14. People walked along the boulevard, looking curiously through the railing at the line of men in olive drab, that straggled round the edge of the courtyard. The line moved slowly, past a table where an officer and two enlisted men were pouring over big lists of names and piles of paley-tinted banknotes and silver francs that glittered white. Above the men's heads, a thin haze of cigarette smoke rose into the sunlight. There was a sound of voices and a feet shuffling on the gravel. The men who had been paid went off jauntedly, money jingling in their pockets. The men at the table had red faces and tense, serious expressions. They pushed the money into the soldier's hands with a rough jerk and pronounced the names as if they were machines clicking. Andrews saw that one of the men at the table was Walters. He smiled and whispered hello as he came up to him. Walters kept his eyes fixed on the list. While Andrews was waiting for the man ahead of him to be paid, he heard two men in the line talking. Wasn't that a hell of a place? Do you remember the lad that died in the barracks one day? Sure, I was in the medics there, too.  What'd he die of? Hard failure, I guess. I don't know, though. He never did take to the life. No, that place caused him was enough to make any guy cash in his checks. Andrews got his money. As he was walking away, he strolled up to the two men he had heard talking. Were you fellas in caused? Sure. Did you know a fellow named Fuseli? I don't know. Sure you do, said the other man. You remember Dan Fuseli? The little wop thought he was going to be corporal. He had another thing coming. They both laughed. Andrews walked off, vaguely angry. There were many soldiers on the boulevard Montparnasse. He turned into a side street, feeling suddenly furtive and humble, as if he would hear any minute the harsh voice of a sergeant shouting orders at him. The silver in his breecher's pocket jingled with every step. Andrews leaned on the balustrade of the balcony, looking down into the square in front of the opera comique. He was dizzy with the beauty of the music he had been hearing. He had a sense somewhere in the distances of his mind of the great rhythm of the sea. People chattered all about him on the wide, crowded balcony, but he was only conscious of the blue-gray mistiness of the night, where the lights made patterns in green gold and red gold. And compelling his attention from everything else, the rhythm swept through him like sea waves. I thought you'd be here, said Genvieve Rowe, in a quiet voice beside him. Andrews felt strangely tongue-tied. It's nice to see you, he blurted out, after looking at her silently for a moment. Of course you love Pelea. It is the first time I've heard it. Why haven't you been to see us? It's two weeks. We've been expecting you. I didn't know. Oh, I'll certainly come. I don't know anyone at present I can talk music to. You know me. Anyone else, I should have said. Are you working? Yes, but this hinders frightfully. Andrews yanked at the front of his tunic. Still, I expect to be free very soon. I'm putting in an application for discharge. I suppose you will feel you can do so much better. You will be much stronger now that you have done your duty. No, by no means. Tell me, what was that you played at our house? The three green riders on wild asses, said Andrews, smiling. What do you mean? It's a prelude to the Queen of Sheba, said Andrews. If you didn't think the same as Mr. Emuel Faguet and everyone else about Saint Antoine, I'd tell you what I mean. Oh, that was very silly of me.  In the dim light he could not see her eyes. There was a little glow on the curve of her cheek, coming from under the dark of her hat to her rather pointed chin. Behind it he could see other faces of men and women crowded on the balcony, talking, lit up crudely by the gold glare that came out through the French windows of the lobby. I have always been tremendously fascinated by the place in La Tente-Siong, where the Queen of Sheba visited Antoine, that's all, said Andrews, gruffly. Is that the first thing you've done? It made me think a little of Borodine. The first that's at all pretentious. It's probably just a steal from everything I've ever heard. No, it's good. I suppose you had it in your head all through those dreadful and glorious days at the front. Is it for piano or orchestra? All that's finished is for piano. I hope to orchestrate it eventually. Oh, but it's really silly to talk this way. I don't know enough. I need years of hard work before I can do anything. And I have wasted so much time. That is the most frightful thing one has so few years of youth. That's the bell. We must scuttle back to our seats. Till the next intermission. She slipped through the glass doors and disappeared. Andrews went back to his seat, very excited, very full of unquiet exultation. The first strains of the orchestra were pain, he felt them so acutely. After the last act, they walked in silence down a green street, hurrying to get away from the crowds of the Boulevard. When they reached the avenue de l'opera, she said, Did you say you were going to stay in France? Yes, indeed, if I can. I am going tomorrow to put in an application for discharge in France. What will you do then? I shall have to find a job of some sort that will let me study at the Scola cantorum, but I have enough money to last a little while. You are courageous. I forgot to ask if you would rather take the metro. No, let's walk. They went under the arch of the Louvre. The air was full of a fine wet mist so that every street lamp was surrounded by a blizzard.  It's no use trying to say what one feels about it. Words aren't much good anyway, are they? That depends. They walked silently along the quay. The mist was so thick that they could not see the sand. But whenever they came near a bridge, they could hear the water rustling through the arches. France is stifling, said Andrews all of a sudden. It stifles you very slowly, with beautiful silk bands. America beats your brains out with a policeman's billy. What do you mean, she said, letting Peake chill her voice. You know so much in France. You have made the world so neat. But you seem to want to stay here, she said with a laugh. It's that there's nowhere else. There is nowhere except Paris where one can find out things about music, particularly. But I am one of those people who is not made to be contented. Only sheep are contented. I think I have been happier this month in Paris than ever before in my life. It seems six so much has happened in it. Possec is where I am happiest. Where is that? We have a country house there. Very old and very tumbledown. They say that Rabilet used to come to the village. But our house is from later, from the time of Henri Cavel. Possec is not very far from Tours. An ugly name, isn't it? But to me it is very beautiful. The house has orchards all around it, and yellow roses with flushed centres poke themselves in my window, and there is a little tower like Montaigne's. When I get out of the army I shall go somewhere in the country and work and work. Music should be made in the country when the sap is rising in the trees. D'appré nature, as the rabbit man said. Who is the rabbit man? A very pleasant person, said Andrews, bubbling with laughter.  He sells little stuffed rabbits that jump outside the cafe de Roanque. Here we are. Thank you for coming home with me. But how soon? Are you sure it is the house? We can't have got there as soon as this. Yes, it's my house, said Jean-Vierve Roe, laughing. She held out her hand to him, and he shook it eagerly. The latch key clicked in the door. Why don't you have a cup of tea with us here tomorrow, she said. With pleasure. The big, varnished door with its knocker in the shape of a ring closed behind her. Andrews walked away with a light step, feeling jolly and exhilarated. As he walked down the mist-filled quay towards the Place Sommichel, his ears were filled with the lisping gurgle of the river past the piers of the bridges. Walters was asleep. On the table in his room was a card from Jean. Andrews read the card holding it close to the candle. How long it is since I saw you, she said. I shall pass the Café de Rouen Wednesday at seven, along the pavement opposite the Magasin du Louvre. It was a card of Malmaison. Andrews flushed. Bitter melancholy throbbed through him. He walked languidly through the window and looked out into the dark court. A window below his spilled a warm golden haze into the misty night, through which he could make out vaguely some pots of ferns standing on the wet flagstones. From somewhere came a dense smell of hyacinths. Fragments of thought slipped one after another through his mind. He thought of himself washing windows long ago at training camp, and remembered the way the gritty sponge scraped his hands. He could not help feeling shame when he thought of those days. Well, that's all over now, he told himself. He wondered, in a half-irritated way, about Jean-Vierreau. What sort of a person was she? Her face, with its wide eyes and pointed chin, and the reddish chestnut hair, unpretentiously coiled above the white forehead, was very vivid in his mind, though when he tried to remember what it was like in profile, he could not. She had thin hands, with long fingers that ought to play the piano well. When she grew old, would she be yellow-toothed and jolly, like her mother? He could not think of her old. She was too vigorous. There was too much malice in her passionately restrained gestures. The memory of her faded, and there came to his mind, Jean's overworked little hands, with callous places, and the tips of the fingers grimy and scarred from needlework. But the smell of hyacinths that came up from the mist-filled courtyard was like a sponge wiping all impressions from his brain. The dense, sweet smell in the damp air made him feel languid and melancholy. He took off his clothes slowly and got into bed. The smell of the hyacinths came to him very faintly, so that he did not know whether or not he was imagining it. The Major's office was a large, white-painted room, with elaborate moldings and mirrors on all four walls, so that while Andrews waited cap and hand to go up to the desk, he could see the small, round Major with his pink face and bald head, repeated to infinity in two directions in the gray brilliance of the mirrors. What do you want? said the Major, looking up from some papers he was signing. Andrews stepped up to the desk. On both sides of the room a skinny figure and olive drab, repeated endlessly, stepped up to endless mahogany desks, which faded into each other in an endless, dusty perspective. Would you mind okaying this application for discharge, Major? How many dependents muttered the Major through his teeth pouring over the application? None. It's for discharge in France to study music. Won't do. You need an affidavit that you can support yourself, that you have enough money to continue your studies. You want to study music, eh? Do you think you've got talent? Needs a very great deal of talent to study music? Yes, sir. But is there anything else I need except the affidavit? No. It'll go through in short order. We're glad to release men. We're glad to release any man with a good military record. Williams! Yes, sir? A sergeant came over from a small table by the door. Show this man what he needs to get discharged in France. Andrews saluted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figures in the mirror, saluting down an endless corridor. When he got out on the street in front of the great white building where the Major's office was, a morose feeling of helplessness came over him. There were many automobiles of different sizes and shapes. Limousines, runabouts, touring cars, lined up all along the curb, all painted olive drab and neatly stenciled with numbers in white.  