Down came the Brobdingnagian not like fifty, but like a hundred thousand tons, hitting the table an earthquake-like smack. It was all over in a second, but both Wilhelm and the War Lady's mother thought a lot in that tiny fragment of time. The casket was, of course, as flat as a window-pane and not much thicker, while of its contents there was no trace, the silk having become part and parcel of the metal. Nothing short of the melting-pot, said the expert, would yield isolated strains of the thousand bedizened ribbons. And, on top of it, Fraulein Krupp collected 250 marks for her orphanage!
Was it the loss of his ten marks, the blotting out of his "indecent surprise," or thoughts of the murderous fruit which the marriage about to be solemnised would yield him that clouded the War Lord's brow as he walked up the middle aisle of the chapel? He was to give the bride away. The groom was the War Lord's man, his discovery, his creature! He found him secretary of legation with the least of the kings, grubbing along on a salary of five hundred pounds a year, and destined in all probability to marry either a spindle-shanked or a bull-necked "Fraulein von" with an infinitesimal dot. The goal of his ambition: a berth as minister plenipotentiary at the Court of a minor king! Salary: seven hundred pounds per year.
Well, he (the War Lord) was about to give in marriage this candidate for polite poverty and subaltern honours a nice, healthy, well bred and intelligent girl of good family, likewise revenues compared with which the civil list of the average German king were twopence! It surely should follow as a matter of course that common gratitude, if not inborn discipline, would make Krupp von Bohlen the instrument of any warlike mischief the author of his good luck might contemplate. Indeed, he had vowed so much.
Now Lohengrin and rustling silks: The bride and groom.
The latter, like most of the men present, in showy uniform, blue and gold; the War Lady in lilac crêpe de Chine, myrtles in her blonde hair.
She was rather pleasant than pretty to look upon: a massive face, indicating a not unkindly disposition; blue eyes, wavy hair, a firm mouth; a bit strong on figure.
Her head-dress was typical enough for Germany: myrtle, the "bleeding," commemorating the cruelty of the barbarous islanders who pierced the shipwrecked with spears and arrows!
Ancient history aside, the sign of the myrtle leaf was indeed prophetic of the horrors this marriage would impose upon humanity, in accordance with the compact between the War Lady's husband and the War Lord; but, as nine out of every ten German brides are myrtle-bedecked, the fashionable crowd in the chapel had no mind for the augury.
Still, why mauve, the colour of mourning and old age, for the wedding gown? Since it was of the War Lady's own selection, it suggested almost a premonition of the evil in store for Europe.
Did Bertha's lens of imagery conjure up the ghosts of the millions who must die by the output of her factories that her own unborn offspring have more milliards to play with, and was she mourning in advance for the children she would render fatherless, for the hosts doomed to extinction because profits in the wholesale murder of men are surpassing high?