“I am Captain Baumgarten of the 24th Posen Regiment.”
“Your French is excellent, though you incline, like most of your countrymen, to turn the ‘p’ into a ‘b.’ I have been amused to hear them cry ‘Avez bitie sur moi!’ You know, doubtless, who it is who addresses you.”
“The Count of Chateau Noir.”
“Precisely. It would have been a misfortune if you had visited my chateau and I had been unable to have a word with you. I have had to do with many German soldiers, but never with an officer before. I have much to talk to you about.”
Captain Baumgarten sat still in his chair. Brave as he was, there was something in this man’s manner which made his skin creep with apprehension. His eyes glanced to right and to left, but his weapons were gone, and in a struggle he saw that he was but a child to this gigantic adversary. The count had picked up the claret bottle and held it to the light.
“Tut! tut!” said he. “And was this the best that Pierre could do for you? I am ashamed to look you in the face, Captain Baumgarten. We must improve upon this.”
He blew a call upon a whistle which hung from his shooting-jacket. The old manservant was in the room in an instant.
“Chambertin from bin 15!” he cried, and a minute later a grey bottle, streaked with cobwebs, was carried in as a nurse bears an infant. The count filled two glasses to the brim.
“Drink!” said he. “It is the very best in my cellars, and not to be matched between Rouen and Paris. Drink, sir, and be happy! There are cold joints below. There are two lobsters, fresh from Honfleur. Will you not venture upon a second and more savoury supper?”
The German officer shook his head. He drained the glass, however, and his host filled it once more, pressing him to give an order for this or that dainty.