CHAPTER VIII

EPILOGUE

A FOREWORD

Long have I hesitated to give back to Life the legacy left me by Death.

But at last, reflecting that Lieutenant Vignerte and She whom he loved

have vanished into the eternal shades, I have decided that there is no

longer any reason to keep silence about the tragic events staged in the

German court of Lautenburg-Detmold in the months immediately preceding

the Great War.

P. B.

PROLOGUE

"Unpile Arms!"

Of its own motion and by that force of habit which makes the word of

command superfluous, the dark mass of the company rose and formed fours

to the right.

The darkness was falling, cold and cruel, slashed with long liquid

streaks. It had been raining all day. In the middle of the clearing a

grey-green sky looked up at us from shadowy pools.

An order rang out: "Quick March!" The little body moved off. I was at

the head. At the edge of the wood was a country-house, some

eighteenth-century fantasy; two or three shells had been enough to

demolish the wings. The chandeliers of the big ground-floor room,

multiplied in its mirrors and sparkling through its tall windows,

enhanced the sinister blackness of the falling October night.

Five or six shadowy forms in long cloaks stood out against this

background of light.

"What Company?"

"The 24th of the 218th Regiment, sir."

"Are you taking over the Blanc-Sablon trenches?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. When you've got your men installed, go for your orders to

battalion headquarters. Your C.O. has them. Good luck!"

"Thank you, sir."

In the darkness, like a group of fantastic hunch-backs, the men stood

round, leaning on their sticks and arching their backs under the amazing

weight of their packs, crammed with miscellaneous paraphernalia. For the

trenches were a desert island. How could you tell what you might want

there? So the men took down everything they could carry.

They maintained a grave, morose silence, the usual silence that marked

the occupation of a new sector. Besides, Blanc-Sablon had a bad

reputation. The enemy's trenches were some way off--three or four

hundred yards--it is true, but the nature of the ground was such that

the only cover consisted of a few wretched dug-outs which were always

collapsing and indeed, only kept in existence at all by great baulks of

timber. Further, the place was wooded and cut by ravines where you could

not see fifty yards ahead of you. And nothing in war is so nerve-racking

as the mystery of the invisible.

A voice--"Any chance of lights?"

"Lights" meant cards. Card-playing was permitted when the dug-outs were

deep enough and there was a good thick tarpaulin to cover the entrance.

Another muttered:

--"How long are we going for?"

A question that remained unanswered. In October, 1914, the war had not

yet become an affair of administration, with a rota of reliefs,

leave.... You never knew how long you would stay in bad trenches which

you could not make up your mind to improve. It was not worth while. You

might have been there a month already, but you would be certain to be

moved off before the end of the week.

I felt my way with my stick down the forest path, helped by three feet

of light from the puny lantern which a soldier hid under his cloak. It

is a trying experience to lead men by unfamiliar paths through a forest

at night. Behind you the men, and even the officers, follow like sheep,

their one concern being to avoid knocking their noses against the pack

of the man in front--their sole horizon--at some sudden stop. The others

could think of reliefs, their cards, their homes, anything.... But I was

preoccupied solely with the necessity of keeping my sightless column on

the right track.

Nothing could be heard but the muffled tramping which wound along

indefinitely behind me. The trees made a dark dome above our heads.

Every now and then we looked up as we came to a clearing, but the sky

was as dark as the vault of foliage.

"Where is Lieutenant Vignerte?"

"At the head, sir."

A hand was placed on my shoulder. It was Vignerte's.

Since our Captain left us after Craonne to command a battalion of

another regiment, Raoul Vignerte, senior to me in the service, had been

in command of the company. He was a man of twenty-five, slight, with a

splendid dark head. Two months of war had done more than ten years of

peace could have done to draw us together. We did now know each other

before August, 1914, yet we had common memories of those bygone days. I

came from Béarn, he from Landes. I had taken German at the Sorbonne.

He, two years later, had taken history. Alternately jovial and absorbed,

he was always a wonderful company commander. Occasionally the men found

him a trifle distant, irresponsible, perhaps, but they liked his calm,

soldierly bearing, his never-failing interest in their welfare. Vignerte

did not sleep with the men, as I did. But they knew that if he kept his

dug-out to himself it was invariably the most dilapidated, straw-less,

and exposed he could find.

As far as I was concerned, he left nothing undone to make me forget

that, though he was two years younger than myself, he was my superior

officer. On my side, glad though I was to have such a comrade to obey, I

was even more glad to escape all the responsibilities of a company

commander. Strength-returns, discussions with the sergeant-major and the

quartermaster, company accounts (though these are reduced to a minimum

in the field), would never have been much to my liking. Vignerte, who

had not slept one hour a night during the retreat, who had been the last

to leave Guise in flames and the first to enter Ville-aux-Bois in ruins,

this same Vignerte dealt with the horrible mass of detail with

methodical vigour. Every now and then when I saw this charming

intellectual wholly absorbed in such sordid duties, I would think: What

distraction is he seeking? From what black thoughts is he fleeing?...

Then, as if fearing detection, he would come to me with some joke and

that day the regiment would know no one more merry and careless.

This evening he was in his dark mood. And why not, with the

responsibility of introducing two hundred and fifty men to a new sector?

Besides, he might have orders of which I did not yet know.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Ten minutes more to battalion headquarters," I replied. And, lowering

my voice, I queried: "Any news?"

"I believe one company of the battalion is to carry out some operation.

But it's not our turn. Besides, I'm going to remain at headquarters. You

can carry out the relief without me. I shall come down with the orders

a quarter of an hour afterwards."

Blanc-Sablon was indeed a lugubrious spot. On one wall of a ravine rose

its shell-riven dwarf forest, with wooded horns and great caves of

shadow, while away in front a road, barricaded with tree-trunks,

stretched to the village, a few hundred yards off, occupied by the

enemy.

The men, hitherto silent, could no longer restrain a hasty comment.

"Good Lord! What a show! Here's a pretty place for you! We always strike

a hole like this!"

"Silence!"

In some respects taking over is not unlike the figure of a cotillon. The

Company-Commander, each section officer, corporal and man must

immediately seek out his opposite number, the company-commander, section

officer, corporal or man whose place he has to take.

It was all over in five minutes, soundlessly, of course, or hostile

artillery would soon have had this human mass, half of it without cover

of any kind, under fire and reduced to pulp.

Silence, comparatively easy to obtain from the incoming party, was

nothing like so easy to exact from the departing host. The pleasant

prospects of approaching sleep under cover and a few days' "rest" behind

the lines loosened their tongues. They could not resist a few words of

advice to their successors:

"I'd advise you to keep clear of that loophole. There's a gent over

there who doesn't love me. I have had three pots at him today. If he

isn't dead he will be wanting his turn. And then ..."

--"SILENCE!"

Truly a vile sector--four, five small posts to be manned, twelve

sentries to be found, not to mention patrols. Not much chance of sleep

for my poor fellows here.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye. Thanks for your help."

It was the officer of the out-going company who was moving off. The

sound died away in the woods.

It was high time. The moon was already up.

Swathed in pale yellow mist, she swam mournfully through a sea of grey

flakes. She had turned her lamp on the desolate white countryside, the

shattered tree-stumps, and clayey wastes. The men vanished into their

shelters. The sentries kept their rifles down lest the bayonet should

catch the light. Behind us a number of small, flat mounds, with pathetic

wooden railings, loomed into view.

These were the graves.

The men had not noticed them. All the better. It was better they should

not see them until next morning--by daylight, when they would have got

used to the place and our little world would be feeling the

comparatively enlivening influence of the sun.

* * * * * *

My five small posts and twelve sentries were placed. The company was

established in its burrow. Those not on watch were already snoring. With

two trusty men--you can always find some of that breed, wakeful and

inquisitive--I started on my rounds.

"Tell Lieutenant Vignerte I have gone to get into touch with the 23rd.

Ask him to wait for me in my dug-out. I shall be back in a quarter of an

hour."

We crept along the hedges. At regular intervals lights soared from the

German trenches and fell back to earth in a pale blue halo.

"Who goes there!"

"Masséna."

"Melun."

"It is the officer of the 24th sent to get into touch with you. Anything

new on your side?"

"No, sir, unless it's the scrap we've just had with a German patrol. It

was the shots you heard just now. We've killed one."

A corpse was lying in the grass. I bent over it. On the shoulder strap

was the number "182."

"What about his papers!"

"The Captain has them."

"Our small post is two hundred yards away, there, in the coppice.... Oh,

yes! At two o'clock a patrol will come round. Don't forget it!"

"Very good, sir."

"Good night."

When I got back Vignerte was in my dug-out. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Anything fresh?" I asked him.