Who disappeared immediately through revolving doors. Andrews could imagine him striding along halls, where from every door came an imperious clicking of typewriters, where papers were piled high on yellow varnished desks, where sallow-faced clerks in uniform loafed in rooms, where the four walls were covered from floor to ceiling with card catalogs, and every day they were adding to the paper, piling up more little drawers with index cards. It seemed to Andrews that the shiny white marble building would have to burst with all the papers stored up within it, and would flood the broad avenue with avalanches of index cards. Button your coat! snarled a voice in his ear. Andrews looked up suddenly. An MP with a raw-looking face in which was a long, sharp nose had come up to him. Andrews buttoned up his overcoat and said nothing. He can't hang around here this way, the MP called after him. Andrews flushed and walked away without turning his head. He was stinging with humiliation. An angry voice inside him kept telling him that he was a coward, that he should make some futile gesture of protest. Grotesque pictures of revolt flamed through his mind until he remembered that when he was very small, the same tumultuous pride had seethed and ached in him whenever he had been reproved by an older person. Helpless despair fluttered about within him like a bird beating against the wires of a cage. Was there no outlet, no gesture of expression? Would he have to go on this way day after day, swallowing the bitter gall of indignation that every new symbol of his slavery brought to his lips? He was walking in an agitated way across the Jardin des Tuileries, full of the little children and women with dogs on leashes and nursemaids with starched white caps, when he met Geneviève Roe and her mother. Geneviève was dressed in pearl gray, with an elegance a little too fashionable to please, Andrews. Madame Roe wore black. In front of them a black and tan terrier ran from one side to the other, on little nervous legs that trembled like steel springs. Isn't it lovely this morning? cried Geneviève. I didn't know you had a dog.  Viens, Santo, dis bonjour au monsieur. He usually lives at Poissac, said Geneviève.  He knows he ought to be suspicious of soldiers. I imagine most soldiers would change with him if they had a chance. Viens, Santo, viens, Santo, will you change lives with me, Santo?  I have. I'm going to write a book on slave psychology, and it would be very amusing, said Andrews in a gruff, breathless voice. But we must hurry, dear, or we'll be late to the tailors, said Madame Roe. She held out her black-gloved hands to Andrews. We'll be in at Teton this afternoon. You might play me some more of the Queen of Shiba, said Geneviève. I am afraid I shan't be able to. But you never can tell. Thank you. He was relieved to have left them. He had been afraid he would burst out into some childish tirade. What a shame old Henslow hadn't come back yet. He could have poured out all his despair to him. He had often enough before, and Henslow was out of the army now. Wearily Andrews decided that he would have to start scheming and intriguing again, as he had schemed and intrigued to come to Paris in the first place. He thought of the white marble building, and the officers with shiny patees going in and out, and the typewriters clicking in every room, and the understanding of his helplessness before all that complication made him shiver. An idea came to him. He ran down the steps of a metro station. Aubrey would know someone at the Crayon who could help him. But when the train reached the Concorde station, he could not summon the willpower to get out. He felt a harsh repugnance to any effort. What was the use of humiliating himself and begging favors of people? It was hopeless anyway. In a fierce burst of pride, a voice inside of him was shouting that he, John Andrews, should have no shame, that he should force people to do things for him, that he, who lived more acutely than the rest, suffering more pain and more joy, who had the power to express his pain and his joy so that it would impose itself on others, should force his will on those around him. More of the psychology of slavery said Andrews to himself, suddenly smashing the soap bubble of his egoism. The train had reached the Porte-Mail.  He felt the desire to be out of the country, to be away from houses and people. There was a line of men and women buying tickets for Saint-Germain. Still indecisive he joined it, and at last, almost without intending it, found himself jolting through Nuit in the green trailer of the electric car, that waggled like a duck's tail when the car went fast. He remembered his last trip on that same car with Jean, and wished mournfully that he might have fallen in love with her, that he might have forgotten himself and the army and everything in crazy, romantic love. When he got off the car at Saint-Germain, he had stopped formulating his thoughts. Soggy despair throbbed in him like an infected wound. He sat for a while at the café opposite the chateau, looking at the light red walls and the strong stone-bordered windows, and the jaunty turrets and chimneys that rose above the classic balustrade, with its big urns on the edge of the roof. The park, through the tall iron railings, was full of russet and pale lines, all mist of new leaves. Had they really lived more vividly the people of the Renaissance? Andrews could almost see men with plumed hats and short cloaks, and elaborate brocaded tunics, swaggering with a hand at the sword-hilt, about the quiet square in front of the gate of the chateau. And he thought of the great, sudden wind of freedom that had blown out of Italy, before which dogmas and slaveries had crumbled to dust. In contrast, the world today seemed pitifully arid. Men seemed to have shrunk in stature before the vastness of the mechanical contrivances they had invented. Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Arretino, Salini, were the strong figures of men ever so dominate the world again. Today everything was congestion, the scurrying of crowds. Men had become ant-like. Perhaps it was inevitable that the crowds should sink deeper and deeper in slavery. Whichever one, tyranny from above or spontaneous organization from below, there could be no individuals. He went through the gates into the park, laid out with a few flower beds where pansies bloomed. Through the dark ranks of elm trunks was brilliant sky, with here and there a moss-green statue standing out against it. At the head of an alley he came out on a terrace. Beyond the strong curves of the pattern of the iron balustrade was an expansive country, pale green, falling to blue towards the horizon, patched with pink and slate-colored houses, and carved with railway tracks. At his feet the sun shone like a curved sword blade. He walked with long strides along the terrace and followed a road that turned into the forest, forgetting the monotonous treadmill of his thoughts, in the flush that the fast walking sent through his whole body, in the rustling silence of the woods, where the moss on the north side of the bowls of the trees was emerald, and where the sky was soft gray through a lavender lacework of branches. The green, gnarled woods made him think of the last act of Pelea. With his tunic unbuttoned and his shirt open at the neck, and his hands stuck deep in his pockets, he went along whistling like a schoolboy. After an hour he came out of the woods on a high road, where he found himself walking beside a two-wheeled cart that kept pace with him exactly, try as he would to get ahead of it. After a while a boy leaned out. Hey, l'américain, vous pouvez monter? Where are you going? Complain Saint-Honorine. Where's that? The boy flourished his whip vaguely towards the horse's head. All right, said Andrews. These are potatoes, said the boy. Make yourself comfortable. Andrews offered him a cigarette, which he took with muddy fingers. He had a broad face, red cheeks, and chunky features. Reddish-brown hair escaped spikily from under a mud-spattered beret. Where did you say you were going? Complain Saint-Honorine. Silly all these saints, aren't they? Andrews laughed. Where are you going? the boy asked. I don't know. I was taking a walk. The boy leaned over to Andrews and whispered in his ear. Deserter? No, I had a day off and wanted to see the country. I just thought if you were a deserter I might be able to help you. Must be silly to be a soldier.  But you like the country. So do I. You can't call this country. I'm not from this part. I'm from Brittany. There we have real country. It's stifling near Paris here. So many people. So many houses. It seems mighty fine to me.  