“Only for the duration of the war,” says the Prince.
“The duration of the war!” But I am determined to look on the bright side.
“He will have nothing to eat,” moans Madame between her sobs.
“He will live well,” asserts the Prince patiently. He would take his prisoner off at once, only he does not wish to precipitate more scenes.
Live well! What a mockery. The German soldiers have themselves told me that the civilian prisoners only get bread and water during the term of their imprisonment.
I remember the words of my Belgian friend, the Tax-collector, when I asked him if they ever killed civilian prisoners.
“Kill them? No, indeed,” he said nonchalantly. “They give them too little to eat. That is all.”
I go into the little kitchen at the back and grope in the cupboard for bread and for butter to make tartines for M. le Précepteur.
An officer comes in and coolly appropriates some eggs in a wire-work basket.
“Fresh eggs,” he says appreciatively.