The remainder of the troop form up and charge towards us down the road. They interrupt their dash at the post office. The officer points a revolver at M. le Précepteur’s head in the ingratiating German way and asks some question. I swear that M. le Précepteur’s hair is standing on end in the manner hair so frequently assumes in novels, so very seldom in real life.
Something grey and cold intercepts itself between me and the sun. Something cold and grey touches my forehead and a gleaming face comes on a level with my own. The first contact of that revolver makes my knees tremble and gives me a cold sensation down my spine. But I do not budge. My captor neither addresses me nor I him. We simply stare stupidly at one another. A wasp, attracted by the bright metal helmet rim, plays about his face. The hand that holds the revolver trembles. I am almost but not quite amused. Suddenly the weapon is withdrawn. The troop gather up their reins, canter on through the village and halt in consultation at the head of the street.
A curious intuition tells me that the Uhlans are afraid ... of our fear, that those tightly barricaded doors and closed windows suggest plots—perhaps armed resistance. It occurs to me that it would be wiser to show ourselves, to feign indifference. In times like these men are shot for showing the white feather.
I rush out and call the peasants by name. One or two stare stupidly from the windows, the rest do not budge. Many are in the fields, some probably in the cellars. I sit down on the terrasse and draw the little white chair close up to the painted white table. The moustached postman in the dirty white ducks comes to my side, so does the poacher, unshaven but ever picturesque in his brown corduroys.
The order has been given to charge. They are coming back, the gallant Uhlans! Will they shoot us down? We shall know soon enough. I lift my glass of bock with a rather shaky hand while the postman puffs at his pipe and the poacher half smiles. He is a feckless, fearless rascal. Here they come, lances and all. The foremost misses my head by half an inch. I wince. The soldiers look unutterably fierce as they clatter past. The last few cover us with their revolvers until they turn the corner of the road. Clitter-clatter—fainter—then silence. The postman, ever solemn, turns to me and reaches over an enormous hand.
“Vous êtes—bon soldat, Mademoiselle,” he says, as he rises abruptly and saunters away down the street, puffing at his everlasting pipe.
ANYTHING FOR BREAD
The Uhlans are no longer a novelty, they are a frightful bore. One cannot take two steps outside the village without a soldier in that grey-greeny-blue uniform popping up from behind a tree or appearing as if marionetted down from the cloudless sky. Whenever I see one I have to repress a devouring wish to run.
The war has already taught me one lesson. That there is nothing more dangerous than a frightened soldier. The funk of a scared German oozes into his rifle—not his boots....
All the roads from the frontier, in fact the entire Ardennes are being patrolled by these creatures. To-day we have had armoured cars passing to and fro at break-neck speed, manned by soldiers and positively bristling with rifles.