The Martial Adventures of Henry and MeWhite, William Allen
History
The Martial Adventures of Henry and Me
White, William Allen
World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
The girl porters came through and turned on the lights in the
train. No lights outside told us that we were hurrying through a
great city. Paris was dark. We went through the underground where
there was more light than there was above ground. The streets seemed
like tunnels and the tunnels like streets. We came into the dingy
station and a score of women porters and red capped girls came for
our baggage. They ran the trucks, they moved the express; they
took care of the mail, and through them we edged up the stairway
into the half-lighted station and looked out into the night--black,
lampless, engulfing--and it was Paris!
It was nine o'clock as we stood on the threshold of the station
peering into the murk. Not a taxi was in the stand waiting; but
from afar we could hear a great honking of auto-horns, that sounded
like the night calls of monster birds flitting over the city. The
air was vibrant with these wild calls. We were an hour waiting there
in the gloom for a conveyance. But when we left the wide square
about the station, and came into the streets of Paris, we understood
why the auto horns were bellowing so. For the automobiles were
running lickety-split through the darkness without lights and
the howls of their horns pierced the night. The few street lights
burning a low candle power at the intersections of the great
boulevards were hooded and cast but a pale glow on the pavements.
And as we rode from our station and passed the Tuileries and the
Rue de Rivoli, save for the dim outline of the iron railings of
the Gardens ten feet from our cab window, we had no sign to mark
our way. Yet our cab whizzed along at a twenty-five mile gait,
and every few seconds a great blatting devil would honk out of the
darkness, and whirl past us, and sometimes we would be abreast of
another and the fiendish horns of us would go screaming in chorus
as we raced and passed and repassed one another on the broad street.
The din was nerve racking--but highly Parisian. One fancied that
Paris, being denied its lights, made up its quota of sensation by
multiplying its sound!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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