Better than barracks, huh? Dirty life, that. I'll never be a soldier. I'm going into the Navy. Merchant Marine. And then if I have to do service I'll do it on the sea. I suppose it is pleasanter. There's more freedom and the sea. We Breton, you know. We all die of the sea or of liquor. They laughed. Have you been long in this part of the country? Asked Andrews. Six months. It's very dull this farming work. I'm head of a gang in a fruit orchard but not for long. I have a brother shipped on a sailing vessel. When he comes back to Bordeaux I'll ship out on the same boat. Where to? South America. Peru. How should I know? I'd like to ship on a sailing vessel, said Andrews. You would? It seems very fine to me to travel and see new countries. And perhaps I shall stay over there. Where? How should I know if I like it that is? Life is very bad in Europe. It is stifling, I suppose, said Andrews slowly. All these nations, all these hatreds. But still, it is very beautiful. Life is very ugly in America. Let's have something to drink. There's a bistro. The boy jumped down from the cart and tied the horse to a tree. They went into a small wine shop with a counter and one square oak table. But won't you be late, said Andrews? I don't care. I like talking, don't you? Yes, indeed. They ordered wine of an old woman in the green apron who had three yellow teeth that protruded from her mouth when she spoke. I haven't had anything to eat, said Andrews. Wait a minute. The boy ran out to the cart and came back with a canvas bag from which he took half a loaf of bread and some cheese. My name's Marcel, the boy said when they had sat for a while sipping wine. Mine is Jean, Jean-André. I have a brother named Jean, and my father's name is André. That's pleasant, isn't it? But it must be a splendid job working in a fruit orchard, said Andrews, munching bread and cheese. It's well paid, but you get tired of being in one place all the time. It's not as it is in Brittany. Marcel paused. He sat, rocking a little on the stool, holding onto the seat between his legs. A curious brilliance came into his gray eyes. There he went on in a soft voice. It is so quiet in the fields, and from every hill you look at the sea. I like that, don't you? He turned to Andrews with a smile. You are lucky to be free, said Andrews bitterly. He felt as if he would burst into tears. But you will be demobilized soon. The butchery is over. You will go home to your family. That will be good, huh? I wonder. It's not far enough away. Restless. What do you expect? A fine rain was falling. They climbed in on the potato sacks, and the horse started a jog trot. Its lanky brown shanks glistened a little from the rain. Do you come out this way often? Asked Marcel. I shall. It's the nicest place near Paris. Some Sunday you must come out, and I'll take you round. The castle is very fine. And then there is Malmaison, where the great emperor lived with the empress Josephine. Andrews suddenly remembered Jean's card. This was Wednesday. He pictured her dark figure among the crowd of the pavement in front of the castle. Of course, it had to be that way. Despair, so helpless as to be almost sweet, came over him. And girls, he said to Marcel, are they pretty round here? Marcel shrugged his shoulders. It's not women that we lack, if a fellow has money, he said. Andrews felt a sense of shame. He did not exactly know why. My brother writes that in South America, the women are very brown and very passionate, added Marcel with a wistful smile. But travelling and reading books, that's what I like. But look, if you want to take the train back to Paris, Marcel pulled up the horse to a standstill. If you want to take the train, cross that field by the footpath and keep right along the road, to the left, to you come to the river. There's a ferryman, the town's air blaze, and there's a station. And any Sunday before noon, albeit trois roue des évêques roue, you must comment, we'll take a walk together. They shook hands, and Andrews strode off across the wet fields. Something strangely sweet and wistful that he could not analyse, lingered in his mind from Marcel's talk. Somewhere, beyond everything, he was conscious of the great free rhythm of the sea. Then he thought of the major's office that morning, and of his own skinny figure in the mirrors, repeated endlessly, standing helpless and humble before the shining mahogany desk. Even out here in these fields where the wet earth seemed to heave with the sprouting of new growth he was not free. In those office buildings, with white marble halls full of the clank of officers' heels, in index cards and pots, his real self, which they had power to kill if they wanted to, was in his name and his number, on lists with millions of other names and other numbers. This sentient body of his, full of possibilities and hopes and desires, was only a pale ghost that depended on the other self, that suffered for it and cringed for it. He could not drive out of his head the picture of himself. Skinny, in an ill-fitting uniform, repeated endlessly in the two mirrors of the major's white-painted office. All of a sudden, through bare poplar trees, he saw the sand. He hurried along the road, splashing now and then in a shining puddle, until he came to a landing-place. The river was very wide, silvery, streaked with pale green and violet, and straw-coloured, from the evening sky. Opposite were bare poplars, and behind them, clusters of buff-coloured houses climbing up a green hill to a church, all repeated upside down in the colour-streaked river. The river was very full and welled up above its banks, the way the water stands up above the rim of a glass filled too full. From the water came an indefinable rustling, flowing sound, that rose and fell with quiet rhythm in Andrew's ears. Andrew's forgot everything in the great wave of music that rose impetuously through him, poured with the hot blood through his veins, with the streaked colours of the river and the sky through his eyes, with the rhythm of the flowing river through his ears. Five. So I came without, said Andrew's laughing. What fun, cried Junviev. But anyway, they couldn't do anything to you. Charles was so near, it's at the gates of Paris. They were alone in the compartment. The train had pulled out of the station and was going through suburbs where the trees were in leaf in the gardens and fruit trees foamed above the red brick walls among the box-like villas. Anyway, said Andrew's, it was an opportunity not to be missed. That must be one of the most amusing things about being a soldier, avoiding regulations. I wonder whether Damocles didn't really enjoy his sword. Don't you think so? They laughed. But Mother was very doubtful about my coming with you this way. She's such a dear, she wants to be very modern and liberal, but she always gets frightened at the last minute. And my aunt will think the world's end has come when we appear. They went through some tunnels and when the train stopped at Sevre, had a glimpse of the Seine valley where the blue mist made a patina over the soft, pea-green of new leaves. Then the train came out on wide plains, full of the glockest shimmer of young oats and the golden green of fresh sprinkled wheat fields where the mist on the horizon was purplish. The train's shadow, blue, sped along beside them over the grass and fences. How beautiful it is to go out of the city this way in the early morning. Has your aunt a piano? Yes, a very old and tinkly one. It would be amusing to play you all I have done at the Queen of Sheba. You say the most helpful things. It is that I'm interested. I think you will do something someday. Andrew shrugged his shoulders. They sat silent, their ears filled up by the jerking rhythm of wheels over rails, now and then looking at each other almost vertically. Outside, fields and hedges and patches of blossom and poplar trees fainfully powdered with green unrolled like a screen before them behind the knicker of telegraph poles and the festooned wires on which the sun gave glints of red copper. Andrews discovered all at once that the coppery glint on the telegraph wires was the same as the glint in Zhenzhev's hair. Berenike, Artemisia, Arsino, the names lingered in his mind. So that as he looked out of the window at the long curves of the telegraph wires that seemed to rise and fall as they glided past, he could imagine her face with its large pale brown eyes and its small mouth with God's smooth forehead suddenly stilled into the encaustic painting on the mummy case of some Alexandrian girl. Tell me, she said, when did you begin to write music? Andrews brushed the light disordered hair off his forehead. Why, I think I forgot to brush my hair this morning, he said you see, I was so excited by the idea of coming to shout with you. They laughed.  He went on seriously. She and I lived alone in an old house belonging to her family in Virginia. How different all that was from anything you have ever lived. It would not be possible in Europe to be as isolated as we were in Virginia. Mother was very unhappy. She had led a dreadfully thwarted life. That unreleaved, hopeless misery that only a woman can suffer. She used to tell me stories and I used to make up little tunes about them and about anything. The great success, he laughed, was I remember to a dandy lion. I can remember so well the way mother pursed her lips up as she leaned over the writing desk. She was very tall and as it was dark in our old sitting room had to lean far over to sea.   But I lack technical training terribly. Do you think it is so important, said John Jeff, leaning towards him to make herself heard above the clatter of the train? Perhaps it is. I don't know. I think it always comes sooner or later if you feel intensely enough. But it is frightful to feel all you want to express getting away beyond you.  You have no means to express it. It's like standing on a street corner and seeing a gorgeous procession go by without being able to join it.  