The Street of Seven Stars

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Jimmy was dying. Peter, fighting hard, was beaten at last. All throughthe night he had felt it; during the hours before the dawn there hadbeen times when the small pulse wavered, flickered, almost ceased. Withthe daylight there had been a trifle of recovery, enough for a bit ofhope, enough to make harder Peter's acceptance of the inevitable.

  The boy was very happy, quite content and comfortable. When he openedhis eyes he smiled at Peter, and Peter, gray of face, smiled back. Peterdied many deaths that night.

  At daylight Jimmy fell into a sleep that was really stupor. Marie,creeping to the door in the faint dawn, found the boy apparentlyasleep and Peter on his knees beside the bed. He raised his head ather footstep and the girl was startled at the suffering in his face. Hemotioned her back.

  "But you must have a little sleep, Peter."

  "No. I'll stay until--Go back to bed. It is very early."

  Peter had not been able after all to secure the Nurse Elisabet, and nowit was useless. At eight o'clock he let Marie take his place, then hebathed and dressed and prepared to face another day, perhaps anothernight. For the child's release came slowly. He tried to eat breakfast,but managed only a cup of coffee.

  Many things had come to Peter in the long night, and one wasinsistent--the boy's mother was in Vienna and he was dying without her.Peter might know in his heart that he had done the best thing for thechild, but like Harmony his early training was rising now to accusehim. He had separated mother and child. Who was he to have decided themother's unfitness, to have played destiny? How lightly he had taken thelives of others in his hand, and to what end? Harmony, God knows where;the boy dying without his mother. Whatever that mother might be, herplace that day was with her boy. What a wreck he had made of things! Hewas humbled as well as stricken, poor Peter!

  In the morning he sent a note to McLean, asking him to try to trace themother and inclosing the music-hall clipping and the letter. The letter,signed only "Mamma," was not helpful. The clipping might prove valuable.

  "And for Heaven's sake be quick," wrote Peter. "This is a matter ofhours. I meant well, but I've done a terrible thing. Bring her, Mac, nomatter what she is or where you find her." The Portier carried the note.When he came up to get it he brought in his pocket a small rabbit anda lettuce leaf. Never before had the combination failed to arouse andamuse the boy. He carried the rabbit down again sorrowfully. "He sawit not," he reported sadly to his wife. "Be off to the church whileI deliver this letter. And this rabbit we will not cook, but keep inremembrance."

  At eleven o'clock Marie called Peter, who was asleep on the horsehairsofa.

  "He asks for you."

  Peter was instantly awake and on his feet. The boy's eyes were open andfixed on him.

  "Is it another day?" he asked.

  "Yes, boy; another morning."

  "I am cold, Peter."

  They blanketed him, although the room was warm. From where he lay hecould see the mice. He watched them for a moment. Poor Peter, veryhumble, found himself wondering in how many ways he had been remiss. Tosee this small soul launched into eternity without a foreword, without abit of light for the journey! Peter's religion had been one of life andliving, not of creed.

  Marie, bringing jugs of hot water, bent over Peter.

  "He knows, poor little one!" she whispered.

  And so, indeed, it would seem. The boy, revived by a spoonful or two ofbroth, asked to have the two tame mice on the bed. Peter, opening thecage, found one dead, very stiff and stark. The catastrophe he kept fromthe boy.

  "One is sick, Jimmy boy," he said, and placed the mate, forlorn andshivering, on the pillow. After a minute:--

  "If the sick one dies will it go to heaven?"

  "Yes, honey, I think so."

  The boy was silent for a time. Thinking was easier than speech. His mindtoo worked slowly. It was after a pause, while he lay there with closedeyes, that Peter saw two tears slip from under his long lashes. Peterbent over and wiped them away, a great ache in his heart.

  "What is it, dear?"

  "I'm afraid--it's going to die!"

  "Would that be so terrible, Jimmy boy?" asked Peter gently. "To go toheaven, where there is no more death or dying, where it is always summerand the sun always shines?"

  No reply for a moment. The little mouse sat up on the pillow and rubbedits nose with a pinkish paw. The baby mice in the cage nuzzled theirdead mother.

  "Is there grass?"

  "Yes--soft green grass."

  "Do--boys in heaven--go in their bare feet?" Ah, small mind and heart,so terrified and yet so curious!

  "Indeed, yes." And there on his knees beside the white bed Peter paintedsuch a heaven as no theologue has ever had the humanity to paint--aheaven of babbling brooks and laughing, playing children, a heaven ofdear departed puppies and resurrected birds, of friendly deer, of treesin fruit, of speckled fish in bright rivers. Painted his heaven withsmiling eyes and death in his heart, a child's heaven of games andfriendly Indians, of sunlight and rain, sweet sleep and brisk awakening.

