“That is not the reason,” returns the Prince, looking a little uncomfortable this time, “she is troubled because he is taken as prisoner.”
“Prisoner,” I say, stupefied.
“C’est la guerre,” he answers a little cynically, a little sullenly.
I turn away and stumble over the threshold.
In the sitting-room are the Prince, two officers, M. le Précepteur, looking hot and sticky yet deathly white, holding Germaine in his arms. Mme la Précepteur in a morning wrapper is yelling in accents which make pig-killing seem gentle by comparison. Hanging to her skirts is M. Victor, decidedly unwashed, but, mercifully, by now too short of breath to cry effectively.
“Mon pauvre mari, mes pauvres enfants,” sobs Madame. Her face is purple with emotion, the tears are coursing down her cheeks. She is a piteous spectacle of unrestrained grief.
The Prince of Meiningen says to me in quiet tones the words every German seems to use when in a tight corner.
“Es ist unsere pflicht” (It is our duty).
In front of M. le Précepteur is a little travelling-bag with a shirt and a few collars. I think he would go on packing if Madame would not insist on half-throttling him with her embraces every other minute.
“It will only be for a short time,” I say comfortingly to Monsieur le Précepteur.