John Jeff burst out laughing. But you can drink from the bottle, can't you? she said, her eyes sparkling. I'm trying to, said Andrews. Here we are. There's the cathedral. No, it's hidden, cried John Jeff. They got to their feet. As they left the station, Andrews said, but after all, it's only freedom that matters. When I'm out of the army, yes, I suppose you are right. For you, that is. The artist should be free from any sort of entanglement. I don't see what difference there is between an artist and any other sort of workman, said Andrews savagely. No, but look. From the square where they stood, above the green blur of a little park, they could see the cathedral, creamy yellow and rust colour with the sober tower and the gaudy tower and the great rose window between, the whole pile standing nonchalantly, knee deep in the packed town. They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at it without speaking. In the afternoon, they walked down the hill towards the river that flowed through a quarter of tottering, peak gabled houses and mills, from which came a sound of grinding wheels. Above them, towering over gardens full of pear trees in bloom, the apps of the cathedral bulged against the pale blue sky. On a narrow and very ancient bridge, they stopped and looked at the water, full of a shimmering of blue and green and grey from the sky and from the vivid new leaves of the willow trees along the bank. Their senses glutted with the beauty of the day and the intricate magnificence of the cathedral, languid with all they had seen and said, they were talking of the future with quiet voices. It's all informing a habit of work, Andrews was saying. You have to be a slave to get anything done. It's all a question of choosing your master, don't you think so? Yes, I suppose all the men who have left their imprint on people's lives have been slaves in a sense, said Jönviyev slowly. Everyone has to give up a great deal of life to live anything deeply. But it's worth it. She looked Andrews full in the eyes. Yes, I think it's worth it, said Andrews. But you must help me. Now I am like a man who has come up out of a dark cellar. I am almost too dazzled by the gorgeousness of everything. But at least I am out of the cellar. Look, a fish jumped, cried Jönviyev. I wonder if we could hire a boat anywhere. Don't you think it would be fun to go out in a boat? A voice broke in on Jönviyev's answer. Let's see your pass, will you? Andrews turned round. A soldier with a round, brown face and red cheeks stood beside him on the bridge. Andrews looked at him fixedly. A little zigzag scar above his left eye showed white on his heavily tanned skin. Let's see your pass, the man said again. He had a high-pitched, squeaky voice. Andrews felt the blood thumping in his ears. Are you an MP? Yes. Well, I'm in the Sorbonne Detachment. What the hell's that? said the MP, laughing thinly. What does he say? asked Jönviyev, smiling. Nothing. I'll have to go to see the officer and explain, said Andrews in a breathless voice. You go back to your ants and I'll come as soon as I've arranged it. No, I'll come with you. Please go back. It may be serious. I'll come as soon as I can, said Andrews harshly. She walked up the hill with swift, decisive steps without turning round. Tough luck, buddy, said the MP. She's a good looker. I'd like to have a half hour with her myself. Look here, I'm in the Sorbonne School Detachment in Paris and I came down here without a pass. Is there anything I can do about it? They'll fix you up, don't worry, cried the MP shrilly. You ain't a member of the general staff in disguise, are you? School Detachment. Gee, but won't Bill Huggis laugh when he hears that? You pulled the best one yet, buddy. But come along, he added in a confidential tone.  How do I know you're an MP? You'll know soon enough. They turned down a narrow street between grey stucco walls leprous with moss and water stains. At a chair inside the window of a small wine shop, a man with the red MP badge sat smoking. He got up when he saw them pass and opened the door with one hand on his pistol-holder. I got one bird, Bill, said the man, shoving Andrews roughly in the door. Good for you, handsome. Is he quiet? Hmm, handsome grunted. Sit down there. If you move, you'll get a bullet in your guts. The MP stuck out a square jaw. He had a shallow skin, puffy under his eyes that were grey and blusterless. He says he's in some goddamn school detachment. First time that's been pulled, ain't it? School detachment. Do you mean an OTC? Bill sank laughing into his chair by the window, spreading his legs out over the floor. Ain't that rich, said handsome, laughing shrilly again. Got any papers on ya? You must have some sort of papers. Andrews searched his pockets. He flushed. I ought to have a school pass. You sure ought. Gee, this guy's simple, said Bill, leaning far back in the chair and blowing smoke through his nose. Look at his dog tag, handsome. The man strode over to Andrews and jerked open the top of his tunic. Andrews pulled his body away. I haven't got any on. I forgot to put any on this morning. No tag, no insignia. Yes, I have infantry. No papers. No papers.  Better put the cuffs on him, said Bill in the middle of a yawn. Let's wait a while. When's the loot coming? Not till night. Sure? Yes, ain't no train. How about a sidecar? No, I know he ain't coming, snarled Bill. Well, what do you say we have a little liquor, Bill? But this bloke's got money. You'll set us up to a glass of cognac, won't you, school detachment? Andrews sat very stiff in his chair, staring at them. Yes, he said. Order up what you like. Keep an eye on him, handsome. You never can tell what this quiet kind's likely to pull off on you. Bill Huggis strode out of the room with heavy steps. In a moment he came back, swinging a bottle of cognac in his hand. Told the madame you'd pay, skinny, said the man as he passed to Andrews' chair. Andrews nodded. The two MPs drew up to the table, beside which Andrews sat. Andrews could not keep his eyes off them. Bill Huggis hummed as he pulled the cork out of the bottle. It's the smile that makes you happy, it's the smile that makes you sad. Handsome watched him grinning. Suddenly they both burst out laughing.  It'll be another kind of battalion you'll be in, skinny, cried Bill Huggis. He stifled his head, said Bill Huggis. He stifled his laughter with a long drink from the bottle. He smacked his lips. Not so goddamn bad, he said. Then he started humming again. It's the smile that makes you happy, it's the smile that makes you sad. Have some, skinny, said handsome, pushing the bottle towards Andrews. No thanks, said Andrews. You won't be getting good cognac where you're going, skinny, in the sight growled Bill Huggis in the middle of a laugh. All right, I'll take a swig. An idea suddenly came into Andrews' head. Gee, the bastard can drink cognac, cried Handsome. Got enough money to buy us another bottle? Andrews nodded. He wiped his mouth absently with the handkerchief. He had drunk the raw cognac without tasting it. Get another bottle, Handsome, said Bill Huggis carelessly. A purplish flush had appeared in the lower part of his cheeks. When the other man came back, he burst out laughing. The last cognac this skinny guy from the detachment will get for many a day. Better drink up strong, skinny. They don't have that stuff down on the farm. School detachment? Oh, be goddamned. He leaned back in his chair, shaking with laughter. Handsome's face was crimson. Only the zigzag scar over his eye remained white. He was swearing in a low voice as he worked the cork out of the bottle. Andrews could not keep his eyes off the man's faces. They went from one to the other in spite of him. Now and then, for an instant, he caught a glimpse of the yellow and brown squares of the wallpaper and the bar with the few empty bottles behind it. He tried to count the bottles. One, two, three.  Now and then reaching for the cognac bottle, all the while humbling faintly under his breath. It's the smile that makes you happy. It's the smile that makes you sad. Handsome sat with his elbows on the table and his chin in his beefy hands. His face was flushed crimson, but the skin was softly moulded, like a woman's. The light in the room was beginning to grow gray. Handsome and Bill Huggus stood up. A young officer, with clearly marked features and a campaign hat worn a little on one side, came in, stood with his feet wide apart in the middle of the floor. Andrews went up to him. I'm in the Sorbonne detachment, Lieutenant, stationed in Paris. Don't you know enough to salute, said the officer, looking him up and down. One of you men teach him how to salute. He said, slowly. Handsome made a step towards Andrews and hit him with his fist between the eyes. There was a flash of light and the room swung round and there was a splitting crash as his head struck the floor. He got to his feet. The fist hit him in the same place, blinding him. The three figures and the bright oblong of the window swung round. A chair crashed down with him and a hard wrap on the back of his skull brought momentary blackness. That's enough. Let him be. He heard a voice far away at the end of a black tunnel. A great weight seemed to be holding him down as he struggled to get up, blinded by tears and blood. Rending pains darted like arrows through his head. There were handcuffs on his wrists.  Snarled a voice. He got to his feet. Faint light came through the streaming tears in his eyes. His forehead flamed as if hot coals were being pressed against it. Prisoner, attention! shouted the officer's voice. March! Automatically, Andrews lifted one foot and then the other. He felt in his face the cool air of the street. On either side of him were the hard steps of the MPs. Within him a nightmare voice was shrieking. Shrieking. End of Section 14 Section 15 of Three Soldiers This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by MB Three Soldiers by John Dos Pasos Section 15 Part 6 Under the Wheels 1. The uncovered garbage cans clattered as they were thrown one by one into the truck. Dust and a smell of putrid things hung in the air about the men as they worked. A guard stood by with his legs wide apart and his rifle butt on the pavement between them. The early mist hung low hiding the upper windows of the hospital. From the door beside which the garbage cans were ranged was a symbolic. The last garbage can rattled into place on the truck. The four prisoners and the guard clambered on finding room as best they could among the cans from which dripped bloody bandages ashes and bits of decaying food and the truck rumbled off towards the incinerator through the streets of Paris that sparkled with the gaiety of early morning. The prisoners wore no tunics. The shirts and breeches had dark stains of grease and mud. On their hands were torn canvas gloves. The guard was a sheepish pink-faced youth who kept gritting apologetically and had trouble keeping his balance when the truck went round corners. How many days do they keep a guy on this job happy? Asked a boy with mild blue eyes and a creamy complexion and reddish curly hair.  Then after looking at the boy for a minute with his face twisted into an astonished sort of grin, he went on. Say, kid, how in the hell did you get here?  I stole a thord. The boy answered cheerfully.  I folded for 500 francs. Happy laughed and caught hold of an ash can to keep from being thrown out of the jolting truck. Can you beat that, guard? he cried. Ain't that something? The guard sniggered. Didn't send me to Leavenworth because I was so young. Went on the kid placidly. How old are you, kid? asked Andrews who was leaning against the driver's seat. Seventeen, said the boy, blushing and casting his eyes down.  