Later still, the colonel sat at the head of the long lamp-lit table in the great dining-room. From the walls dim portraits in lustreless frames looked down upon the backs of the loudly chattering Frenchmen in the exotic, Oriental uniforms. There was little or no talk of the bitter, terrible but finally victorious days through which they—it seemed to each of them miraculously—had lived. Animated discussion of the future was the rule—a future confidently regarded through the glow of the so recently victorious past. Bold strategic plans were elaborated, illustrated with cruet and table-knives. There was much talk of envelopment, of a rapid dash on Le Cateau, Valenciennes and Mons that should hurl the Boche, deprived of his communications, into the tangled thicket of the Ardennes, if indeed he escaped at all. The colonel took no part in these arguments. He sat silently sipping the wine which a generous hostess had caused to be placed in ample quantity upon the table. His large brown eyes were soft, the muscles of his face relaxed. It is possible that he thought of something quite other than war.
One of the soldier orderlies flitting behind the chairs touched him on the shoulder.
"Pardon, mon colonel, but the domestic wishes to speak to you."
He turned in his chair to see the ancient Marie at the door.
"Madame presents her compliments, m'sieu le colonel, and would be honoured if you would take your coffee with her."
The colonel rose in his chair.
"Bonsoir et bonne nuit, messieurs!"
"Bonsoir, mon colonel," was reiterated from the score of upturned faces. "Bonne nuit."
In her cosy warm salon the châtelaine sat by the fire, a glow softly playing over her features. At her side, on a little table, a silver coffee-service steamed. As the colonel entered she looked up to greet him with a smile, indicating the corresponding arm-chair on the other side of the hearth. The large dog at her feet raised his head, wagged his tail in friendly welcome.
In a few moments they were conversing with the ease of those who have known each other for long years. Wartime, and particularly the kaleidoscopic wartime of those early days, is a great ripener of acquaintance. None might venture to forecast the circumstances of the morrow, to predict continued life for self or other. The actual moment must be snatched. The colonel with his quiet assured poise, his alert intelligence; the countess, polished grande dame and yet something more, a being of exquisite intuitions, would have set, naturally, to partners whatever the circumstances of their meeting. Each of the pair offered interest to the other. He, soldierly, his massive intellectual head on the broad shoulders, the glowing soft eyes so strangely set in the cold face, the Oriental Zouave uniform emphasising their hint of romance, claimed the eye not less than her slender figure, gowned with the refinement of a consummate civilisation, her supple yet strong carriage of the auburn glory that crowned the pale oval face, the flowing, delicate curve from rounded chin to the gently mobile breast. Her eloquent eyes were long-lashed, downcast towards the fire. He was asking the reason of her stay here in the danger zone. She turned them upon him.