NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO

Argensola had found a new occupation even more exciting than marking out on the map the manoeuvres of the armies.

“I am now devoting myself to the taube,” he announced.  “It appears from four to five with the precision a punctilious guest coming to take tea.”

Every afternoon at the appointed hour, a German aeroplane was flying over Paris dropping bombs.  This would-be intimidation was producing no terror, the people accepting the visit as an interesting and extraordinary spectacle.  In vain the aviators were flinging in the city streets German flags bearing ironic messages, giving accounts of the defeat of the retreating army and the failures of the Russian offensive.  Lies, all lies!  In vain they were dropping bombs, destroying garrets, killing or wounding old men, women and babes.  “Ah, the bandits!” The crowds would threaten with their fists the malign mosquito, scarcely visible 6,000 feet above them, and after this outburst, they would follow it with straining eyes from street to street, or stand motionless in the square in order to study its evolutions.

The most punctual of all the spectators was Argensola.  At four o’clock he was in the place de la Concorde with upturned face and wide-open eyes, in most cordial good-fellowship with all the bystanders.  It was as though they were holding season tickets at the same theatre, becoming acquainted through seeing each other so often.  “Will it come? . . .  Will it not come to-day?” The women appeared to be the most vehement, some of them rushing up, flushed and breathless, fearing that they might have arrived too late for the show. . . .  A great cry—­“There it comes! . . .  There it is!” And thousands of hands were pointing to a vague spot on the horizon.  With field glasses and telescopes they were aiding their vision, the popular venders offering every kind of optical instruments and for an hour the thrilling spectacle of an aerial hunt was played out, noisy and useless.

The great insect was trying to reach the Eiffel Tower, and from its base would come sharp reports, at the same time that the different platforms spit out a fierce stream of shrapnel.  As it zigzagged over the city, the discharge of rifles would crackle from roof and street.  Everyone that had arms in his house was firing—­the soldiers of the guard, and the English and Belgians on their way through Paris.  They knew that their shots were perfectly useless, but they were firing for the fun of retorting, hoping at the same time that one of their chance shots might achieve a miracle; but the only miracle was that the shooters did not kill each other with their precipitate and ineffectual fire.  As it was, a few passers-by did fall, wounded by balls from unknown sources.

Argensola would tear from street to street following the evolutions of the inimical bird, trying to guess where its projectiles would fall, anxious to be the first to reach the bombarded house, excited by the shots that were answering from below.  And to think that he had no gun like those khaki-clad Englishmen or those Belgians in barrick cap, with tassel over the front! . . .  Finally the taube tired of manoeuvering, would disappear.  “Until to-morrow!” ejaculated the Spaniard.  “Perhaps to-morrow’s show may be even more interesting!”