The truck driver jammed the brakes on. The garbage cans banged against each other. The kid cried out in pain. Hold your horses, can't you? You nearly broke my leg. The truck driver was swearing in a long string of words. Goddamn these dreamin' skygays and sons of French bastards. Why don't they get out of your way?  Guess if he'll be lucky if he breaks his leg or something. Don't you think so, skinny? said the fourth prisoner in a low voice. It'll take more than a broken leg to get you out of this labor battalion, hogging back. Wanted, guard, said happy as he climbed on again. The truck jolted away, trailing a haze of cinder dust and the sour stench of garbage behind it. Andrews noticed all at once that they were going down the K. along the river. Notre Dame was rosy in the misty sunlight, the color of lilacs in full bloom. He looked at it fixedly a moment and then away. He felt very far from it, like a man looking at the stars from the bottom of a pit.  Helped you steal the Ford, did he? asked happy. Ford, nothing. He sold an ammunition train. He was a railroad man. He was a mason, that's why he only got five years. I guess five years in Leavenworth enough for anybody, muttered, hogging back, scowling. He was a square-shouldered dark man when he worked. We didn't meet up till we got to Paris.  That's where they picked us up. Took us to the Bastille. Ever been in the Bastille? I have, said hogging back. Ain't no joke, is it? Christ, said hogging back. His face flushed a furious red. He turned away and looked at the civilians walking briskly along the early morning streets. At the waiters in shirtsleeves swabbing off the cafe tables.  I guess they ain't nobody gone through with what we guys go through with, said happy. It'd be better if the old war was still going to my way, I think, and they'd chuck us into the trenches, then. Ain't so low as this.  Ain't gone all day, five more loads to get yet.  Their nostrils were full of the stench of putrescence. Between their lips was a gritty taste of cinders. The air in the dark mess shack was thick with steam from the kitchen at one end. Men filed past the counter, holding out their mess kits into which the KPs splashed the food. Occasionally someone stopped to ask for a larger hopping in an ingratiating voice. They ate packed together at long tables of roughly plain boards, stained from the constant spilling of grease and coffee, and still wet from a perfunctory scrubbing. Andrew sat at the end of a bench near the door through which came a number of twilight, eating slowly, surprised at the relish with which he ate the greasy food, and at the exhausted contentment that had come over him almost in spite of himself. Hoganback sat opposite him. Funny, he said to Hoganback, it's not really as bad as I thought it would be. What do you mean, this labour battalion? Hell, a fellow can put up with anything. That's one thing you learn in the army. I guess people would rather put up with things than make an effort to change them. Huh, you're goddamn right. Got a butt? Andrews handed him a cigarette. They got to their feet and walked out into the twilight, holding their mess kids in front of them. As they were washing their mess kids in a tub of greasy water where bits of food floated in a thick scum, Hoganback suddenly said in a low voice, but it all piles up, buddy. One day there'll be an accountant. Do you believe in religion? No. Neither do I. I, come of folks, has done their own accountant. My father and my grandfather before him. A fellow can't eat his bile day after day, day after day. I'm afraid he can, Hoganback, broken Andrews. They walked towards the barracks. Goddammit, no, cried Hoganback aloud. There comes a point where you can't eat your bile any more, where it don't do no good to Kass. Then you run a muck. Hanging his head, he went slowly into the barracks. Andrews leaned against the side of the building, staring up at the sky. He was trying desperately to think, to pull together a few threads of his life in this moment of respite from the nightmare. In five minutes the bugle would in his ears and he would be driven into the barracks. A tune came to his head that he played with eagerly for a moment, and then, as memory came to him, tried to a face with a shudder of disgust. There's the smile that makes you happy, there's the smile that makes you sad. It was almost dark. Two men walked slowly by in front of him. Sarge, may I speak to you? Came a voice and a whisper. The sergeant grunted. I think there's two guys trying to break loose out of here. Who? If you're wrong it'll be the worst for you, remember that? Surly in Watson, I heard him talking about it behind the latrine. Damn fools.  They did, did they? Don't talk so loud, Sarge. It wouldn't do for any of the fellas to know I was talking to you. Say, Sarge. The voice became whining. Don't you think I've nearly served my time down here? What do I know about that? Taint my job. But, Sarge, I used to be company clerk with my old outfit. Don't you need a guy around the office? Andrews strode past them into the barracks. All fury possessed him. He took off his clothes and got silently into his blankets. Hogan back and Happy were talking beside his bug. Never you mind, said Hogan back. Somebody'll get that guy sooner or later. Get him, Nothin!  It's the discipline.  Andrews lay without speaking, listening to their talk, aching in every muscle from the crushing work of the day. They court-martialed that guy, if I'll have told me, went on Hogan back. And what do you think they did to him? Retired on half pay. He was a major. God, if I ever get out of this army, I'll be so goddamn glad, began Happy. Hogan back interrupted. Then you'll forget all about the raw deal they gave you and tell everybody how fine you liked it. He felt the mocking notes of the bugle outside, stabbing his ears. A non-com's voice roared. Quiet! From the end of the building, and the lights went out. Already Andrews could hear the deep breathing of man asleep. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, his body throbbing with the monotonous rhythms of the work of the day. He seemed still to hear the sickening whine in the man's voice as he talked to the sergeant with the flashlight. And shall I be reduced to that? He was asking himself. Andrews was leaving the latrine when he heard a voice call softly. Skilly! Yes, he said. Come here, I want to talk to you. It was the kid's voice. There was no light in the ill-smelling shack that served for a latrine. Outside they could hear the guard humming softly to himself as he went back and forth through the barracks door. Let's you and me be buddies, skinny. Sure, said Andrews. Say, what do you think the chance is a cut and loose?   They giggled softly. Andrews put his hand on the boy's arm. But kid, it's too risky. I got in this fix by taking a risk. I don't feel like beginning over again. And if they catch you, it's desertion.  That'll be the end of everything. Well, what the hell's this? No, I don't know. They've got to let us out someday. Shh! Kid put his hand suddenly over Andrews' mouth. They stood rigid so that they could hear their hearts pounding. Outside there was a brisk step on the gravel. The sentry halted and saluted. The steps faded into the distance. And the sentry's humming began again. They put two fellas in the jug for a month for talking like we are. In solitary, whispered kid. But kid, I haven't got the guts to try anything now. Sure you have, skinny. You and me's got more guts than all the rest of them put together. God, if people had guts, you couldn't treat them like they were curves. Look, if I can ever get out of this, I've got a hunch I can make a good thing writing movie scenarios. I want to get on in the world, skinny. But kid, you won't be able to go back to the States. I don't care. New Rochelle's not the whole world. They got the movies in Italy, ain't they? Sure. Let's go to bed. Alright. Look, you and me are buddies from now on, skinny. Andrews felt the kid's hand press his arm. In the dark, airless bunk in the lowest of three tiers, Andrews lay awake a long time listening to the snores and the heavy breathing about him. Thoughts fluttered restlessly in his head, but in his blank hopelessness he could only frown and bite his lips and roll his head from side to side on the rolled-up tunic he used for a pillow, listening with desperate attention to the heavy breathing of the men who slept above him and beside him. When he fell asleep, he dreamed that he was alone with Genvieve Rowe in the concert hall of the Skola Cantorum and that he was trying desperately hard to play some tune for her on the violin, a tune he kept forgetting, and in the agony of trying to remember, the tears streamed down his cheeks. Then he had his arms round Genvieve's shoulders and was kissing her, kissing her until he found that it was a wooden board he was kissing, a wooden board on which was painted a face with broad forehead and great pale brown eyes and small tight lips and all the while a boy who seemed to be both Chris Field and the kid kept telling him to run or the MPs would get him.  The bugle woke him and he sat up with such a start that he hid his head hard against the bunk above him. He lay back, cringing from the pain like a child, but he had to hurry desperately to get his clothes on in time for roll call. It was with a feeling of relief that he found that mess was not ready and that men were waiting in line outside the kitchen shack, stamping their feet and clattering their mess kits as they moved about through the chilly twilight of the spring morning. Andrews found he was standing back.  