“I shall feel better satisfied,” she rejoined, “if you will promise me not to trouble the poor old gentleman about business matters.”
I had no difficulty in conscientiously giving such a promise. Then Francis continued—
“I must also warn you the General is not alone. We have a certain Captain Rolf, an old pensioned officer, quartered at the Werve; he is of rude manners and ill-educated, for he has risen from the ranks; but he has a good heart, and my grandfather could not do without his company. Our way of treating each other may surprise you, perhaps annoy you. Even when I was a child he called me his colonel, and flew anywhere at a wink from me; and he does so still, though his movements have been rendered more tardy by his stiff legs and rheumatism. Fishing is his favourite amusement since he has been obliged to give up shooting. I employ him as my gamekeeper; and when the cook is ill, he prefers frying a beefsteak and making the soup himself, to going on short commons. In fact, he is a gastronome, and since he obtained his pension his whole time seems to be occupied with the grand question: ‘What shall we eat to day?’ And, alas! grandfather is no less interested in the same subject, so that most of their morning conversation is about the dishes to be prepared for the dinner.”
As we drew near the manor-house Francis gently withdrew her arm from mine, and stepped on sharply as we heard the clock in the village church-steeple strike one, saying—
“I know I am being waited for impatiently, and half the garrison will have turned out in search of me.”
Chapter XII.
The Castle de Werve presented all the appearances of ancient opulence; but also of dilapidation dating from a long time back. There was the feudal drawbridge, immovable through long disuse, leading straight to the large gate, full of those iron rivets used in olden times as a defence against the attacks of the hatchet and pike. But the wood itself was rotting, and the rusty hinges could scarcely sustain their accustomed weight. In the tumbledown walls I could see loopholes large enough for a giant to creep through.
The house had been rebuilt in the time of the Stadtholder William III.—King William III. of England—and the rich, solemn style then in vogue had been adopted. There was a sort of rotunda in the centre, kept, relatively speaking, in better repair than the rest of the building, flanked by two wings, which seemed uninhabited, and in fact so neglected as to be uninhabitable. Most of the panes were cracked or broken, and only in some cases had the broken glass been replaced by gray paper. The aloe-trees, set out to ornament the front of the house, were planted for the greater part in cracked or broken vases.
As Francis had remarked, before I could follow her into the house “half the garrison turned out” to salute us in the person of the Captain, whom I immediately recognized from the description I had had of him. He wore a blue jacket and trousers, a waistcoat buttoned close up to his chin, and the military black-leather collar, which he had not yet been able to dispense with. The William’s Order[1] adorned his breast; and he stood erect in spite of his stiff leg, which obliged him to support himself with a stick. He had placed his cap jauntily and soldier-like on one side of his head, and his entire bearing called up the idea of a military man only half at his ease in civilian dress. Though deep in the fifties, his hair is still jet black, and the length and stiffness of his mustachios, à la Napoléon, indicate a constant use of cosmetics. His face is very red, his eyes brown and bold, his features rude, and his thick red lips and short round chin give him a sensual appearance. He had in his mouth a long German pipe, from which he puffed clouds of smoke, and after a military salute he accosted us in these words—