“They are cutting off some ladies’ hair. Six of them—the hussies. They were too friendly with the Germans, you understand? Now they are being stripped, for shame. There are others, monsieur. Many, many, if one only knew. Hark at their howling!”
He laughed heartily, without any touch of pity. I tried to push my way nearer, to try by some word of protest to stop that merry sport with hunted women. The crowds were too dense, the women too far away. In any case no word of mine would have had effect. I went into a restaurant and ordered dinner, though not hungry. Brand was there, sitting alone till I joined him. The place was filled with French and Belgian officers, and womenfolk. The swing-door opened and another woman came in and sat a few tables away from ours. She was a tall girl, rather handsome, and better dressed than the ordinary bourgeoisie of Ghent. At least so it seemed to me when she hung up some heavy furs on the peg above her chair.
A waiter advanced towards her, and then, standing stock-still, began to shout, with a thrill of fury in his voice. He shouted frightful words in French and one sentence which I remember now.
“A week ago you sat there with a German officer!”
The Belgian officers were listening, gravely. One of them half-rose from his chair with a flushed, wolfish face. I was staring at the girl. She was white to the lips and held on to a brass rail as though about to faint. Then, controlling herself, instantly, she fumbled at the peg, pulled down her furs and fled through the swing-door.... She was another Marthe.
Somebody laughed in the restaurant, but only one voice. For a moment there was silence, then conversation was resumed, as though no figure of tragedy had passed. The waiter who had denounced the woman swept some crumbs off a table and went to fetch some soup.
Brand did not touch his food.
“I feel sick,” he said.
He pushed his plate away and paid the bill.
“Let’s go.”