“Yes.... Yes,” he answered, not knowing what to say.
“And monsieur loved her, did he not? It was Arlette who declared it to be so. Always she spoke of the fondness of monsieur for the petite fille—the tiny Arlette.”
“Little Arlette! What do you mean, madame? What has happened to little Arlette?”
“La longue portée, monsieur. Again it began to fire this day. It is that you have heard its explosions.... This Big Bertha of the boche that murders babies!... La pauvre enfant! She is playing in the street before her home. Out of the sky comes the shell of this so wicked cannon. There is a noise of great frightfulness.” She covered her eyes. “When the smoke makes to lift itself and one can see—there lies little Arlette....”
“Killed!” Kendall felt something that was rage and grief clutch his throat. “Have they killed that child?”
“She still lives, monsieur, and asks for you. It is so.... But she will die. It is dreadful. Yes.... Both legs, monsieur, at the knee. They were swept from beneath her as with a scythe ... and she still lives—asking for monsieur.”
“Where?”
She told him the hospital, and without a word he turned, running, to search for a taxicab. The thing was incredible. Little Arlette, that mite from fairyland, maimed and bleeding and dying. Such things could not be. This was not war.... He raged, though tears were wet upon his cheeks.... As he rode, the dainty figure of the child stood before him, chin upraised, mouth opened birdwise to sing. He saw her as if she were real.... And then he saw that scene in the street: children playing, the sun daring to shine.... A sudden rushing in the air above, a tremendous detonation. He saw it all, even to the most minute happening. He saw little Arlette standing erect, stricken with sudden fear, saw the burst of the explosion, saw the child diminish suddenly in stature as her little legs were flicked from under her and she dropped upon bleeding stumps before toppling to the pavement.... He uttered a hoarse groan of protest.... He cowered back into a corner of the taxicab and shut his eyes, as if that could shut out the pictures of his imagination.
And she had called for him!
It seemed he was expected at the hospital, for he was escorted immediately to the little bed upon which Arlette lay. He had dreaded to see her, flinching from a sight which he apprehended might be horrible. He forced himself to look ... and the horror passed. The little face upon the pillow was bloodless, her eyes closed. She seemed not alive, but a thing of fragile loveliness carved from some material brought into being by the fairies for this very purpose.... There was no trace of pain—only motionlessness, a mysterious gravity ... and peace. Old Arlette sat with eyes fixed unwaveringly on the little face; the child’s mother cowered with her face against Arlette’s ample shoulder.... Ken stood in silence.