“Of course, Miss Vandermeulen may have read that paragraph and subconsciously retained the names—but, for her, it was an improbable kind of reading. At any rate, she had a curious knowledge of an out-of-the-way piece of history. As I said, when you tap the subconsciousness you never know what buried treasure you may find. Well, I leave you to your hypotheses, gentlemen.” He stood up, knocked out his pipe. “Good-night!”
A PROBLEM IN REPRISALS
In the dusk of a winter afternoon a battalion of the French Contingent of the Army of Occupation dispersed to its billets in the little German village. The Chef-de-bataillon and the médecin-major, having installed their staffs in their respective bureaux, walked up the street in search of the quarters which had been chosen for them in the meanwhile. The scared faces of slatternly women, obsequiously gesturing the mud-stained French soldiers into occupation of their cottages, turned to look anxiously at them as they passed, in evident apprehension of the order which should let loose a vengeful destruction only too probable to their uneasy consciences. Here and there a haggard-looking man, an ex-soldier probably, slunk into his house, out of sight, but the native population of the village was preponderatingly feminine. The two officers—the commandant, good-humoured and inclined to rotundity, his eyes twinkling under brows a shade less gray than his moustache; the doctor, a middle-aged man, quiet, restrained to curtness in speech and expression, with eyes that swept sombrely without interest over his environment—ignored alike the false smiles and the genuinely alarmed glances of these wives and mothers of their once arrogant enemies.
A captain came down the street toward them and saluted on near approach. It was the adjutant of the battalion. He was young and his natural cheerfulness was enhanced to perpetual high spirits in the enjoyment of the experiences following upon overwhelming victory.
“We are well housed, mon commandant,” he said joyously, with a flash of white teeth under his little brown moustache. “Comfort moderne—presque! Not a château, it is true—but large enough. The best in the village, in any case. Bedrooms for the three of us, and a room for our popote. Our baggage is already in, and dinner will be ready in half an hour. Tout ce qu’il y a de mieux, n’est-ce pas?” He finished with his young laugh.
The gray eyes of the battalion-commander twinkled at him.
“And the patronne, Jordan?—Old and ugly?”
The young man’s face lit up. He put one finger to his lips and blew an airy kiss.