  The boy listened. He was silent when Peter had finished. Speech wasincreasingly an effort.

  "I should--like--to go there," he whispered at last.

  He did not speak again during all the long afternoon, but just at duskhe roused again.

  "I would like--to see--the sentry," he said with difficulty.

  And so again, and for the last time, Rosa's soldier from Salzburg withone lung.

  Through all that long day, then, Harmony sat over her work, unaccustomedmuscles aching, the whirring machines in her ears. Monia, upset over themorning's excitement, was irritable and unreasonable. The gold-tissuecostume had come back from Le Grande with a complaint. Below in thecourtyard all day curious groups stood gaping up the staircase, wherethe morning had seen such occurrences.

  At the noon hour, while the girls heated soup and carried in pails ofsalad from the corner restaurant, Harmony had fallen into the way ofplaying for them. To the music-loving Viennese girls this was the hourof the day. To sit back, soup bowl on knee, the machines silent, Moniaquarreling in the kitchen with the Hungarian servant, and while thepigeons ate crusts on the window-sills, to hear this American girl playsuch music as was played at the opera, her slim figure swaying, herwhole beautiful face and body glowing with the melody she made, thegirls found the situation piquant, altogether delightful. Although shedid not suspect it, many rumors were rife about Harmony in the workroom.She was not of the people, they said--the daughter of a great American,of course, run away to escape a loveless marriage. This was borne outby the report of one of them who had glimpsed the silk petticoat. Itwas rumored also that she wore no chemise, but instead an infinitelycoquettish series of lace and nainsook garments--of a fineness!

  Harmony played for them that day, played, perhaps, as she had not playedsince the day she had moved the master to tears, played to Peter as shehad seen him at the window, to Jimmy, to the little Georgiev as he wentdown the staircase. And finally with a choke in her throat to the littlemother back home, so hopeful, so ignorant.

  In the evening, as was her custom, she took the one real meal of the dayat the corner restaurant, going early to avoid the crowd and coming backquickly through the winter night. The staircase was always a peril, tobe encountered and conquered night after night and even in the daytimenot to be lightly regarded. On her way up this night she heard stepsahead, heavy, measured steps that climbed steadily without pauses. Foran instant Harmony thought it sounded like Peter's step and she wentdizzy.

  But it was not Peter. Standing in the upper hall, much as he had stoodthat morning over the ammunition boxes, thumbs in, heels in, toes out,chest out, was the sentry.

  Harmony's first thought was of Georgiev and more searching of thebuilding. Then she saw that the sentry's impassive face wore lines oftrouble. He saluted. "Please, Fraulein."

  "Yes?"

  "I have not told the Herr Doktor."

  "I thank you."

  "But the child
dies."

  "Jimmy?"

  "He dies all of last night and to-day. To-night, it is, perhaps, but ofmoments."

  Harmony clutched at the iron stair-rail for support. "You are sure? Youare not telling me so that I will go back?"

  "He dies, Fraulein. The Herr Doktor has not slept for many hours. Mywife, Rosa, sits on the stair to see that none disturb, and her cousin,the wife of the Portier, weeps over the stove. Please, Fraulein, comewith me."

  "When did you leave the Siebensternstrasse?"

  "But now."

  "And he still lives?"

  "Ja, Fraulein, and asks for you."

  Now suddenly fell away from the girl all pride, all fear, all that waspersonal and small and frightened, before the reality of death. Sherose, as women by divine gift do rise, to the crisis; ceased trembling,got her hat and coat and her shabby gloves and joined the sentry again.Another moment's delay--to secure the Le Grande's address from Monia.Then out into the night, Harmony to the Siebensternstrasse, the tallsoldier to find the dancer at her hotel, or failing that, at theRonacher Music-Hall.

  Harmony took a taxicab--nothing must be spared now--bribed the chauffeurto greater speed, arrived at the house and ran across the garden, stilltearless, up the stairs, past Rosa on the upper flight, and rang thebell.

  Marie admitted her with only a little gasp of surprise. There wasnothing to warn Peter. One moment he sat by the bed, watch in hand,alone, drear, tragic-eyed. The next he had glanced up, saw Harmony andwent white, holding to the back of his chair. Their eyes met, agonyand hope in them, love and death, rapture and bitterness. In Harmony's,pleading, promise, something of doubt; in Peter's, only yearning, as ofempty arms. Then Harmony dared to look at the bed and fell on her kneesin a storm of grief beside it. Peter bent over and gently stroked herhair.

