“Last train for Paris!” bawled an official in gilt and blue; and to the anxious question of the Countess he shook his head, saying, “There is no room, madame; it is utterly impossible—pardon, I cannot discuss 132 anything now; the Prussians are signalled at Ostwald, and their shells may fall here at any moment.”
“If that is so,” I said, “this lady cannot stay here!”
“I can’t help that!” he shouted, starting off down the platform.
I caught the sleeve of a captain of gendarmerie who was running to enter a first-class compartment.
“Eh—what do you want, monsieur?” he snapped, in surprise. Then, as I made him a sign, he regarded me with amazement. I had given the distress signal of the secret police.
“Try to make room for this lady in your compartment,” I said.
“Willingly, monsieur. Hasten, madame; the train is already moving!” and he tore open the compartment door and swung the Countess to the car platform.
I suppose she thought I was to follow, for when the officer slammed the compartment door she stepped to the window and tried to open it.
“Quick!” she cried to the guard, who had just locked the door; “help that officer in! He is wounded—can’t you see he is wounded?”
The train was gliding along the asphalt platform; I hobbled beside the locked compartment, where she stood at the window.