We're all in the same boat said Andrews with a laugh. Wish it had sink muttered the other man. Do you know? He went on after a pause and I kind of thought an educated guy like you would be able to keep out of a mess like this. I wasn't brought up without education but I guess I didn't have enough. I guess most of them can. I don't see that it's much to the point. A man suffers as much if he doesn't know how to read and write as if he had a college education. I don't know skinny. A fellow who's led a rough life can put up with an awful lot. I'm a lumberman by trade and my dad's cleaned up a pretty thing in war contracts just a short time ago. He could have got me in the engineers if I hadn't gone off and enlisted. Why did you? I was restless like I didn't care about the goddamn war but I wanted to see what things was like over here. Well, you've seen, said Andrews smiling. In the neck, said Hogginback as he pushed out his cup for coffee. In the truck that was taking them to work, Andrews and the kids sat side by side on the jouncing backboard and tried to talk above the rumble of the exhaust. Like Paris? asked the kid. Not this way, said Andrews. Say, one of the guys said you could parlay French real well. I want you to teach me. A guy's got to know languages to get along in this country. But you must know some. Bedroom French, said the kid laughing. Well, but if I want to write a movie scenario for an Italian firm, I can't just write tomorrow over and over again. But you'll have to learn Italian, kid. I'm going to.  We're going to Passy Wharf to Unload Rock, said somebody in a grumbling voice. No, it's a cement. Cement for the stadium we're presenting in the French nation. Ain't you read in the Stars and Stripes about it? I'd present him with a swift kick and a hell of a lot of other people, too. So we have to sweat, unload, and cement all day, muttered, hogging back to give these goddamn frogs a stadium? If it weren't that, it'd be something else. But ain't we got folks at home to work for, cried, hogging back? Mightn't all this sweat be doing some good for us? Building a stadium? My God. Pile out there. Quick, rasped a voice from the driver's seat. Through the haze of choking white dust, Andrews got now and then a glimpse of the grey-green river with its tugboats sporting their white cockades of steam and their long trailing plumes of smoke and its blunt-nosed barges and its bridges where people walked jauntily back and forth, going about their business, going where they wanted to go. The bags of cement were very heavy and the unaccustomed work sent racking pains through his back. The biting dust stung under his fingernails and in his mouth and eyes. All the morning sort of refrain went through his head. People have spent their lives doing only this. People have spent their lives doing only this. As he crossed and recrossed the narrow plank from the barge to the shore, he looked at the black water speeding seaweeds and took extraordinary care of his foot slip. He did not know why, for one half of him was thinking how wonderful it would be to drown, to forget in eternal black silence the hopeless struggle.  The sight amused him and he said to himself in his cheeks and cupid's bow lips I might be able to go through life on my blue eyes. And he pictured the kid a fat, cherubic old man stepping out of a white limousine the way people do in movies and looking about him with those same mild blue eyes. But soon he forgot everything in the agony of the heavy cement bags bearing down on his back and hips. In the truck on the way back to the mess the kid looking fresh like men, like ghosts from the white dust talked hoarsely above the clatter of the truck and cycled up very close to Andrews. Do you like swimming skinny? Yes, I'd give a lot to get some of the cement dust off me said Andrews without interest. I once won a boys' swimming race at Coney, said the kid. Andrews did not answer. Were you in the swimming team or anything like that skinny when you went to school? No. It would be wonderful to be in the water though. I used to swim way out in Chesapeake Bay at night when the water was phosphorescent. Andrews suddenly found the kid's bright blue eyes bright as flames from excitement staring into his.  He muttered. He felt the kid's fist punch him softly in the back. Sergeant said there was going to work as late as hell tonight. The kid was saying aloud to the men around him. I'll be dead if they do. muttered Hogan back. And you a lumberjack. It ain't that. I could carry their bloody bags to at a time if I wanted to. I felt like it's so goddamn mad that's all. So goddamn mad. Doesn't he skinny? Hogan back turned to Andrews and smiled. Andrews nodded his head. After the first two or three bags Andrews carried in the afternoon. It seemed as if everyone would be the last he could possibly lift. His back and thighs throbbed with exhaustion. His face and the tips of his fingers felt raw from the biting cement dust. When the river began to grow purple with evening he noticed that two civilians, young men with buff-colored coats and canes were watching the gang at work. They says there are newspaper reporters writing up how fast the army's being demobilized. Said one man in an odd voice. They come to the right place. Tell them we're leaving for home now. Loading our barracks bags on the steamer. The newspaper men were giving out cigarettes. Several men grouped around them. One shouted out, We're the guys that does the light work. Blackjack Pershing's own pet labor battalion. They like us so well they just can't let us go.  Mothered hogging back, as with his eyes to the ground he passed to Andrews. I could tell him some things would make their goddamn ears buzz. Why don't you? What the hell's the use? I ain't got the education to talk up to guys like that. The sergeant, a short, red-faced man with a moustache clipped very short went up to the group around the newspaper men. Come on fellas, we've got a hell of a lot of this cement to get in before it rains. But in a kindly voice, the sooner we get it in, the sooner we get off.  Ain't he just too sweet for pie when there's company? Mothered hogging back on his way back from the barge with a bag of cement. The kid brushed past Andrews without looking at him. Do what I do skinny, he said. Andrews did not turn round but his heart started thumping very fast. A dull sort of terror took possession of him. He tried desperately to summon his willpower to keep him cringing but he kept remembering the way the room had swung round when the MP had hit him and heard again the cold voice of the lieutenant saying one of you men teach him how to salute. Time dragged out interminably. At last, coming back to the edge of the wharf, Andrews saw that there were no more bags in the barge. He sat down on the plank too exhausted to think. Blue grey dusk was closing down on everything. The posse bridge stood out purple against a great crimson afterglow. The kid sat down beside him and threw an arm trembling with excitement round his shoulders. The guards look in the other way. They won't miss us till they get to the truck. Come on, skinny, he said in a low, quiet voice. Holding onto the plank he let himself down into the speeding water. Andrews slipped after him, hardly knowing what he was doing. The icy water closing about his body made him suddenly feel awake and vigorous. As he was swept by the big rudder of the barge, he caught hold of the kid who was holding onto a rope. They worked their way without speaking round to the outer side of the rudder. The swift river tugging savagely at them made it hard to hold on.  Can you work your shoes and pants off? Andrews started struggling with one boot, the kid helping to hold them up with his free hand. Minor off, he said, I was all fixed. He laughed, though his teeth were chattering. All right, I've broken the laces, said Andrews. Can you swim underwater? Andrews nodded. We want to make for that bunch of bargers the other side of the bridge. How do you hide us? How do you know they will? The kid had disappeared. Andrews hesitated a moment. Then let go his hold and started swimming with the current for all his might. At first he felt strong and exultant, but very soon he began to feel the icy grip of the water bearing him down. His arms and legs seemed to stiffen.  He came to the surface and gasped for air. He had a second glimpse of figures like toy soldiers gesticulating wildly on the deck of the barge. The report of a rifle snapped through the air. He dove again, without thinking, as if his body were working independently of his mind. The next time he came up, his eyes were blurred from the cold.  The bridge was just above him. He turned on his back for a second. There were lights on the bridge. A current swept him past one barge and then another. Certainty possessed him that he was going to be drowned. A voice seemed to sob in his ears grotesquely, and so John Andrews was drowned in the sand, drowned in the sand, in the sand. Then he was kicking and fighting against the coils about him that wanted to drag him down and away.  How fast those barges go, he thought. Then suddenly he found that he had hold of a rope, that his shoulders were begging against the bow of a small boat, while in front of him, against the dull purple sky, towered the rudder of the barge. A strong, warm hand grasped the rudder from behind, and he was being drawn up and up over the bow of the boat that hurt his numbed body like blows out of the clutching coils of the water. Help me! Help me! I'm a deserter! he said over and over again in French.  Oh, qu'il à la peau blanche! Women's voices were shrilling behind the mist. A coverlet that felt soft and fuzzy against his skin was being put about him. He was very warm and torpid, but somewhere in his thoughts a black crawling thing like a spider was trying to reach him, trying to work its way through the pinkish veils of torpor. After a long while, he managed to roll over and look about him. Let's tronquil, came the woman's shrill voice again. And the other one? Did you see the other one? He asked in a choked whisper. Yes, it's all right. I'm drying it by the stove, came another woman's voice, deep and growling almost like a man's. Mama was drying your money by the stove. It's all safe. How rich they are, these Americans. And to think I nearly threw it in his trousers, said the other woman again. John Andrews began to look about him. He was in a low, dark cabin, behind him in the direction of the voices, a yellow light flickered. Great, disheveled shadows of heads moved about on the ceiling. Through the close smell of the cabin came a warmth of food cooking. He could hear the soothing hiss of frying grease. The kid, he asked in English daisily trying to pull himself together to think coherently. Then he went on in French in a more natural voice. There was another one with me. We saw no one. Rosaline asked the old man, said the older woman. No, he didn't see anyone, came the girl's shrill voice. She walked over to the bed and pulled the coverlet round Andrews with an awkward gesture. She saw the bulge of her breasts and her large teeth that glinted in the lamp light, and very vague in the shadow a mop of snakey red hair. Give power bien français, she said, beaming at him. Heavy steps shuffled across the cabin as the older woman came up to the bed and peered in his face. You va mieux, she said with a knowing air. She was a broad woman with a broad flat face and a swollen body swathed in shawls. Her eyebrows were very bushy and she had thick grey whiskers that came down to a point on either side of her mouth as well as a few bristling hairs on her chin. Her voice was deep and growling and seemed to come from far down inside her huge body. Steps creaked somewhere and the old man looked at him through spectacles clased on the end of his nose.  