  Le Grande was singing; the boxes were full. In the body of the immensetheater waiters scurried back and forward among the tables. Everywherewas the clatter of silver and steel on porcelain, the clink of glasses.Smoke was everywhere--pipes, cigars, cigarettes. Women smoked betweenbites at the tables, using small paper or silver mouthpieces, even agold one shone here and there. Men walked up and down among the diners,spraying the air with chemicals to clear it. At a table just below thestage sat the red-bearded Dozent with the lady of the photograph. Theywere drinking cheap native wines and were very happy.

  From the height of his worldly wisdom he was explaining the people toher.

  "In the box--don't stare, Liebchen, he looks--is the princeling I havetold you of. Roses, of course. Last night it was orchids."

  "Last night! Were you here?" He coughed.

  "I have been told, Liebchen. Each night he sits there, and when shefinishes her song he rises in the box, kisses the flowers and tossesthem to her."

  "Shameless! Is she so beautiful?"

  "No. But you shall see. She comes."

  Le Grande was very popular. She occupied the best place on the program;and because she sang in American, which is not exactly English and moredifficult to understand, her songs were considered exceedingly risque.As a matter of fact they were merely ragtime melodies, with a lilt tothem that caught the Viennese fancy, accustomed to German sentimentalditties and the artificial forms of grand opera. And there was anotherreason for her success. She carried with her a chorus of a dozenpickaninnies.

  In Austria darkies were as rare as cats, and there were no cats! So thelittle chorus had made good.

  Each day she walked in the Prater, ermine from head to foot, and behindher two by two trailed twelve little Southern darkies in red-velvetcoats and caps, grinning sociably. When she drove a pair sat on theboot.

  Her voice was strong, not sweet, spoiled by years of singing againstdishes and bottles in smoky music halls; spoiled by cigarettes andabsinthe and foreign cocktails that resembled their American prototypesas the night resembles the day.

  She wore the gold dress, decolletee, slashed to the knee overrhinestone-spangled stockings. And back of her trailed the twelve littledarkies.

  She sang "Dixie," of course, and the "Old Folks at Home"; then a ragtimemedley, with the chorus showing rows of white teeth and clogging withall their short legs. Le Grande danced to that, a whirling, nimbledance. The little rhinestones on her stockings flashed; her opulentbosom quivered. The Dozent, eyes on the dancer, squeezed his companion'shand.

  "I love thee!" he whispered, rather flushed.

  And then she sang "Doan ye cry, mah honey." Her voice, rather coarse butmelodious, lent itself to the negro rhythm, the swing and lilt of thelullaby. The little darkies, eyes rolling, preternaturally solemn,linked arms and swayed rhythmically, right, left, right, left. Theglasses ceased clinking; sturdy citizens forgot their steak and beerfor a moment and listened, knife and fork poised. Under the table theDozent's hand pressed its captive affectionately, his eyes no longeron Le Grande, but on the woman across, his sweetheart, she who wouldbe mother of his children. The words meant little to the audience; therich, rolling Southern lullaby held them rapt:--

  "Doan ye Cry, mah honey-- Doan ye weep no mo', Mammy's gwine to hold her baby, All de udder black trash sleepin' on the flo',"

  The little darkies swayed; the singer swayed, empty arms cradled.

  She picked the tiniest darky up and held him, woolly head against herbreast, and crooned to him, rocking on her jeweled heels. The crowdapplauded; the man in the box kissed his flowers and flung them. Glassesand dishes clinked again.

  The Dozent bent across the table.

  "Some day--" he said.

  The girl blushed.

  Le Grande made her way into the wings, surrounded by her little troupe.A motherly colored woman took them, shooed them off, rounded them uplike a flock of chickens.

  And there in the wings, grimly impassive, stood a private soldier of theold Franz Josef, blocking the door to her dressing room. For a momentgold dress and dark blue-gray uniform confronted each other. Then thesentry touched his cap.

  "Madam," he said, "the child is in the Riebensternstrasse and to-nighthe dies."

  "What child?" Her arms were full of flowers.

  "The child from the hospital. Please to make haste."

  Jimmy died an hour after midnight, quite peacefully, died with one handin Harmony's and one between Peter's two big ones.

  Toward the last he called Peter "Daddy" and asked for a drink. His eyes,moving slowly round the room, passed without notice the grayfaced womanin a gold dress who stood staring down at him, rested a moment on thecage of mice, came to a stop in the doorway, where stood the sentry,white and weary, but refusing rest.

  It was Harmony who divined the child's unspoken wish.

  "The manual?" she whispered.

  The boy nodded. And so just inside the door of the bedroom across fromthe old salon of Maria Theresa the sentry, with sad eyes but no lack ofvigor, went again through the Austrian manual of arms, and because hehad no carbine he used Peter's old walking-stick.

  When it was finished the boy smiled faintly, tried to salute, lay still.