“I suppose you are a guest at Ragaz?”
“Yes.”
“They say Moltke is there too!”
“Yes.”
“How does he look?”
“Well, how should he look? Just like one of us two.”
Wig Instead of Handkerchief
It was at Meaux, the night before the siege of Paris began. All the Chiefs and Generals of the different divisions of the army, were assembled in the Field-Marshal’s quarters, discussing plans and studying maps and charts. It was two o’clock in the morning; a big fire was burning in the grate; the room was intensely warm.
Moltke, so one of the officers tells us, was in a long dressing gown, without his wig, was walking up and down, deeply engrossed in thought. The heat made the perspiration stream down our faces. Suddenly one of us looked up to ask the Field-Marshal a question, but stopped short and drew the attention of the others to what he saw.
The General, too, had found it necessary to wipe the perspiration from his face, but in his preoccupation he had not noticed, that in passing his night-table, he had picked up his wig instead of his handkerchief and was vigorously wiping his face with it. He kept it up for some time, looking so exceedingly funny that we broke into shouts of laughter. When we explained, he joined in our mirth.