"Nothing," he replied, "at any rate for tonight. But of course the 22nd

may get a knock. In front of them is a horn of the wood where we have

reason to think that the Boche is working on a sap. The 22nd are to

inspect and, if possible, upset their game. One section goes over at 6

A.M., the rest follow to support it. As soon as the explosions are heard

the 23rd are to fire at the trenches opposite to hold down their

occupants, but we ourselves are not to move unless things go wrong. In

any case the 23rd attack before us. So we can count on a quiet night.

Have you anything fresh?"

"The company has taken over all right," I said. "They're so

uncomfortable, in fact, that I don't think we need worry about them.

Many of them can't help keeping awake. I have got into touch with our

neighbours; their is nothing to report in that quarter except that

they've had a scrap with a German patrol. They've knocked out one."

"Really," said Vignerte. "Infantry or Jäger?"

"Infantry. 182nd Regiment of Prussian Infantry."

"I should like to know," said my friend, "where those folk opposite come

from."

So saying he drew out his pocket Lavanzelle. "160th--Posen,

180th--Altona, 181st--Lippe, 182nd--Lautenburg ... Lautenburg ..."

"Well?"

He repeated, "Lautenburg."

"Do you know Lautenburg?" I said, struck by the tone of his voice.

"Yes," he replied gravely. "Are you sure of the number?"

"Of course," I replied rather sharply. "But what does it

matter--Lautenburg or anywhere else!"

"Yes," he murmured, "what does it matter!"

I looked at him closely. It was quite easy, because, absorbed as he was,

he had no thought for me at all.

"Vignerte," I said, "what's the trouble; you don't seem yourself--any

bad news?"

But he had already recovered and shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear chap! Bad news! From whom? I have no one in the world and you

know it."

"That may be," I answered, "but you are upset tonight. I want you to

stay with me and you can fix up company headquarters where you like."

"I admit I'm a bit overwrought," he broke in. "What's the time?"

"Seven o'clock."

"Let's play cards."

The suggestion was so unexpected coming from him that the two men with

me looked up in amazement. No one in the company had ever seen

Lieutenant Vignerte touch a card.

"Here, Damestoy," he said, "surely you or Henriquez have got some

cards."

They nodded.

As if they would be without!

"What can you play?"

"Écarté, sir."

"All right; écarté." For a full hour Vignerte lost steadily. It was an

odd game. The two penniless soldiers were looking at each other in

amazement, unable to determine which was the more remarkable feature of

this adventure, the honour Lieutenant Vignerte had done them or the

sum--12 francs--they had won from him.

I looked at him in growing perplexity. Suddenly he threw down the cards:

"A silly game. It's eight o'clock and I'm going out to see the first

relief."

"I'm going with you."

I shall never forget that night. The sky had gradually shed its fleece

of clouds, and the moon, almost at the full, shone in the cold blue

dome. Below, the line of sandbags and trenches made long white tracks.

Starshells were now useless and none were seen.

Dead silence reigned. Occasionally a sharp buzz marked the passage of a

stray bullet close by and soon after the crack of the rifle down in the

valley was heard.

In low tones we exchanged the password with our sentries, some sprawling

full length in a shell-hole, others crouching behind bushes. The company

was strung out over a long front, five hundred yards at least, and our

round took us a good hour.

When we got to the end of it Vignerte asked me:

"Where is the last post of the 23rd?"

We visited it. The four men were about to bury the German who had just

been killed as deeply as they could.

Vignerte quickly stepped down among them and leaning over the grave

searched in the soil they were throwing back. The corpse appeared.

"--182nd. That's it," he murmured.

He shivered and turned to me: "Let's go back. I'm beginning to feel

cold."

* * * * * *

Damestoy and Henriquez were asleep in the dug-out where the three

runners had come for them. With the natural deference of the private

soldier they had arranged the best spots for us--two holes with plenty

of straw and a pile of dark blankets.

The silence was broken only by the gentle breathing of these good

fellows and, occasionally, the squeak of a field-mouse hunting for the

ears still left in the straw. I could not see Vignerte, who was lying

beside me, but I was sure he was not asleep. The open door of the dug-out

showed a blue patch of sky with a silvery star hanging like a tear in

its depths.

An hour, perhaps, passed thus. Vignerte had not moved. He ought to have

been asleep, this mysterious comrade whom the war had sent me. Why was

he so moved tonight? What memories had possessed a mind which appeared

to be fixed ruthlessly on the thousand details of war as if to avoid

straying aimlessly through forbidden worlds?...

And suddenly I heard a deep sigh while a hand clasped mine.

"Vignerte, what on earth's the trouble?"

An even more convulsive clasp of his hand was all my reply.

Then I burnt my boats.

"Old man, dear old man. I think I've earned the right to call you that.

Let me share the trouble that's weighing on you. You are unhappy

tonight. Tell me your sorrow. If we were in Paris, or anywhere else, I

should not be guilty of this indiscretion. But a confidence which would

be absurd elsewhere becomes sacred here. Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall be

in action, Vignerte! Tomorrow, perhaps, four men will be digging our

graves where that German sleeps now. Won't you speak to me, Vignerte,

won't you tell me? ..."

I felt the pressure of his hand relax.

"It will be a long story, old fellow. And will you understand? I mean,

won't you think me a bit mad?"

"I'm listening," I said firmly.

"You shall hear then. For these memories almost choke me, and indeed

there are some which it would be selfish for me to take away alone. So

much the worse for you. You will get no sleep tonight! ..."

This is the strange story which Lieutenant Vignerte told me that night

of October 30th, 1914, at the spot which those who have known it call

the "Crossroads of Death."

THE SECRET SPRING

I

YOU are a University man, he began. You must forgive me if the opening

of my story is not free from a suggestion of bitterness against the

University of which I was never a member. No doubt my feelings are

without justification, since to the fact that I was never admitted I owe

memories which, after all, I would not exchange for a chair at the

Sorbonne.

I took the course marked out for those with some intelligence and no

money, and went in for scholarships. That means I undertook, somehow, to

get through examinations every year, to acquire a certain habit of mind

and with it, as climax, a teacher's diploma and a post in a provincial

school.

At first I justified the hopes reposed in me by the Council-General of

my Department. My scholarship at the Mont-de-Marsan school was succeeded

by another in advanced rhetoric at the Henry IV. school. There it was

that in 1912 I tried to get into the _École Normale Supérieure_.

Thirty-five candidates were accepted. I came out thirty-seventh. By way

of consolation prize I was offered a scholarship at the _Faculté des

Lettres_ of Bordeaux University.

I then did something which met with disapproval from the few friends who

took any interest in me. During my year as a boarder I had glimpsed

Paris as a convict sees green fields through the bars of his cell. I

remember myself as a penniless schoolboy walking in the Champs-Elysées

one Grand-Prix day in June. All the millionaires were returning home

from the races. Each of the cars that flashed down the avenue in a

brilliant stream cost ten times more than my poor self had cost since I

came into the world. A wonderful lemon and mauve light flooded the

scene. I was dazzled. This vision of extravagance inspired me with none

of the sentiments that turns the underdog into a rebel.

If only I could have my share some day! "Balzac is an excellent

realist," my professor of rhetoric used to splutter out. And if that

narrow-minded but honest old fellow said so, it vouched for the truth of

those adventures of young provincial heroes who, rather than accept

insignificance in an obscure corner of their native land, have come to

the Great City, tamed her and made her the submissive hand-maid of their

desires.

And now they were proposing to send me to the end of the earth. I had

been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Well, we should see!

Accordingly I resigned my scholarship and decided to enrol myself at the

Sorbonne with a view to taking my _licence ès lettres_. A voice within

said: "Do not enter the University, but do not despise its degrees. They

are only useful when you have not been there. Outside they are excellent

blinds."

In a year I had taken my licence, living on the lessons I managed to

give here and there, and imbibing from these tasks an ever-keener

longing for freedom. But in the end I felt myself beaten, and resigned

myself to the fate I had despised. I entered for a scholarship in

history, asking for Bordeaux. And I bade farewell to Paris.

The Consultative Committee of Public Education, whose duty it is to

decide in these matters, usually met at the beginning of October. I

spent the intervening two months at a fishing village in the Landes, at

the house of an old curé (it sounds dull, but it's true), who opened

his poor house to me in memory of my parents, whom he had known.

It was there, my friend, that I passed the most peaceful days of my

life. I was free to roam at will through the great woods of the

district, with no other appointments beyond meal-times. For the first

time my reading was confined to such things as did not figure in an

examination syllabus or the annual competition, and my mind could take

in undistracted the glorious miracle of the dying season.

