“Very well,” she sighed, “I suppose I had really better see him.”
A moment later a big, broad-shouldered Uhlan officer, a fair-haired Saxon, not bad-looking save for the ugly sabre-scar of his student days upon his left cheek, strode into the handsome apartment, and halting before the two ladies, clicked his spurred heels together and saluted.
In his long military boots and his Uhlan helmet this officer of the War Lord of Germany looked taller and more forbidding than he really was, yet his politeness to the Baroness and her daughter was at once reassuring.
“I sincerely regret this intrusion, Madame,” he said, in almost perfect French. “I am extremely sorry I am unable to respect the privacy of your home, but, alas! it is war—the quarrel of nations.”
And taking from within his grey tunic a card, he handed it to her. The Baroness glanced at it, and saw that the name was “Baron Wernher von Meyeren.”
“I am in command of my platoon of the Tenth Uhlans, and we are compelled to billet upon you,” he explained. “I did not wish to disturb you, ladies, but I find that the Baron himself is absent, hence I have to intrude myself upon you.”
“My husband is in Brussels, at a council meeting at the Ministry of Finance,” replied the Baroness de Neuville. “He gave me to understand, however, that here we should be quite safe from molestation.”
The German officer, his strong hand upon the hilt of his sword, smiled grimly. He looked worn and dusty, and had the appearance of a man who had ridden far at the bidding of his superiors.
“I fear, Baronne, that nobody is now safe from molestation, here, in Belgium. I am no politician, only a soldier, but it seems that your gallant little country has decided to defend itself—a mouse against a lion—with unfortunate and very regrettable results. I have with me forty-five men, upon whom I have imposed the strictest orders to behave with proper decorum in your beautiful château. If you will please order your servants to give them food—of which they are sorely in need—they will make themselves comfortable for the night in any corner they may find.” Then, turning to Aimée, he added politely: “Mademoiselle need have no fear. It is but the fortunes of war.”
The Baroness, still quite cool, looked at him steadily for a few seconds. Then she asked: “Cannot you billet your men upon the villagers below, in the valley?”