“Fortune of war, father,” she said, gayly. “Behold! Alsace in chains.”
“Is she a prisoner?” said the priest, turning directly on me. Of all the masks called faces, never had I set eyes on such a deathly one, nor on such pale eyes, all silvery surface without depth enough for a spark of light to make them seem alive.
“What do you mean by a prisoner, father?” I asked.
“I mean a prisoner,” he said, doggedly.
“When the church cross-examines the government, the towers of Notre Dame shake,” I said, pleasantly. “I mean no discourtesy, father; it is a proverb in Paris.”
“There is another proverb,” observed the turkey-girl, placidly. “Once a little inhabitant of hell stole the key to paradise. His punishment was dreadful. They locked him in.”
I looked up at her, perplexed and irritated, conscious that she was ridiculing me, but unable to comprehend just how. And my irritation increased when the priest said, calmly, “Can I aid you, my child?”
She shook her head with a cool smile.
“I am quite safe under the escort of an officer of the Imperial—”
“Wait!” I said, hastily, but she continued, “of the Imperial Military Police.”