He had given all he had. He had not
lived well, but he had died well. And there was something to be
said for death. For the first time in her healthy life she
wondered about death, standing here on the Crillon balcony, with
the city gone mad with life below her. Death was quiet. It might
be rather wonderful. She thought, if Clay did not want her, that
perhaps it would be very comforting just to die and forget about
everything.
From beneath the balcony there came again, lustily the shouts of
a dozen doughboys hauling a German gun:
"Hail! hail! the gang's all here!
What the hell do we care?
What the hell do we care?
Hail, hail, the gang's all here!
What the hell do we care now?"
Then, that night, Clay came. The roistering city outside had made
of her little sitting-room a sort of sanctuary, into which came only
faintly the blasts of horns, hoarse strains of the "Marseillaise"
sung by an un-vocal people, the shuffling of myriad feet, the
occasional semi-hysterical screams of women.
Pages:
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662