The curé's house was at one end of a small lake which communicated with

the sea through a narrow channel choked with aquatic plants. In the

morning the roar of the tide woke me in my open room. From my window I

would watch the irresistible advance of the great green ocean under a

pink and grey sky. Wild duck and curlew wheeled overhead with their

plaintive cries. What a temptation to stay there for ever! To watch the

calm passage of the seasons. To be free from social ties, official

routine, or any link with life. To spend all day and every day on the

long straight dunes, where the great waves roll up ceaselessly in the

wind and the jelly-fish thrown up high and dry on the silvery sand look

for all the world like amethyst pendants.

Then one October morning came two letters, one from the Bordeaux Academy

which announced that the Consultative Committee "regretted they had been

unable to give favourable consideration to my application for a post."

The other was signed by Monsieur Thierry, Professor of Germanic Language

and Literature at the Sorbonne. This good man and conscientious scholar

had been my tutor for a year, and he it was who had corrected the thesis

I submitted in July for my licence--on "Clausewitz and France," of all

things. I had never had anything but praise for him. I knew he cherished

friendly feelings for me and possibly reproached himself somewhat. He

was on the Committee and his letter was an endeavour to justify the

decision. Personally he had done what he could, but some of the members

had expressed doubts as to my suitability for the teaching profession,

and on this point even he himself had to confess he spoke without much

conviction. But in any case, it was better thus. He could not imagine me

a provincial student. "Return at once," he ended up, "there is perhaps a

way out which will enable you to live in Paris."

I bade farewell to my good old curé, promising him to return in the

January vacation, and next day I stepped out on the platform of the Gare

d'Orsay.

It was already winter. You could easily count the statues in the

leafless Luxemburg. The fire was crackling in M. Thierry's little room

in the Rue Royer-Collard.

"My dear boy," he began--and lonely as I was, I felt extremely grateful

for this preface--"you mustn't think hardly of the Committee. It is the

duty of my colleagues to keep a single eye on the interests of the

University, and you yourself won't deny that in your work you have often

displayed--how shall I put it?--a spirit of fancy, yes, a spirit of

fancy likely to alarm folk so ... serious-minded. I, of course, know

you, and it's another matter. I know that that spirit under good

guidance will become nothing more than a pleasant originality. But first

let me put a question. Do you really feel a call to the teaching

profession?"

What reply was to be expected from a man with exactly one hundred and

seven francs and a few centimes in his pocket? I stoutly protested my

conviction.

"Well," he went on, "I have the very thing for you. That post would have

given you one thousand two hundred francs at the most. I have

recommended you to an old friend of mine who is director at the Ternes,

a private institution. He is looking out for a history teacher. Six

hours a week for one hundred and seventy-five francs a month, and the

chance of some private tuition. For example, you may, if you wish,

continue your own studies at the Sorbonne at the same time. I know you

and will make myself responsible for you. It is now Tuesday. If you like

the prospect you can start on Friday."

I felt the harsh, cold grip of usherdom upon my neck. Oh, those

Champs-Elysées! The furswathed women with their entrancing wake of

perfume behind them! But how could I fail to "like the prospect"? One

hundred and seven francs and a few centimes....

I overwhelmed him with my gratitude.

He rubbed his hands.

"I am seeing M. Berthomieu this evening. Come back at ten tomorrow and I

will give you place and time."

* * * * * *

Tuesday, October 21st, 1913.--Night was falling. In the Rue August-Comte

I ran into groups of schoolboys coming out of the Lycée Montaigne. Oh,

schoolboys, scholars and otherwise, stick to your mathematics, enter the

Arts et Métiers, keep to your counters, lest one day you, too, find

yourselves this comic puppet which skirts the Luxemburg and is lost in

the Rue d'Assas.

Always that "spirit of fancy" of which my kind tutor disapproved! Well,

let's give the poor thing a farewell treat and take it to dine on the

right bank.

Vignerte paused at this point of his story. Then he resumed:

"A bullet whistled past a short time back--there, just above our heads.

Did it occur to you that if you had happened to pop your head out at

that precise moment you'd have been laid out stiff! How far do you think

luck goes in life?"

"The other day," I answered, "there was trouble in the 11th Squad. No

one wanted to go on water fatigue. Each of them said it wasn't his turn.

As the squabble grew fiercer I intervened. I sent the first man I came

across, the one who had been protesting loudest, as it happened. He went

off grumbling that it wasn't fair. He left his cap behind him. When he

came back he couldn't find it. It had been pulverized by a shell and his

twelve comrades with it."

"We seem to agree," said Vignerte.

He resumed his story.

What impulse was urging me on that evening, I, who confined myself to

the tawdry delights of the Latin Quarter and never crossed the bridges

at night? I remember I tried a one-man orgy at the "Grand V." Then I

thought I'd like to take my coffee on the terrace of the Weber.

Pretending I could refuse myself nothing, I passed before the lamps of

the Olympia with the fixed intention of granting myself the joys of the

promenade. Rather excited after my bottle of Barsac I walked very

straight, staring brazenly at the girls.

It was cold. I went back to Weber's and at once the lights and the

throng restored my natural timidity. I sat down humbly in a corner with

that lack of ease characteristic of a man who is afraid that people will

notice he is not used to being there.

Opposite me a group of young people were making a good deal of noise.

Enviously I studied their clothes and that air of easy assurance, the

sure sign of a happiness which, perhaps, I should never attain. Truly I

was not exactly made for the University, I whom learned expositions,

bibliographies and works of reference left sceptical, I whose heart

almost beat quicker at the sight of a well-cut waistcoat, a well-tied

tie and elegant socks visualized under well-creased trousers!

They were a party of four, one a woman, pink and pretty, in her furs.

Painted a little, perhaps, though I've never minded that. She was seated

next to one of the handsome young men, and facing me. The other two had

their backs to me, but in the mirror I could see their faces, slightly

flushed by a good dinner, which was then approaching its end.

That evening I realized the humiliation of those who go for their coffee

to a fashionable restaurant. Said I to myself: "You'd far better have

stayed at home, dined anywhere, gone to bed and slept, yes, slept. Sleep

is the poor man's haven. You oughtn't to have come here."

And yet.... It was gradually beginning to dawn upon me that one of the

men with his back to me was studying me closely in the mirror, when he

got up and came over to me.

"Vignerte!"

"Ribeyre!"

I had come across this Ribeyre during my advanced rhetoric course. He

had already obtained his _licence_, and was, like me, a candidate for

Normale, though he displayed that indifference to results which comes

from a private income and ambitions in other directions.

"What are you up to?"

"You can see for yourself," I said, somewhat stung. Then I added

quickly:

"What about you? Anything new since Henri IV.?"

"Don't mention that awful hole, old boy. Talk about instructing youth! I

should have made a mess of things if I'd listened to them...."

He, too, added:

"What about you?"

"I couldn't help having to listen to them. I'm still listening to them,"

I replied bitterly. "But what's your job now? You don't seem to be

having a bad time."

"I've been extraordinarily lucky, my boy. I was appointed Private

Secretary to a Deputy, and six months later he became Minister for

Foreign Affairs. I followed him to the Foreign Office. There we are! But

come out of your corner and I'll introduce you to the friends of

Ministers."

Ribeyre did indeed introduce me.

"My friend Vignerte--a worker if there ever was one. Got his diploma and

Lord knows what else--_Agrégé_, perhaps? No--so much the better for

you. Who knows it better than we three, not to mention Clotilde."

Clotilde nodded stiffly and gave me an ironical glance.

I was on the rack. This panegyric was so suited to my poor, baggy

trousers! It was very charming of them all the same, though perhaps this

praise of my brains was more a compliment to their own tact and skill in

dealing with any situation.

After a short time Ribeyre got up.

"Good-bye till tomorrow, you people. My salaams, Clotilde. You must come

with me, Vignerte, and see me home."

Outside he took my arm.

"I'm going to the office. There are some letters of the old man's to

send off. Come with me."

The Rue Royale was a blaze of light. Women swathed in long silk cloaks

stepped from cars at restaurant doors. The sight of this world of luxury

intoxicated me, urged me, drove me to try and extract some material

advantage from my chance meeting with Ribeyre. I felt he was only too

anxious to dazzle me with his new glory. Who knows, perhaps I should end

by getting something out of his desire to parade his power. What can't

be got from human vanity!

What about my own vanity, when I ascended the steps of the Foreign

Office at his side? A tall lackey took us up in the lift--another

received us on the first floor.

"Any telephone messages, Fabien?"

"Yes, sir, one from the Minister of Commerce. He is dining with the

Minister tomorrow, and says they will meet at the Chamber. I took the

message down in writing."

A minute later we were in a charming little grey and gold room. Ribeyre

tapped the desk.

"Vergennes' table," he said casually. "Excuse me," he added, sitting

down. He began to open letters, marking them with a red pencil as he did

so. "Don't mind about talking. This isn't a very exacting job. Tell me

what you are doing. How far have you got with the University?"

