“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 tomorrow.”
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 colors 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 tomorrow.”
“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
