Duchess (still ruminating, but in a quiet way). Yes.... On one's own land.... Yes, that is how it always has to begin. And then there would be the getting of a post (she still continues to think it over, frowning with the interest of her subject; at last she rises promptly, and looking the Marquis full in the face she says): We have half-an-hour or more before the hunt comes home. We will walk round the gardens together and give this very important matter the discussion it deserves.
Marquis (cheerfully). By all means, Duchess, so that you do not make me miss the courier who is to take the first of these missives. I am entirely at your disposal.
Duchess. It is my deliberate advice to you not to post the first of those letters to-day. Come! (She goes out of the door in a rather majestic manner, and he follows, smiling.)
THE FOG
(A young man in the uniform of a Lieutenant of Dragoons is riding on the edge of a wood in a thick fog. The month is the month of November, and the year is the year 1793. The young man has a simple, open face, with rather protuberant blue eyes and sandy hair. His mouth is at a half smile, and he does not seem to mind having lost his way. His name is Boutroux.)
Boutroux. The more I see of warfare the more I am astonished!... It is true I have only seen four months of it.... My father would be very much astonished if he could see me now!... My mother would be more than astonished: she would be positively alarmed! On the other hand (musing) it is a great relief to me, and would be a still greater relief to her, that I cannot hear the sound of firearms.... The more I see of warfare the more and more perplexed I become. (Looking up at the edge of the wood on his left.) Now what is that wood? Before the fog fell I could have sworn we were in an open rolling country with spinneys here and there, and I could almost have told you very roughly where we were and where the enemy were—more or less—so to speak—and now here is a horrid great wood! And where am I?
(At this moment a single voice is heard through the fog. The single voice belongs to a man called Metris. He is as yet unseen.)
Metris. Get back a little! When I said follow me I did not mean bunching up like a lot of dirty linesmen. I meant keeping your spaces.... Charles, you are as pig-headed as ever! There are times when one does not answer a superior, but there are other times when one does. (Angrily.) Charles! (There is no reply.) Something has gone very definitely wrong with my troop! That is the worst of fog.