It was the little Picard parlour of some small rentier, who, having sold beetroot to advantage during fifty years, found himself able at last to fold his shirt-sleeved arms, and from his window, or often from his doorway, to watch other people doing what he had done in the little paved Place.
He, of course, had gone to Brittany, Bordeaux, the Riviera, to be out of the sound of the guns that had killed his son, and his vacant place had been scheduled by a careful Maire as available for billeting. The French army, more impressed by orders, better trained, more experienced, had carefully removed every picture, book, or cushion and stored them in safety—where a British Mess would have left them—at least until they were broken or disappeared. At small tables sat two or three officers in azure, with three or more bars on the cuff. Dendrecourt halted before one of these, clicked his heels, and saluted, and asked if he might present the Captain Dormer, of the English Army. Colonel Lepage rose with effusion, excessively English:
“My dear Dormer, charmed to meet you. Sit down. What can we do for you?”
“I have been sent to see you about a civilian claim for compensation.”
“L’affaire Vanderlynde!” put in Dendrecourt.
“Aha!” The Colonel tapped his blotting-pad with a paper knife, and knitted his brows. “What have you to propose?”
“My General”—Dormer was sufficiently practised to avail himself of that fiction—“wished me to explain that this matter has been fully investigated.”
“Ah! so we may shortly expect to hear that the guilty individual has been arrested?”
“Well, not exactly an arrest, sir. The whole affair rests upon a mistake.”
“What sort of mistake?” The other officers gave up whatever they were doing, and gathered round at the tone of the last question.