§8
Before I end these Wouverman-Callot[[72]] sketches of barrack-life and this prison-gossip which only repeats the recollections of all captives like myself, I shall say something also of the officers.
[72]. Wouverman (1619-1668), a Dutch painter; Callot (1592-1635), a French painter; both painted outdoor life, soldiers, beggars, etc.
Most of them were not spies at all, but good enough people, who had drifted by chance into the constabulary. Young nobles, with little or no education, without fortune or any settled prospects, they had taken to this life, because they had nothing else to do. They performed their duties with military precision, but without a scrap of enthusiasm, as far as I could see; I must except the adjutant, indeed; but then that was just why he was adjutant. When I got to know the officers, they granted me all the small indulgences that were in their power, and it would be a sin for me to complain of them.
One of the young officers told me a story of the year 1831, when he was sent to hunt down and arrest a Polish gentleman who was in hiding somewhere near his own estate. He was accused of having relations with agitators. The officer started on his mission, made enquiries, and discovered the Pole’s hiding place. He led his men there, surrounded the house, and entered it with two constables. The house was empty: they went through all the rooms and hunted about, but no one was to be seen; and yet some trifling signs proved that the house had been occupied not long before. Leaving his men below, the young officer went up to the attics a second time; after a careful search, he found a small door leading to a garret or secret chamber of some kind; the door was locked on the inside, but flew open at a kick. Behind it stood a tall and beautiful woman; she pointed without a word to a man who held in his arms a fainting girl of twelve. It was the Pole and his family. The officer was taken aback. The tall woman perceived this and said, “Can you be barbarous enough to destroy them?” The officer apologised: he urged the stock excuse, that a soldier is bound to implicit obedience; but at last, in despair, as he saw that his words had not the slightest effect, he ended by asking what he was to do. The woman looked haughtily at him, pointed to the door, and said, “Go down at once and say that there is no one here.” “I swear I cannot explain it,” the officer said, “but down I went and ordered the sergeant to collect the party. Two hours later we were beating every bush on another estate, while our man was slipping across the frontier. Strange, what things women make one do!”