Thanks very much, he said. All three looked at him silently for some time. Then the old man pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully and fluttered it above Andrews' eyes. In the scant light Andrews made out the name Libertére. That's why, said the old man, looking at Andrews fixedly through his spectacles. I'm a sort of socialist, said Andrews. Socialists are good for nothings, snarled the old man. Every red protrusion on his face seemed to get redder. But I have great sympathy for anarchist comrades. Went on Andrews, feeling a certain liveliness of amusement, go through him and fade again. Lucky you caught hold of my rope instead of getting on to the next barge. He'd have given you up for sure. Don't take Royal East, say Salola. We must give him something to eat. Hurry, mama.  Andrews nodded his head. All you want, he said. No, if he says he's a comrade, he shan't pay. Not a sue, growled the old man. We'll see about that, cried the old woman, drawing her breath in with an angry whistling sound. It's only that living so dear nowadays, came the girl's voice. Oh, I'll pay anything I've got, said Andrews, peevishly, closing his eyes again. He lay a long while on his back without moving. A hand shoved in between his back and the pillow roused him. He sat up.  Mange ça, she said. He looked into her eyes, smiling. Her rusty hair was neatly combed. A bright green parrot with a scarlet splash on its wings, balanced itself unsteadily on her shoulder, looking at Andrews out of angry eyes, hard as jams. He he lay jaloo, Coco, said Rosaline with a frill little giggle. Andrews took the bowl in his two hands and drank some of the scalding broth. It's too hot, he said, leaning back against the girl's arm. The parrot squawked out a sentence that Andrews did not understand. Andrews heard the old man's voice answer from somewhere behind them. Nom de Dieu. The parrot squawked again. Rosaline laughed. It's the old man who taught him that, she said. Pour Coco, he doesn't know what he's saying. What does he say? Asked Andrews. Les bourgeois à la long terme. Nom de Dieu. It's from a song, said Rosaline. Oh, qu'il est malin, ce Coco. Rosaline was standing with her arms folded beside the bunk. The parrot stretched out his neck and rubbed it against her cheek, closing and unclosing his gem-like eyes. The girl formed her lips into a kiss and murmured in a dreamy voice. Tu m'aimes Coco, n'est pas Coco? Bon Coco. Could I have something more? I'm awfully hungry, said Andrews. Oh, I was forgetting, cried Rosaline, running off with the empty bowl. In a moment she came back without the parrot, with the bowl in her hand full of a brown stew of potatoes and meat. Andrews ate it mechanically and handed back the bowl. Thank you, he said. I'm going to sleep. He settled himself back into the bunk. Rosaline drew up the covers about him and tucked them in round his shoulders. Her hand seemed to linger a moment as it brushed past his cheek, and Andrews had already sunk into a torpor again, feeling nothing but the warmth of the food within him and a great stiffness in his arms and legs. When he woke up the light was gray instead of yellow and the swishing sound puzzled him. He lay listening to it for a long time, wondering what it was. At last the thought came with a sudden warm spurt of joy that the barge must be moving. He lay very quietly on his back, looking up at the faint silvery light on the ceiling of the bunk, thinking of nothing, with only a vague dread in the back of his head that someone would come to speak to him, to question him. After a long time he began to think of Jean-Vierreau. He was having a long conversation with her about his music, and in his imagination she kept telling him that he must finish the Queen of Sheba and that she would show it to Monsieur a concert director who might get it played. How long ago it must have been since they had talked about that? A picture floated through his mind of himself and Jean-Vierreau standing shoulder to shoulder looking at the cathedral at Chartres which stood up nonchalantly above the tumultuous roofs of the town with its sober tower and its gaudy towers and the great rose windows between. Inexorably his memory carried him forward moment by moment over that day until he writhed with shame and revolt. Good God! Would he have to go on all his life remembering that? Teach him how to salute, the officer had said, and handsome had stepped up and hit him. Would he have to go on all his life remembering that?  I asked him, what's the idea? Are you going to get up? It's nearly time to eat. How you have slept. But I haven't anything to put on, said Andrews, laughing and waved a bare arm above the bedclothes. Wait! I'll find something of the old man's. Say, do all Americans have skin so white as that? Look! She put her brown hand white with a few silky yellow hairs. It's because I'm blonde, said Andrews. There are plenty of blonde Frenchmen out there. Rosaline ran off giggling and came back in a moment with a pair of corduroy trousers and a torn flannel shirt that smelled of pipe tobacco. That'll do for now, she said. It's warm today for April. Tonight we'll buy you some clothes and shoes. Where are you going? By God! I don't know. We're going to Av, for cargo. She put both hands to her head and began rearranging her straggly rusty-colored hair. Oh, my hair, she said. It's the water, you know. You can't keep respectable looking on these filthy barges. Say, American, why don't you stay with us a while? You can help the old man run the boat. He found suddenly that her eyes were looking into his with trembling eagerness. I don't know what to do, he said carelessly. I wonder if it's safe to go on deck. She turned away from him petulently and led the way up the ladder. Oh, la la camarade, cried the old man who was leaning with all his might against the long tiller of the barge. Come up and help me. The barge was the last of a string of four that were describing a wide curve in the midst of a reach of silvery river full of glittering patches of pale, pea-green lavender hemmed in on either side by frail, blue roots of poplars. The sky was a mottled, luminous gray with occasional patches the color of robin's eggs. Andrews breathed in the dank smell of the river and leaned against the tiller when he was told to answering the old man's curt questions. He stayed with the tiller when the rest of them went down to the cabin to eat. The pale colors and swishing sound of the water and the banks slipping by and unfolding on either hand were as soothing as his deep sleep had been. Yet they seemed only avail covering other realities where men stood interminably in line and marched with legs made all the same length on the drill field and wore the same clothes and cringed before the same hierarchy of polished belts and polished patiss and stiff visored caps that had its homes in vast offices crammed with index cards and card catalogs a world full of the tramp of marching where cold voices kept saying teach him how to salute. Like a bird in a net Andrews' mind struggled to free itself from the obsession. Then he thought of his table in his room in Paris with its piled sheets of ruled paper and he felt he wanted nothing in the world except to work. It did not matter what happened to him if he could only have time to weave into designs the tangled skein of music that seethed through him as the blood seethed through his veins. There he stood leaning against the long tiller watching the blue-green poplars glide by here and there reflected in the etched silver mirror of the river feeling the moist river wind flutter his ragged shirt thinking of nothing. After a while the old man came up out of the cabin his face purplish puffing clouds of smoke out of his pipe. All right young fellow go down and eat he said. Andrews lay flat on his belly on the deck with his chin resting on the back of his two hands. The barge was tied up along the riverbank among many other barges. Beside him a small fuzzy dog barked furiously at a yellow mongrel on the shore. It was nearly dark and the mist of the river came red oblongs of light from the taverns along the bank. A slip of a new moon shrouded in haze was setting behind the poplar trees. Amid the round of despairing thoughts the memory of the kid intruded itself. He had sold a Ford for 500 francs and gone on a party with a man who'd stolen an ammunition train and he wanted to write for the Italian movies. No war could down people like that. Andrews smiled looking into the black water. Funny, the kid was dead probably and he, John Andrews, was alive and free. And he lay there moping still whimpering over old wrongs. For God's sake, be a man he said to himself. He got to his feet. At the cabin door Rosaline was playing with the parrot. Give me a kiss, Coco, she was saying in a drowsy voice. Just a little kiss. Just a little kiss for Rosaline. Poor Rosaline. The parrot, which Andrews could hardly see in the dusk, leaned towards her, fluttering his feathers making little clucking noises. Rosaline caught sight of Andrews. Oh, I thought you'd gone to have a drink with the old man. She cried. No, I stayed here.  