So, having designated a certain pillar in the great hall, where she was to wait for me with my bags, I went in search of a Jehu. (I do not know whether in Vienna Jehu would be an acceptable nickname, but never mind.) It was not a very easy task, and I had plenty of time to prepare myself for the three questions which I absolutely must ask her before we parted: Whether, when, and where I should see her again. I knew that in Vienna it was the fashion to kiss the hand of a lady at such a moment. And I saw myself already bending over her hand and kissing it, asking her the fateful questions.
But, when after ten minutes I came back, the fair Comtesse had gone. My bags were standing lonely near the pillar and greeted me with a mocking grin.
[II.]
Sergeant Young gives a few orders and then turns to me.
"I have read that first chapter of your book," he says. "For a man without any experience as a writer it is not so bad. But, of course...."
Sergeant Young, my particular chum, is the most extraordinary man of the regiment. Take a pint each of Figaro and d'Artagnan, half a pint of demigod, a spoonful each of Scotchman, Frenchman, and South African, mix well and put into khaki: You will have Sergeant Young ready for use. Since the beginning of the war he has been dreaming of a commission and, my word, nobody ever deserved one if he does not. We have been together at the Dardanelles, and what remains of our Division—although it is not much—was saved by him.
He is a funny man. You do not know whether he is rich or poor, for one day he has the manner of a grand seigneur and the next day he is satisfied with a beggar's fare. You cannot guess what he is in civil life. At one moment you may take him for a broker from the Stock Exchange, at the next for an art critic, or a farmer, an innkeeper, an accountant, a horsebreaker, a historian, or a miner. We only know that he is a splendid soldier and an excellent fellow.
It is in his quality of an art critic that I have given him to read the first chapter of my book.