“You lie!” He prods at my left shoulder with his bayonet, but he either fears to strike hard or the padded arrangement worn under my dress with a view to such contingencies does its work well. My wound is nothing but an abrasion of the skin.
The swashbuckler swaggers into the yard and coolly appropriates the hayrick. His friend, a gentle-faced, blond giant looks down at me with regret.
“You need not fear. I will see that you come to no harm. My friend there is a wild fellow,” he murmurs apologetically.
“Fear. Ich bin Engländerin,” I answer simply.
He laughs. “You are as brave as your brave little army. But—such a mere handful of men. How can it stand up against us!”
The swashbuckler returns. They leave the inn together and later appear before the Gendarmerie with the weird medley of weapons which every cavalryman seems to carry. They hammer at the stable door. It is smashed and their horses feeding in the empty stalls in less time than it takes to relate. Their next step is to batter at the door of the Gendarmerie itself. I go to the back of the house whence a narrow window commands a view of the place. Perfidious people! They have no respect for the sanctity of home. The Commandant’s little treasures are quickly found. They run from room to room, opening drawers and rummaging through the contents, even overturning furniture. One man gets hold of a pile of letters, tied with ribbon. Love-letters perhaps.
Downstairs they go and bring up a ham, bread, some wine. A “pique-nique” in war-time is huge fun. They thoroughly enjoy their impromptu meal in the back bedroom. The remains of food are left scattered about the uncarpeted floors; some of it is trodden carelessly under the soldiers’ feet.
Everything is tossed about as green hay in the harvest field. The very sheets are torn from the beds and lie in little white ghostly heaps on the dark-stained boards. The Brandenburgers come out into the street where a row of stalwart bayoneting Cuirassiers are keeping order. My nice blond giant has a huge cigar between his teeth, the Commandant’s cigar, so has my swashbuckling bully.
They both lunch at the inn and fall to as if they had had nothing to eat for the last ten months. I am made to translate and can scarcely speak for anger. I suspect them of every crime.
Saturday.—The blond giant comes in at all hours. Everyone in the village likes him now in spite of his behaviour at the Gendarmerie. He seems gentle, mild-eyed and very courteous. We have been used to different treatment. He arranges everything so nicely, too. For instance, he begs us all not to put our noses out of the houses after twilight, under any pretext. “I can’t bear to think of your being frightened; my sentries might make a mistake,” he says, smiling pleasantly. The poor literal peasants don’t see that this is an euphuism for shooting us on sight. Orders, no doubt.