Rosaline put the parrot back on his perch where he swayed from side to side squawking in protest Les bourgeois à la long term! Nom de Dieu! They both laughed. Oh, it must be a wonderful life. This barge seems like heaven after the army. But they pay you well, you Americans. Seven francs a day. That's luxury, that. And de-ordered around all day long. But you have no expenses. It's clear gain. You men are funny. The old man flight that too. It's nice here all by ourselves. Isn't it, Jean? Andrews did not answer. He was wondering what Jean-Vierre would say when she found out he was a deserter. I hate it. It's cold and dirty and miserable in winter. Went on Rosaline. I'd like to see them at the bottom of the river all these barges. And Paris women, did you have a good time with them? I only knew one. I go very little with women. All the same, loves nice, isn't it? They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled up so that her leg touched Andrews' leg along its whole length. The memory of Jean-Vierre became more and more vivid in his mind. He kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale brown eyes wide open on the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb in the Fayoum. Mothers talking to the old woman at the creamery. They're great friends. She won't be home for two hours yet, said Rosaline. I'm wearing my clothes, isn't she? But you're all right as you are. But they're your fathers. What does that matter? I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris. A woman? Andrews nodded. But it's not so bad, this life on the barge. I'm just lonesome and sick of the old people. That's why I talk nastily about it. We could have good times together if you stayed with us a little.  How cold these Americans are, she muttered, giggling drowsily. Andrews felt her hair tickle his cheek. No, it's not a bad life on the barge, honestly. The only thing is there's nothing but old people on the river. It isn't life to be always with old people. I want to have a good time. She pressed her cheek against his. He could feel her breath heavy in his face. After all, it's lovely in summer to drows on the deck that's all warm with the sun and see the trees and the fields and the little houses slipping by on either side. If there weren't so many old people, all the boys go away to the cities.  They're so dirty and slow. We mustn't waste our youth, must we? Andrews got to his feet. What's the matter? She cried sharply. Rosaline. Andrews said in a low, soft voice. I can only think of going to Paris. Oh, the Paris woman, said Rosaline scornfully. What does that matter? She isn't here now. I don't know. Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway, said Andrews.  You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you would desert her. Why, they may catch you and shoot you at any time. Oh, I know. You're right. You're right. But I'm not made like that. That's all. She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl. I've never touched her.  But you aren't sick, are you? She cried. Perhaps I remember too vividly. That's all.  There were steps on the plank that led to the shore.  The old woman came up to them, panting weasely. She looked from one to the other, trying to make out their faces in the dark. It's a danger. Like that. She muttered between hard, short breaths. Did you find the clothes? Asked Andrews in a casual voice. Yes. That leaves you 45 francs out of your money when I've taken out for your food and all that. Does that suit you? Thank you very much for your trouble. You paid for it. Don't worry about that, said the old woman. She gave him the bundle. Here are your clothes and the 45 francs. If you want, I'll give you exactly what each thing cost. I'll put them on first, he said with a laugh. He climbed down the ladder into the cabin. Putting on new, unfamiliar shaped clothes made him suddenly feel strong and joyous. The old woman had bought him corduroy trousers, cheap cloth shoes, a blue cotton shirt, woolen socks, and a second hand blue surge jacket. When he came up on deck she held up a lantern to look at him. Doesn't he look fine? Altogether French, she said. Rosaline turned away without answering. A little later she picked up the purge and carried the parrot that swayed sleepily on the cross piece down the ladder. Le bourgeois à la l'antenne, nom de Dieu! came the old man's voice singing on the shore. He's drunk as a pig, muttered the old woman. Only he doesn't fall off the gang plank. A swaying shadow appeared at the end of the plank, standing out against the haze of the light from the houses behind the popular trees. Andrews put out a hand to catch him as he reached the side of the barge. The old man sprawled against the cabin.  I found a comrade for the little American. What's that? said Andrews sharply. His mouth suddenly went dry with terror. He felt his nails pressing into the palms of his cold hands. I found another American for you, said the old man in an important voice. Here he comes. Another shadow appeared at the end of the gang plank. Le bourgeois à la l'antenne, nom de Dieu! The old man. Andrews backed away cautiously towards the other side of the bridge. All the little muscles of his thighs were trembling.  The man was standing on the end of the plank. Andrews could see the contour of the uniform against the haze of light behind the popular trees. God, if only I had a pistol, you thought. Hey buddy, where are you? came an American voice. The man advanced towards him across the deck. Andrews stood with every muscle taut.  Say, I'm not an MP, I'm a wall too. Shake, he held out his hand. Andrews took the hand doubtfully without moving from the edge of the barge. Say buddy, take off your uniform. Ain't you got any? If they pick you up like that, it's life kid. I can't help it. It's done now. God, you still think I'm an MP, don't ya? I swear I ain't. Maybe you are.  A fella can't put his trust in nobody. What division are you from? Hell, I came to warn you this bastard frogs got soused and has been blabbing in the gin mill how he was an anarchist and all that and how he had an American deserter who was an anarchist and all that and I said to myself, that guy will get nabbed if he ain't careful. So I caught him up to the old frog and said I'd go with him to see the Camerad and I think we'd better both of us make tracks out of this burg. It's damn decent. I'm sorry I was so suspicious. I was scared green when I first saw you.  But why did you take your uniform off? Come along, let's beat it. I'll tell you about that. Andrew shook hands with the old man and the old woman. Rosaline had disappeared. Good night, thank you, he said and followed the other man across the gangplank. As they walked away along the road they heard the old man's voice roaring Les bourgeois à la long terme nom de Dieu My name's Eddie Chambers, said the American. Mine's John Andrews. How long have you been out? Two days. Eddie let the air out through his teeth in a whistle. I got away from a labour battalion in Paris. They'd picked me up in shock for without a pass. Gee, I've been out a month and more. Was you infantry too? Yes. I was in the school detachment in Paris when I was picked up. But I never could get word to them. They just put me to work without a trial. Ever been in a labour battalion? No, thank God they ain't got my number yet. They were walking fast along a straight road across a plane under a clear, star-powdered sky. I've been out eight weeks yesterday. What do you think of that, said Eddie? Must have been plenty of money to go on. I've been flat 15 days. How do you work it? I don't know, I just work it though. You see, it was this way. The gang I was with went home when I was in hospital and the damn skunks put me in class A and was going to send me to the Army of Occupation. God, it made me sick. Going out to a new outfit where I didn't know anybody and all the rest of my bunch home walking down Water Street with brass bands and reception committees and girls throwing kisses at them and all that. Where are yous going? Paris. Gee, I wouldn't. Risky. But I've got friends there. I can get hold of some money. Looks like I hadn't got a friend in the world. I wish I'd gone to that goddamn outfit now. I ought to have been in the engineers all the time anyway. What did you do at home? Carpenter. But gosh, man, with a trade like that you can always make a living anywhere. You goddamn right, I could. But a guy has to live underground like a rabbit at this game.  If the Army ever moves out of here in the goddamn MPs I'll set up a business in one of these here little pounds. I can parley pretty well. I'd just as soon marry a French girl and get to be a regular frog myself. After the raw deal they've given me in the Army I don't want to have nothing more to do with their damn country. Democracy. He cleared his throat and spat angrily on the road before him. They walked on silently. Andrews was looking at the sky picking out constellations he knew among the glittering masses of stars. Why don't you try Spain or Italy? he said after a while. Don't know the lingo. No, I'm going to Scotland. But how can you get there? Crossing on the car fairies to England from Av. I've talked to guys who's done it. But what'll you do when you get there? How should I know? Live around best I can? What can a fellow do when he don't dare show his face in the street? Anyway, it makes you feel as if you had some guts in you to be out on your own this way, cried Andrews boisterously. Wait till you've been at it two months boy and you'll think what I'm telling you. The Army's hell when you're in it but it's a hell of a lot worse out of it at the wrong end. It's a great night anyway said Andrews. Looks like we ought to be fine on the haystack to sleep in. It'll be different burst out Andrews suddenly if I didn't have friends here. Oh, you've met up with a girl have you? asked Eddie ironically. Yes, the thing is we really get along together besides all the rest. Eddie snorted.  Gee, I've had buddies has met up with that friendly kind. I know a guy married one and found out after two weeks. It's silly to talk about it I can't explain it. It gives you confidence in anything to feel there's someone who will always understand anything you do. I suppose you're going to get married. I don't see why. That would spoil everything. Eddie whistled softly. They walked along briskly without speaking for a long time their steps ringing on the hard road while the dome of the sky shimmered above their heads and from the ditches came the sing-song shrilling of toads. For the first time in months Andrews felt himself bubbling with the spirit of joyous adventure. The rhythm of the three green horsemen that was to have been the prelude to the Queen of Sheba began rollicking through his head. But Eddie this is wonderful it's us against the universe he said in a boisterous voice. You wait said Eddie. When Andrews walked by the MP at the gare Saint Lazare his eyes were cold with fear. The MP did not look at him he stopped on the crowded pavement a little way from the station and stared into a mirror in a shop window unshaven with a check cap on the side of his head and his corduroy trousers he looked like a young workman who had been out of work for a month. Gee, clothes do make a difference he said to himself.