I told him the whole story from my leaving Henri IV. to my approaching

appointment at M. Berthomieu's. He looked up.

"You've accepted it?"

"What else could I do?" I answered sharply. "I can't starve."

Starve! The word sounded oddly among all the Gobelins, Boule furniture

and Sèvres.

Ribeyre rose. I had an intuition that I was saved.

"You needn't go to Berthomieu's, old chap. You'll do for yourself at

that game. I know you, and I'm positive you're not made for the

University. What you want is _this_."

With a sweep of his hand he indicated the pageant of power about us.

What a psychologist Ribeyre was!

"Listen," he said, perching himself on the arm of my chair. "Have you

any objection to leaving the country for a bit? I say for a bit, because

it is only in Paris that the game is really played and won. At present

you haven't a sou. This is the sort of place where a fellow like you

with enough to live on for a year and no material preoccupations could

have the future at his feet."

"Well?" said I, breathless.

He went on, relishing the pleasure of appearing such a great man. "All

right, then. You will do me a good turn in exchange for mine. I lunched

this morning with Marçais at the German Embassy. Do you know Marçais?

He is our Minister at Lautenburg. Have you heard of Lautenburg?"

"It is one of the German States."

"It is the Grand Duchy of Lautenburg-Detmold. Reigning Sovereign, His

Highness Frederick-Augustus," he said magisterially. "His Highness is

afflicted with an heir of about fifteen, for whom he is seeking a tutor.

You know that French is a _sine qua non_ in every Court. Have you got

your _licence_?"

"Yes."

"Good. Do you know German?"

"Fairly well; enough for the Sorbonne."

"Doesn't matter. They all talk French over there. Well, the Grand Duke

instructed Marçais, when he left for Paris, to find him a tutor.

Marçais is a charming fellow, a man of real distinction!... Charvet

makes him his exclusive ties. Afterwards he destroys the model. But this

is no reproach. He's not much good at getting out of a hole. Yesterday

he casually told me of his mission. He is going to the Ministry of

Education tomorrow, and as you can imagine, he will find tutors galore

there, especially in view of the salary the Grand Duke offers--ten

thousand marks a year."

"Ten thousand marks!" I echoed in amazement.

"We must fix the thing up at once. I'll write a note to Marçais."

He read it out to me. I could only blush at the compliments he lavished

on me.

"Marçais will get this tomorrow morning. He is a punctilious old

fellow, and if he's up at nine o'clock it will be to summon you. By the

way, what's your address?"

"7, Rue Cugas."

"Don't forget to give your Rue Cugas a call or you may miss his

appointment."

"Give me the note," I said. "I'll post it myself."

My eagerness obviously flattered him. A vain smile spread over his face.

"Lucky dog! Instead of old Berthomieu's fare you're going to sample life

at a castle, or, rather, a palace. Lautenburg is a marvellous place, I'm

told. Marçais preferred remaining there to two years' promotion. The

Grand Duke is a pleasant fellow. The Grand Duchess hunts foxes better

than a man. Marçais told me he killed his best horse trying to keep up

with her. The only thing is, mind you make a place for yourself."

I saw him glance at my poor clothes.

"You need not be afraid of that," I broke in, with an assurance that

surprised him. He looked at me and smiled again.

"I do believe I'm revealing you to yourself. Keep at it over there, old

chap. Come back to us with a few spare thousands. My chief is well

established here, but if he sinks I shall leave the ship first. We shall

come up smiling. If you really want to get something useful out of

people you must have passed the stage of depending on them. There's

nothing better than a Minister's cabinet, but you must be able to sit

tight and have something in reserve. Otherwise you may find yourself

reduced to selling local offices for two thousand francs. You won't find

it hard to save six thousand marks over there. You'll have no expenses,

so fit yourself out well. It is money invested at a hundred per cent.

You might copy Marçais in that. If he wasn't so well-dressed he'd have

been booted out long ago."

So spake Etienne Ribeyre. Among other valuable tips, he had just proved

to me that in life it may often happen that a casual acquaintance can do

more for you than a friend.

Oh, lovely October moon, gazing down on Paris! The Seine flowed in a

soft purple mist. I posted my note in the Rue de Bourgogne at the corner

by the Chamber of Deputies. Then I felt I must have a walk to be alone

with my thoughts. Ten thousand marks! Twelve thousand, five hundred

francs! Money does not mean happiness! Then what on earth does? What had

given me that confident step, that self-assurance, that lightness of

heart?

The Rue de Varenne, the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, the Boulevard Montparnasse,

in turn witnessed my triumphal march. I took no notice of my fellowmen,

for I was in my hour. I do not know how my gaze happened to fall, near

the Observatory, on a figure moving furtively under a lamp. It was a

slip of a girl, with a fleece of red-gold hair. My joy was too great

that evening for me to bear it alone. But, standing by her, not for a

moment did I think that her body was really her own. The slight form was

that of the women of the Champs-Elysées, of the beauties of Maxim's,

nay, of those maidens, incomparably fairer, who were doubtless even then

awaiting me in a far away German Court, on the banks of a Wagnerian

river, beguiling the weary hours with the sweetest strains of the

Intermezzo.

* * * * * *

Ten o'clock, and the appointment with M. Thierry which I had almost

forgotten. He was reading in a corner by the fire, and when I entered he

came forward with a beatific smile.

"I have arranged everything with M. Berthomieu. You are to go to him."

"My dear master," I replied, "I'm afraid I have given you all the

trouble for nothing."

And I told him all that had happened the previous evening. In spite of

my wish to appear unmoved, I could not manage to conceal my pleasure. I

was disappointed that he did not seem to share it at once. He looked at

me with astonishment, even with disapproval, I thought.

These university people are all the same, I reflected, no salvation

outside the University. I abandoned the pose I found so unnatural to

proclaim far and wide my pride in my new glories.

"And, after all," I wound up, "I ask myself how many examinations I

should have to pass, how many years I should have to wait to reach the

position which is open to me at the start, ten thousand marks a year."

"That's true," he murmured, musing. He looked into the fire for a

minute, then got up and went to the bookcase, from which he returned

with a large volume in one of those dull-coloured, gilded, but tasteless

bindings which characterize many English and German books.

"Are you certain that the proposal has been made to you on behalf of the

Grand Duke of Lautenburg-Detmold?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, "on behalf of the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus."

"That's the man. To be tutor to his only son, Duke Joachim."

It was thus that I learnt the name of my future pupil.

My old tutor thought a few seconds more, and then, raising his glasses

towards me:

"May I ask if you are already bound by any formal contract?"

"Not yet, strictly speaking, but my mind is made up, and I shall go

unless some one else is preferred to me."

"In that case let us say no more," said M. Thierry, putting the book

back.

I was intrigued and a little annoyed.

"My dear master," I said, "will you be really frank with me? I know you

are too interested in my welfare to suggest my refusing such an

attractive offer unless you had very serious reasons for doing so.

Besides, I may confess that in coming to you this morning I hoped to

obtain some valuable information about the Court of Lautenburg-Detmold

for your unique knowledge of the men and affairs of modern Germany. I am

sure you are even more familiar with these details than I suspected. I

am to interview Count de Marçais, our Minister at Lautenburg, very

shortly, but it will not be easy for me to question him. Besides, a

diplomatist must doubtless observe a certain reticence, which you have

not the same reason to consider with me. To put it shortly, may I ask

you a question which sums up all this? If you had a son, Monsieur

Thierry, would you let him do what I propose to do? Would you let him go

to Lautenburg?"

He looked straight at me, and replied firmly, "No."

I confess that my astonishment began to give place to a slight feeling

of apprehension. I knew perfectly well that it was not childish pique at

my not accepting the post he had found for me, that influenced a man of

his profound judgment.

"You must have very good reasons, sir," I said, my voice trembling a

little, "to give me so categorical an answer."

"I certainly have," he replied.

"Would you mind telling me what it was you looked up in that book?"

"My dear boy, don't start thinking that that year book of Reigning

Houses contains any details of a kind to justify the apprehension I feel

at your going to Lautenburg. I have verified a name, confirmed certain

recollections--that's all.

"It is true that I have certain private information about the House of

Lautenburg-Detmold of which Count de Marçais himself might know

nothing, even assuming that he were a more gifted diplomatist than he is

reported to be. Besides, he has not been very long at Lautenburg, and

never knew the late Grand Duke Rudolph."

"Who was the Grand Duke Rudolph?"

"Haven't you ever heard of him? He was the elder brother of the present

Grand Duke. He died a few years ago, two, if I remember rightly."

"So it was his death which gave the succession to the Grand Duke

Frederick Augustus?"

