The Countess, face averted, passed behind my chair.
“Wait,” said Buckhurst; and turning directly to me, he added: “You were mistaken for a hussar at 94 La Trappe; you were mistaken here for a hussar as long as the squad holding this house remained in Morsbronn. A few moments ago the provost mistook you for a civilian.” He looked across at the Countess, who already stood with her hand on the door-knob.
“If you disturb me,” he said, “I have only to tell the provost the truth. Members of the Imperial Police caught without proper uniform inside German lines are shot, séance tenante.”
The Countess stood perfectly still a moment, then came straight to me.
“Is that true?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She still leaned forward, looking down into my face. Then she turned to Buckhurst.
“Do you want money?” she asked.
“I want a chair—and your attention for the present,” he replied, and seated himself.
The printed copy of the rules handed me by the provost marshal lay on the floor. Buckhurst picked up the sheet, glanced at the Prussian eagle, and thoughtfully began rolling the paper into a grotesque shape.