of an evening in December. A hurrying crowd is streaming on its way homeward through the arteries of a large and busy city. All the shop doors everywhere are being closed with a thundering noise, and the ear is a.s.sailed by the rattling of the iron shutters by which thievish hands are to be kept out during the night hours. The brilliant gas jets and the incandescent lights in the show-windows are turned off in increasing numbers.

On the asphalt pavement dense throngs of people weary from their day's labor, or else eager for the pleasures and excitement which the evening has still in store for them, are pressing forward at an even trot--an endless procession of men and women occupying every grade in the social scale,--elegantly attired women and girls, men dressed in stylish fas.h.i.+on, others clad poorly and with the dust of their hard toil still clinging to their garments, and, mingled with them all, half-grown children,--boys and girls, who had been busy at counter or workshop throughout the day.

It was like a miniature reflection of life itself,--life in a large city, with all its toil and its wealth, its misery and its luxury.

On the pavement cabs and busses rattled past in endless succession; and elegant carriages, drawn swiftly by spirited horses and carrying the princes of trade and of birth, and veiled ladies, who might be actresses or countesses, for all one could tell, rolled smoothly along.

Scurrying to and fro in zigzag line, and emitting those peculiar doleful notes invented for them, automobiles were mixed up in apparently inextricable confusion with all this hurly-burly of vehicles, while the trams clanged their bells, and pa.s.sengers stood waiting on the edge of the sidewalks, desirous of boarding them, yet afraid to risk their lives in the turmoil and bustle of the intervening s.p.a.ce. All this excitement of metropolitan life, this feverish haste, and this pitiless crush, bore the stamp of intense work performed in a human ant-hill, where every one of the countless inmates has to fulfil his duty unremittingly, so that combined toil will produce a harmonious whole.

An elegantly attired pair turned the corner into a poorly lighted side street, and then took their way along the middle of the road, picking their steps among all the sc.r.a.ps of paper and the refuse of every kind that covered it. They came to a halt before a house the exterior of which showed it to be inhabited by persons in straitened circ.u.mstances, and then they ascended the well-worn front steps leading to its main entrance. The doorkeeper peered out of his little lodge and merely nodded slightly to the two. They had come here only a few days before, after leaving the stylish and expensive Grand Hotel, and that fact had furnished the man with food for reflection. They were former First Lieutenant Borgert and Frau Leimann. They had turned their steps to the French capital, in the hope to be there secured against any possible police persecution, expecting to be able to earn a living in this city of millions, which furnishes daily bread to so many.

Their funds had rapidly been exhausted; for he who has not learned to husband his resources in the days of plenty will not be able to do so in the days of dire need.

And so Borgert had been obliged to look about him for some remunerative occupation. Hunger is a hard taskmaster, and hard as it seemed to this man who had been reared and had lived till then virtually in idleness, he had now to turn his hands to useful work; but the employment he had been able to secure had not lasted long.

Without a word of warning, he had been dismissed as incapable of the work demanded, and he was just now returning from a last vain effort to obtain another place. They mounted the steep stairs and entered their little room, furnished without regard to even moderate ideas of comfort, and filled with an air which in the days gone by Borgert had never been able to endure.

He threw himself on the narrow sofa with a cry of despair and covered his face with his hands, while Frau Leimann cowered before the grate on a small stool.

With eyes hollow from much weeping and many sleepless nights, she gazed into the dying fire. This was all the warmth which they could expect that night, for their means were entirely exhausted.

Both of them kept silence for a while, and then Borgert spoke. The woman trembled at the sound of his voice, as if she were awaking from a fearful dream.

"And what is to become of us now?" said he, very low.

She did not answer him, but continued to gaze into the faintly glowing coals, and a tear slowly coursed down her pale, emaciated face.

"To-morrow we shall have to leave this house, for we are unable to pay, and then no other refuge is left us but the streets."

"You must work, George," replied the woman in a tear-choked voice, although she tried to infuse some energy into her tones.

"Have I not tried?" replied he, with a shrug. "But haven't they dismissed me every time without warning? And besides, there is no use for my trying again. How can I work? I've never learned it."

"But something must be done; we must find a way out of this," Frau Leimann cried out, and her voice sounded shrill. "If you intend to leave me to misery, you ought not to have enticed me away from home."

"Enticed?" Borgert mimicked her. "Who has enticed you? Was it not you who implored me to let you come with me because you were unable to endure any longer the life you were leading with your n.o.ble husband?"

"If I did so, you, as a man, ought to have had enough common-sense to talk me out of my intention."

"I should like to know what man is able to talk an idea out of the head of a woman."

"Do not speak this way, George; it is worse than frivolous. Summon all your courage and energy and let us see what can be done. There must be a remedy."

"There is!" retorted Borgert, throwing a loaded revolver on the crazy table.

A tremor shot through the woman, and for a moment she leaned against the wall as if ready to swoon, while her wide-opened eyes stared with fear at the little instrument, the glittering steel of which reflected the glowing embers in the grate.

"By all that is sacred," her voice came hysterically, "are you out of your senses!"

"On the contrary," replied Borgert, coolly; "it is the only way out of all our difficulties, and it is not the first time I have had the thought. Is it not better to put an end to this dog's life than to die by inches in penury and distress?"

Frau Leimann stepped musingly towards the grate, as if its warmth were needed to drive the thought of approaching death out of her head and to pour new life into her trembling limbs. Her gaze hung fixedly on a faded engraving which was over the mantel, and which represented a banquet held by one of the ancient English kings. With gla.s.sy eyes she stared at this picture representing the joys of living. She did not notice that Borgert had followed her with his feline step.

The report of his pistol was heard, quick and sharp, and with a dying moan the woman sank to her knees. Her left hand felt for the warming flame, as if searching for its aid, and the tiny bluish tongues of fire wavered in their reflection on the surface of this white, plump hand from which a rill of life-blood was slowly running, drop by drop, into the ashes of the grate. For a moment only her slayer gazed terror-stricken at the lifeless body; then he pointed the weapon at himself, and a second shot put an end to his existence. Death squared with his mighty hand all the guilt and all the debts he had contracted during his riotous life.

When the two corpses, four days later, were carted to the cemetery of Bagneux, the Potter's Field of Paris, and there consigned to the common grave of the dest.i.tute, n.o.body knew and n.o.body cared who these two unknown strangers had been. n.o.body suspected the drama of their lives or the sin which had hurried them to death.

THE END.