"Not directly. The constitution of Lautenburg-Detmold is peculiar. The

Salic Law does not apply, and the ducal crown, on the Grand Duke's

death, passed to his wife, the Grand Duchess Aurora Anna Eleanor."

"So she has married her brother-in-law?"

"Quite so, and thus it happens that in the absence of children of the

Grand Duke Rudolph, your future pupil, Duke Joachim, son of the Grand

Duke Frederick and some German countess, is now the heir presumptive to

the State of Lautenburg-Detmold. To alter the situation the marriage of

his father with the Grand Duchess Aurora would have to be honoured with

a bond, a thing which seems most improbable."

"I seem to remember something about it now," I said. "Wasn't there a

German Grand Duke who died in Africa--the Congo--while engaged in

geographical research two or three years ago?"

"Precisely," replied M. Thierry. "That was the Grand Duke Rudolph. He

was always an enthusiastic geographer. His travels could not, it is

true, be described as altogether unpolitical. When I remember that a few

months later we had Agadir and the loss of the Congo, I can't help

thinking that the Grand Duke of Lautenburg had been sent to accomplish

some mission on behalf of his august cousin, the Kaiser. It is true he

hadn't much time in which to effect his purpose as he died in the Congo

shortly after his arrival. It would be interesting...."

"But what is there in all this, sir," I broke in, "that in any way

accounts for the solicitude you've just shown on my behalf?"

He seemed put out.

"My dear boy," he said, with an obvious effort. "A historian's plain

duty is to accept as fact only what he has been able to verify. From

that point of view I confess that my knowledge is confined to vague

rumours barely susceptible of proof. Certain reports, an allusion or

two, and last--but not least--certain details communicated to me some

time back by a friend whose name I must withhold--that's all. I should

perhaps add the proverb that there is no smoke without fire."

"Couldn't you be a little more precise as to the purport of the

rumours?"

"Will you promise you will keep this entirely to yourself?" he said.

"I give you my word."

"I am told that violent deaths are not unknown at the Court of

Lautenburg-Detmold."

My curiosity reached fever-heat.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, nothing definite. Still, we

can't ignore the fact that two persons stood between Duke Frederick

Augustus and the crown."

"But the Grand Duke Rudolph died of sunstroke in the Congo," I said. "It

was reported in the press."

"Agreed. That was a natural death all right, but apparently the same

cannot be said of the death of Countess von Tepwitz--the present Duke's

first wife and the mother of Duke Joachim."

"Do you mean that the Grand Duke was responsible for her death?"

"The Grand Duke Frederick Augustus is a very extraordinary man,"

continued M. Thierry, "able, well-educated, but a master of dissembling.

Is he playing for his own hand? Or for that of the King of Würtemberg,

his immediate suzerain? Or, indeed, for the Kaiser? I have studied this

question from the point of view of German high politics. It isn't a

simple one. Frederick Augustus is a man of ambition, and I don't think

he would stop at anything."

"Anyhow," I said, "his calculations have had to take account of the

Grand Duchess Aurora. Her consent to marry him was an essential factor."

M. Thierry smiled.

"They might have been in collusion. I admit I don't know that side of

the question. In fact, I know nothing of the Grand Duchess except her

age," he said, taking up the blue and gold book again, "her Christian

names--Aurora--Anna--Eleanor; her Russian origin, and that she was a

Tumene princess. The Tumenes are the most powerful family in the

Government of Astrakhan. Has she acted in collusion with the present

Grand Duke? It is possible. You know as well as I that reasons of state

sometimes dictate marriages, but, as I said, I know nothing about her."

"All this does not seem very enlightening, but in any case, I can't see

why a humble tutor should have to suffer for the intrigues of such high

personages."

"That sounds plausible, but how can you ever say what may result from

these sordid affairs. You might find yourself drawn in without knowing

it Do you know, in fact, exactly what your duties are? I will tell you

what is really in my mind. Your salary is to be ten thousand marks,

isn't it? I can't help thinking that figure is unduly high. Your friend

Boubelet, with Normale and his _agrégation_ behind him had only eight

thousand from the King of Saxony."

I saw clearly that the old professor had some very definite reason for

speaking in this way, but that fear of compromising himself prevented

him from saying more. I admit it would have made no difference in any

case. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused. The lust of adventure was

kindled within me, and there was no hesitation about the tone in which I

answered:

"I am very much obliged, sir, for your kind warning but my mind is made

up. By minding my own business and sticking to my own job, I think I can

avoid any and every danger. You admit that it is by no means certain I

am running any risk. Will you grant me one more favour?"

"Certainly."

"If anything ever strikes me as suspicious, I will write to you about it

and ask your advice. Then will be the time ..."

"Don't do any such thing, my young friend. You had better realize now

that over there you will inevitably be surrounded by spies. Never write

a letter you don't want the Grand Duke to read for you can be quite sure

that if he wants to, he won't ask your permission. Once at Lautenburg

you'll be absolutely isolated from the world. I know the palace. Its

magnificence does not prevent it being more of a fortress than a

château."

"I shall always have Count de Marçais."

M. Thierry smiled, a smile which recalled Ribeyre's words: "He's not

much good at getting out of a hole."

"Well," he said, "I see your mind is absolutely made up. After all, my

apprehensions are possibly exaggerated. You are young and without

dependents. You have resolution and strength of mind. I don't know

whether I have any right to blame your thirst for adventure. From that

point of view I'm possibly too much the slave to my academic outlook.

Give me peace and a library. For instance," he concluded, "at Lautenburg

you will have one of the finest libraries in the world at your disposal.

The Grand Duke's collection is famous. It contains the manuscripts of

Erasmus and most of Luther's. So go, my boy.

"One minute, though," he added. "Come back after you have seen Count

Marçais. I may be able to give you some practical hints on the best way

of performing your tutorial functions."

A note, with a dainty purple seal, was waiting for me at my lodgings.

Count Marçais wrote that he would be delighted to see me that day at

three o'clock. As I walked to the house of the French Minister at

Lautenburg in the Rue Alphonse de Neuville, I reviewed the details of my

conversation with M. Thierry. He knows a good deal more than he likes to

say, I thought. Was I really being a fool? Well, it remained to be seen.

After all, there is no greater folly than letting 12,000 a year go at

twenty-five for the pleasure of leading a dull, cul-de-sac existence.

In the light of after events my opinion remains the same.

* * * * * *

Count Mathieu de Marçais had much the same appearance and presence as

those with which tradition endows Melarclus, notably the reserved,

knowing air of the diplomatist. With such a mask a man can afford the

luxury of an empty head. No one can ever find anything to challenge

there.

A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, surrounded by elaborate

implements, was engaged in manicuring the nails of the Minister

Plenipotentiary when I was shown up.

"I cannot apologize enough, sir," he said in his very best style, "for

the unceremonious manner in which I have to receive you. But time, dear

sir, you know what a precious gift time is in Paris. You can imagine how

I, who only spend a fortnight a year in this delightful city, have to

economize it."

He poured out half a dozen commonplaces of the same species, looking at

himself in the mirror, and stealing sidelong glances at me. I guessed

intuitively that this preliminary survey, so important for a man of his

stamp, was not altogether unfavourable. But I also gathered that I

should not exactly shake his poor opinion of the way in which University

men dressed.

When one of his hands had been finished, and was dangling in a bowl of

warm rosewater, he decided to get to the point.

"Of course, dear sir, nothing was further from my thoughts than to ask

you here to put you through a kind of entrance examination, a task for

which I am totally unfitted. I know that you possess all the educational

qualifications required. As to the moral and intellectual

qualifications, your friend Ribeyre's recommendation guaranteed them

even before I was in a position to judge from my own observations."

I bowed. He bowed. He seemed overwhelmed with his own eloquence.

"You will, no doubt, wish to know the nature of your duties at

Lautenburg. They will not be exacting! Duke Joachim already has a

science tutor. Major von Kessel is responsible for his military

education. Your functions will be to teach him French and History.

General History, of course. Oh, yes! There is one thing on which the

Grand Duke particularly insisted...."

"Now we're coming to it," I thought, remembering M. Thierry's

suspicions.

"Do you read poetry well?"

I was somewhat taken aback, though the question was disarmingly simple.

"I really can't say. It's a little difficult...."

"It's essential. The Grand Duke told me to insist upon it. The reason is

that the Grand Duchess is passionately fond of French poetry. Probably

you will be lent to her occasionally. It is a surprise that his Highness

has in store for his wife, who is always complaining that Lautenburg is

very lacking in this respect. 'My dear Count,' he said to me, 'I know

you are a man of culture and good taste, I leave it to you.' So you will

forgive me, dear sir, if I ask for proof in this matter. See," he added,

indicating a bookcase with his wet hand. "There are some excellent poets

there. Pick and read what you like."

To tell the truth, the collection in the bookcase was very much out of

date. I was obliged to select a volume of Casimir Delavigne, and I did

my best with his splendid poem _Les Limbes_:

Ils volent, mais on n'entend pas

Battre leurs ailes.

"Excellent! Excellent!" quoth Count Marçais, the connoisseur. "Isn't

it, Madame Mazerat?"

The manicurist made a sharp, clucking noise to demonstrate the pleasure

my performance had given her. I've seen many absurd scenes in my

life--but none more absurd than that.

"All is well, then," said the Count. "I have no need to tell you that

you will be treated with the deference due to your position. The Grand

Duke is a man of the greatest charm. The Grand Duchess"--he raised his

eyebrows--"is a Russian, and _that_ means everything as regards beauty.

Prince Joachim is very tractable, but perhaps a trifle slow-witted.

After all, we don't look for French vivacity in Germans. Lastly, the

Court is full of charming men and lovely women. Do you ride?"

I indicated that I did not.

"You must learn. You will ride with Kessel, a marvellous horseman. Of

course you must come to lunch at the Legation. I have a weird little

sketch by Poiret, of which you must give me news. You will see it when I

get back in ten days' time. You leave before me as you are expected as

soon as possible. If you catch the 10 P.M. the day after tomorrow, you

will be in Lautenburg about nine on Sunday morning."

"Very well," I said.

"Very well. Remember me gratefully to the Grand Duke, and convey my

respectful homage to Her Highness the Grand Duchess. Oh, Heavens! What

am I forgetting!"

He rose, and took a sealed envelope from his wallet.

"The Grand Chamberlain, Herr von Soldau, asked me to give you this," he

said discreetly. "Travelling expenses. Good-bye and good luck. Excuse

me, Madame Mazerat. I am now _entirely_ at your service."

* * * * * *

I had never spent a penny on a cab in Paris, except when luggage made

one necessary going on or returning from holidays. As soon as I came

out, however, I took one straight to my lodgings, so great was my haste

to see what was inside that envelope I dared not open in the street.

Indeed, I soon began to feel the benefits that accrue from the society

of the great. "The Herr Tutor," ran a document, with the heading of the

Ducal chancery, "will please find within the first quarter's salary and

a thousand marks for travelling expenses." Three thousand five hundred

marks accompanied this pleasant invitation.

Four thousand francs and more! I, who had entered Paris only the day

before without knowing what I should have to live on in a week's time,

possessed four thousand francs and more!

My call on M. Thierry was on my mind, and I decided to get it over at

once, telling him I should be leaving the next day.

I found him in his room.

"I can see by your face," he said, "that everything is going well with

you. I am glad of it, as perhaps I have alarmed you unnecessarily. When

do you start?"

"Tomorrow," I said.

"So this is your last visit, dear boy. What can I say to you? I am sure

you will carry out your pedagogic functions admirably. Don't forget the

great maxim of Pascal's father: 'Try to keep your pupil ever worthy of

his task.' That principle cannot be observed by the ordinary

schoolmaster who has to address himself to the average of a class. But

when you are dealing with a single pupil you can, and should, apply it."

The splendid old man then gave me some suggestions as to the choice of

books in preparing my courses of study. He insisted on my taking his

_History of German Literature_, which I was to find extremely valuable

on many occasions at Lautenburg.

"You've no need to thank me," he said, as I murmured words of gratitude.

"Probably it is I who will be in your debt. I told you that at

Lautenburg you will have a magnificent library at your disposal. The

librarian, Professor Cyrus Beck--whom I have met occasionally at various

conferences--is a jealous guardian, but he is also a man of learning. I

have no doubt that you will be allowed the use of the books and

manuscripts which do not bear directly on the great work--the history of

the theories of the transmutation of metals--on which he is engaged. You

may know, perhaps, that I am myself writing a book on manners and

customs at the Court of Hanover at the end of the seventeenth century. I

noticed at the Nationale in the catalogue of the Ducal library at

Lautenburg, that it contains material of the very highest importance.

When you left me this morning I went there to make a list of the

principal works I should like you to consult for me if you would be so

kind. I am sure that you would find the task very absorbing. Here is my

list. I attach particular importance to this work, _Stattmutter der

Köninglichen Häuser Hannover und Preussen_, by the Grand Duchess of

Ahlden, published at Leipzig in 1852. In Paris we have only an

incomplete reprint. I also recommend the works of Cramer and Palmblad as

well as the _Roman Octavia_ (_Die Römische Octavia_) of Duke Ulrich von

Wolfenbüttel.

"Unfortunately," he continued, as I carefully folded his list, "I have

only been able to note the printed books. The manuscripts at Lautenburg

are not catalogued, but it is by examining them, dear boy, that you can

render me the greatest service. There is not the slightest doubt that

you will discover there the most precious material on German society of

the seventeenth century, that society superficially so refined to the

outward eye, but in reality more vicious and cruel than has ever been

imagined."

He held out his hands. His emotion told me that there was something

still to come.

"I would not for anything hark back to our conversation of this

morning," he murmured at length; "but you know, my boy, the interest I

take in you. I am more conscious of it than ever now you are going. I

beg of you never to yield to the desire, even to the invitations you

will doubtless get, to be drawn from your academic functions. Lautenburg

is a rich mine of material for those like ourselves whose mission it is

to write history. Let us write it and avoid the temptation to make it."

There was nothing but sincerity in my promise to keep this parting

advice ever present in my mind.

"Just one other thing. I know nothing of the Lautenburg household except

Prince Joachim, the Grand Duke, the Grand Duchess and Count Marçais. At

one time there was a certain Baron von Boose there. If he is still there

don't see more of him than you can help. Be on your guard against him;

_always_ be on your guard against him."

I was curious to know the reason of this final warning, but M. Thierry

was once more the historian, the discreet official.

"No, no," he said, "these impressions are too personal. Above all, if

that man is no longer at Lautenburg, never ask anything about him. Wait

till his name is mentioned or some allusion is made to him. Come, dear

boy, it is time to go."

We shook hands. I have never seen him since.

* * * * * *

The feeling of depression in which this visit left me quickly vanished

when I got to the money-changers, where I converted half my German notes

into French money. I spent the rest of the afternoon in visits to

tailors, boot makers and hosiers. For the first time in my life I knew

the exquisite, almost painful joy of spending money without reckoning.

As I was stock size I had no difficulty at "Old England" in finding a

suit, overcoat, and boots to fit. My shabby clothes were wrapped up and

sent to my lodgings. Then, as my confidence rose, I tried my luck at a

fashionable tailor's. On the strength of my new appointment, I ordered

dress clothes, a frock coat and another lounge suit I paid the eight

hundred francs required in advance in return for the promise that they

would be delivered during the evening of the next day.

Seven o'clock.

Oh! the wondrous beauty of the Boulevard des Capucines in October! Oh,

the joy of finding oneself well dressed and with money--lord of all,

absolutely lord of all!

The pale blue lamps of the Olympia presented their barbaric curtain of

light. Cabs rolled by. Taxis tooted. The Madeleine, peering through the

evening mist, raised on high its huge, shadowy entablature. On, on. All

this would be behind me the day after tomorrow. I meant to enjoy my

ephemeral royalty.

I experienced a curious sensation. I had money, but I could not make it

give me acquaintances on the spot I had money, but without a friend to

prove it, I might just as well have been without it.

A sudden recollection brought a bright idea to my mind. I went into

Weber's. Ribeyre and his friends of the previous evening would be just

on the point of meeting. The thought of Clotilde possessed my mind. She

had been wearing a long black velvet cloak above which peeped her small

head with its coils of glossy fair hair.

What a treat to appear before her in my new glory!

Ribeyre had already arrived.

"Hullo, old boy! All's well. I've just seen Marçais. He's delighted.

You seem to have the voice of the charmer all right. Good Lord, you

haven't wasted much time," he said, noticing my transformation.

I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in his tone. I thought of

Gautier's story of Baudelaire rubbing his new suit with sandpaper to

take off that offensive nap so dear to philistines and bourgeois. My

confidence was a little shaken. I almost expected to see my newly-won

joys dissolve on the spot. Then I thought, "What does it matter? I know

it's only ready-made, but I couldn't come here in my shabby boots and a

suit two years old. Just let them wait a day or two!"

And the knowledge that I had been fitted out at one of the most

expensive tailor's restored my spirits entirely.

Clotilde arrived. She had on white fox furs which seemed to me the last

word in luxury and good taste. When I had bought a poor flower-seller's

entire stock of violets for her, she condescended to notice my existence

and soon made me feel I was much more to her liking.

"Clotilde," said Ribeyre, "if you love me you will exchange Surville for

my friend Vignerte this evening. He is in funds and he's leaving the day

after tomorrow, two things which women seldom fail to appreciate."

A quarter of an hour earlier this extremely masculine joke would have

jarred on me very greatly, but the terrible white port was already at

work, and besides Clotilde wore an amused smile and did not say no.

Surville arrived with the other man, one Mouton-Massé. They were both

in the Ministry of the Interior.

"We can't stick in this hole," said lanky Surville. "Twice running is

too much. Charmed to see you, sir. You dine with us, of course?"

"My friend Vignerte wants you to give him the pleasure of being your

host," said Ribeyre. "He is leaving the day after tomorrow for the Court

of Lautenburg and wants us to share his travelling expenses."

Little Mouton-Massé indicated that my desire met with his approval.

"Where shall we go?"

For a good ten minutes these gentlemen discussed the point, tossing from

mouth to mouth names utterly unknown to me: "Viel," "Les Sergents," "La

Tour," and even stranger animal names, "Le Coucou," "L'Escargot," "L'Ane

Rouge."

I was not listening. A third glass of port had wafted me to Paradise

itself. The warm restaurant atmosphere went to my head. I thought with

some disdain of my prospects of yesterday, with its poor man's

education, its fellowships, the Heads of the four Faculties and the

Vice-Rector in his room in the Rue des Écoles. These fashionable women

and young men of the world who flittered round me under the lights

reminded me of the cold passages of the Sorbonne and Henri Martin's

fresco of Anatole France, dressed as an explorer in a landscape dotted

with flowers, explaining to a dozen ill-dressed young graduates his

personal conception of human destiny.

_There_ is the true conception of life, I thought, gazing admiringly at

Clotilde, who was pinning the mauve and green bouquet to her white fur.

Ribeyre and his friends being at length of one mind we took a taxi which

put us down in the Place Gaillon at the door of some restaurant, the

name of which I have forgotten. Within, heavy hangings shut off the

dining-room from the prying eyes of passers-by. Surville knew the place

and led us to a small private room where five covers were soon laid.

I sat next to Clotilde, or rather (a matter of more concern to me) the

woman who bore that name. I may as well say I have completely forgotten

what we had at this famous meal. Everything was unquestionably highly

spiced, for we drank like fishes. "You must give me _carte blanche_,"

said Ribeyre, with a mocking glance first at Clotilde, then at Surville.

A diminutive black waiter took our orders in the grand manner. I'm not

certain but I think Ribeyre had met him before. "No champagne," he had

said. I know no more. We began with a little Pouilly, dry as frost, to

accompany the oysters. Then Mouton-Massé, who hailed from that region,

suggested some '92 Saint-Emilion, whereupon Clotilde insisted upon

Beaune, the wine of her own country. I did not lose this opportunity of

winning her favour and ventured to ask the waiter to bring the best.

Then Ribeyre improved the occasion by ordering Wolscheim in one of those

long-necked, narrow-mouthed bottles. I should add that the greatest

triumph was mine in winding up with the suggestion of a wine from the

sandy Landes. None of the others had ever tried this formidable juice of

grapes which on our barren dunes drink in the pale yellow rays of an

ocean sun--a drink which leaves your head clear and your body active but

plays the devil with your legs.

Surville and Mouton-Massé kept me in small talk. Clotilde called me

Raoul and made me promise to send her postcards. Ribeyre, stronger in

the head, never stopped talking to the little black man except to

signal, "Don't you worry," with his eyes.

I felt a god, with the extra joy of being aware of my rapid ascent. I

saw again the miserable boneshaker which had borne me two days before to

the God-forsaken station in the Landes. One small lamp in the darkness;

and wind, real wind, wind from the sea. Within me even blacker darkness.

The Sauterne, liquid gold, sparkled in the glasses. The shades of the

lights were reflected in it like little crimson tulips. I saw Clotilde's

teeth shine on the glass from which she sipped, with little laughs that

made her white throat shake. Her hand on mine communicated to me the

tremors of that yielding, artless creature. Ribeyre was in the highest

spirits. Mouton-Massé was busy with _crêpes-au-Kirsch_; Surville was

drinking.

There was a scene when the liqueurs came and Surville insisted on claret

glasses.

Mouton-Massé vainly pointed out that liqueur glasses would do if the

bottles were left on the table. He wouldn't be satisfied, so they gave

him one. The staff had gone. The cigar smoke dimmed the light. The

flowers were dying on the table. Surville snored. Mouton-Massé had

pulled out a note-book and was attempting some absurd calculation in

which he got tied up and swore volubly. Ribeyre, who hadn't abandoned

his original notion, slipped his right arm under my left, his left under

Clotilde's right, and drew us together. Then he whispered in the ear of

the girl, who laughed gaily, her lips moist and a little shiver rippling

down her back.

* * * * * *

By the evening of Friday, October 24th, 1913, everything was ready for

my departure.

My clothes were packed in a big, new trunk. A smaller one held my books.

I hadn't the heart to throw away any of the poor friendly things I had

accumulated in my lodgings, the relics of three years of joyless toil. I

had it all properly packed in the old box which had been my mother's,

not forgetting my uniform of an officer of the Reserve, already shabby

with two periods of training--poor officers are never slow to avail

themselves of these extra trainings. I took it to the station myself and

dispatched it addressed to the old curé with whom I stayed in my

vacations.

At five o'clock I had finished a letter telling him of my new start in

life. I had settled up my affairs. I had rather more than 2,300 francs

left, allowing for ten louis I had been glad to lend Ribeyre. I decided

to send the same amount to my old curé for his crumbling church among

the dunes.

When I had posted my letter in the Rue de Tournon, I made my way to

Luxemburg. I passed the white Medici Fountain, where I had so often

waited for the nymphs of my dreams. The sentry was sheltering out of

sight in his box. The great Royal garden had never been so deserted as

on this evening when autumn felt the first touch of winter. Beneath the

bare trees, under a darkening golden sky, the cold circle of queens on

their marble pedestals showed strangely white in the falling light.

The clock of the Senate struck half-past five. The silence of death

reigned in the heart of Paris. The fountains had ceased to play and the

great octagonal basin spread its mirror, clearer--by some miracle--than

the sky itself. A man, the only man beside myself in the famous garden,

was standing at the edge in the curious attitude of a man sowing seeds.

He was throwing bread to the birds. There were some three dozen

sparrows, and fat grey pigeons, gawky, restless birds. He was an old man

in a seedy black coat with the remains of a fur collar. There was a bag

at his feet. I went up and the birds flew away. The old fellow cast me

a reproachful glance, threw his bag over his shoulder and shambled off.

When I left the garden myself it was quite dark.

Four hours later I caught the Paris-Berlin express at the Gare de l'Est.

II

The clear, cold star which had been shining in the steel blue sky had

disappeared.

Vignerte started. "What time is it?"

I lit my electric torch. "Ten minutes to twelve," I said.

I awakened the two runners.

"Henriquez, go to the third section, tell the adjutant to see to the

relief of the second platoon and report to Lieutenant Vignerte.

Damestoy, go to the second section and tell the section officer to do

the same for the first platoon. He mustn't forget the two o'clock

patrol. It will be supplied by the eleventh squad, Corporal Toulet. Got

that? Come, look sharp!"

The two men climbed out. For two seconds the patch of blue sky was

hidden.

A weird, soundless night. A stray rifle shot at long intervals. The guns

silent.

Vignerte resumed his story.

HAVE you ever read _Baron von Heidenstamm_? Meyer Forster has borrowed

something for it from Tolstoy--the whole chapter on the race for the

Emperor's Cup is taken from Anna Karenina--and a good deal,

unfortunately, from our Octave Feuillet. Still, you shouldn't miss the

description of Hanover, life in a German garrison town, and the royal

park in snow. The impressions you get are very much what I felt on my

arrival at Lautenburg at ten o'clock on the morning of Sunday, October

26th, 1913.

For the previous eight hours I had been watching the gradual

displacement of the Walpurgis Harz, shrouded to the south in

copper-coloured clouds by a fertile but ugly, featureless plain. When

the train had crossed the Aller the country became more undulating.

Foaming in its basaltic bed appeared the winding river Melna which joins

the Aller some forty miles below Lautenburg. I was nearing my

destination.

The sky was dull and grey. The town, clinging to the slopes of a hill in

a bend of the Melna, had a certain resemblance to Pau, or, rather,

Saint-Gaudens, thanks to its red-brick houses. Crowning all, in a

distant clump of trees, I saw an old tower. The Castle, I thought.

Like a horse with its head for home the train put on steam. We ran along

and over a number of streams gliding between willow-lined banks. The

white patches where the water ran over boulders and the swaying of the

vegetation spoke of the gentle murmur we could not hear. You would call

it clean, peaceful country, not unlike the Ile-de-France; yes, a country

you could live and be happy in.

Lautenburg station, on the other hand, was frankly monstrous, a smaller

but more extravagant copy of the famous station of Metz. But before I

had time to take in the details, I heard an obsequious murmur of:

"Professor Vignerte?" from a man in a peaked cap who took my ticket.

Marçais had wired the time of my arrival. The man in the cap signalled

and two huge lackeys in black and gold livery suddenly appeared before

me. One of them took my luggage while the other assisted me to enter an

enormous limousine which started at once. In ten minutes we had passed

through Lautenburg and were entering at top speed what I took to be the

great courtyard of the Castle. At all events a sentry presented arms.

"Will the Herr Professor kindly get out?" said the lackey, opening the

door while the chauffeur sounded his horn.

A round, red-faced steward appeared on the steps and bowed three or four

times.

"Has the Herr Professor had a pleasant journey? Will he be kind enough

to follow me and I will take him to his room."

With all the fellowships rolled into one I shouldn't have been addressed

as "Professor" as many times in ten years in France as I was in

Lautenburg on the morning of my arrival alone.

My luggage was in my room. I admit that it was not without a feeling of

approval that I saw a very enticing meal spread out on the table.

"If the Herr Professor wants anything, he has only to ring. Ludwig, his

valet, is at hand, entirely at his service."

As he was going out the stout functionary bowed even lower than before

and handed me an envelope studded with red seals.

"Will the Herr Professor kindly accept the letter left for him by Major

von Kessel."

Major von Kessel, the tutor of his Highness Duke Joachim, offered his

apologies for his inability to receive me on my arrival. Unfortunately

the whole Court of Lautenburg had gone hunting and he himself had to

accompany his pupil. He therefore suggested my spending the day in

making myself at home in the palace. He would have the honour to receive

me at a quarter to ten on the following morning, Monday, with a view to

presenting me to the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus.

Wishing to test my new powers at once, I rang. Ludwig appeared.

"Good Lord!" I thought, "if M. Thierry could only see you he'd feel

reassured."

The fellow, thirty years old or so, had the most amazingly inexpressive

face I had ever beheld before I went to Germany. Subsequently I became

quite used to these good-natured, blue-eyed bran-bags. His head was that

of nine out of ten of our prisoners.

I only managed to extract from Ludwig one piece of information, that I

should take my meals on the ground floor (my room was on the floor

above) in a room reserved for the civil and military establishment of

Duke Joachim, that is to say myself, Major von Kessel and Professor

Cyrus Beck, of Kiel University. In addition we could all have meals

served in our own rooms if we wished.

Vignerte had hitherto spoken in the same level tone, finding no

difficulty in recalling the smallest detail of a story with which he

visibly lived night and day. But at this point he paused.

I see, my friend, that my tale is not boring you, but I begin to be

conscious now of the difficulties of my task. Hitherto chronological

order has been enough, but at this point I must change it for a time or

I shall risk confusing you and obscuring the broad outline with a mass

of petty detail. Let me give you now a detailed description of

Lautenburg and its inhabitants. When I have done this we will return to

the course of events. They will group the picture.

1. THE PALACE

I should say palaces, rather than palace, as the residence of the Grand

Dukes of Lautenburg-Detmold is a combination of a Renaissance castle,

built on one side of a Gothic keep, and a Louis Quatorze palace

shamelessly copied from Versailles. Taken separately, each of these

components is not without architectural merit, but their combination

presented enormous difficulties to the architect of the Grand Duke

Ulrich, the present sovereign's grandfather, who was instructed to make

a symmetrical whole of these incompatible edifices. He solved his

problem by throwing out a wing on the left, erecting a flanking tower on

the right, and adding in the centre a kind of hall which is a cross

between the Gare d'Orsay and the Chapel at Versailles. I admit his task

was appalling, but why is it that these insoluble architectural puzzles

are always to be met with in Germany?

Such as it is, this immense hall is used both as council chamber and

banqueting-hall, and I must say that, communicating with the gallery of

the palace and the Great Hall of the castle, it serves its double

purpose well enough.

The palace meets the castle in the middle, so that the combined edifice

has the shape of a T. It crowns a hill which towers over the town, and

falls away sheer at the foot of the castle, but in a gentle slope behind

the palace. The Melna passes through the town and winds round the castle

in a gorge, a hundred feet deep or so, before glancing off to bound the

French garden, which stretches behind the palace.

On the town side, leading up to the ducal residence, is a huge open

space, again recalling Versailles. It is also the parade ground, where

all reviews are held. A gilded railing starts from the left wing of the

palace, encloses a triangular court, and terminates at the right wing of

the castle, leaving the great central keep outside.

From this keep, the sole relic of the old Gothic fortress of the

burgraves of Lautenburg, flies the standard in black and white, with a

golden leopard and the Lautenburg motto: _Summum decus, flectere_. This

tower has been spoilt, of course, like the rest of the castle, by an

overload of decorative ornament, in the Augsburg style. Thus the keep is

distinguished by battlements with a lining of zinc, while the peristyle,

the steps of which have a balustrade in excellent taste, is surmounted

by a Corinthian pediment.

The side overlooking the Melna is less debased. The uninviting ravine

has been responsible for this, I expect, as the plaster artists no doubt

looked twice before embarking upon their course of "improvement."

Decorative detail has been replaced by ivy, and exceptionally huge

beeches, which overhang the river and sway their dark heads under the

high lancet windows.

I need not describe the palace. It is a diminutive Versailles, with

twenty-five windows in the façade instead of eighty-nine, but none the

less an imitation good enough to make a majestic copy of majesty.

The French park, albeit under a Hanoverian sky, made a direct appeal to

one's heart. Obviously the owners had lavished every care upon it.

German orderliness had done wonders. Everything was straight and smooth.

A faultless green lawn led to the Persephone fountain, a good example of

Ernout, himself a good pupil of Coysevox. You have only to know that

this garden was planned by La Quintinie, who sent his best workmen to

carry it out, to understand the secret of its spacious nobility.

If the Grand Duke George William, a pensioner of the King of France, was

a great admirer of Louis XIV., his grandson Frederick was one of the

finest products of the age of enlightened despotism. He entertained

Voltaire on a visit, and met Rousseau at Grimm's house. He was

responsible for the English garden, surrounding the French park laid out

by his grandfather, which slopes in picturesque disorder down to the

Melna. The clear, rapid torrent is crossed by a wooden bridge, which

still keeps its name of "Pond de la Meilleraie," and is wide enough to

admit the passage of the cavalcades which start from the castle to hunt

in the Herrenwald, that magnificent forest whose leafy roof, as seen

from the terraces, stretches away to the horizon.

2. MY QUARTERS

Two large panelled chambers on the first floor, in the northern wing of

the castle, opposite the great court. The room in which I usually worked

looked out on the terrace. Through the open window I could see the dark

sea of foliage in a tawny sunlight. An overwhelming silence reigned.

The other, less melancholy, had two windows looking out on the ravine

where the Melna plunged and roared, and beyond that the Königsplatz,

the barracks of the 182nd Regiment and the Cathedral, a garish eyesore.

A white trail of smoke floated on two shining bars--the Hanover express

which had brought me.

I blessed the decision which had deposited me in this part of the

building. It possessed an enormous open grate, with curious ironwork,

and everything dated from the time when German taste was not yet

hopelessly debased.

I was at the extreme end of the castle, immediately above the room known

as the "Armoury." This was a very curious place, though it had been

almost entirely stripped of its contents. The splendid suits of armour

of the great burgraves had been removed, notably that of Goetz von

Vertheidigen-Lautenburg, who was the right arm of Albert the Bear, that

of Miltiades Bussmann, who wounded Henry the Lion, and that of Cadwalla,

mentioned by Hugo, whose helm still bears the mark of the fearful blow

dealt him at Bouvines by the mighty Guillaume des Barres.

3. THEIR HIGHNESSES

The Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus had his apartments on the first floor.

His bedroom, like that of Louis XIV., was in the centre of the main

building, and there was a study on the right, overlooking the park.

Thither Kessel led me at ten o'clock in the morning of the day after my

arrival.

The Grand Duke was working at a plain Louis Quinze bureau. He rose and

held out his hand.

"Monsieur Vignerte, I have no need to tell you all the compliments Count

Marçais pays you in his letter. I know that you represent the personal

choice of the French Minister for Foreign Affairs. It would be absurd of

me to conceal from you that I am absolutely satisfied with such

references. My only wish is that you may find at Lautenburg something of

the welcome we hope to give you."

The Grand Duke, only a year younger than his elder brother, the late

Grand Duke Rudolph, is fairly tall. Born in 1868, he is now forty-five.

Fair, rather bald and clean-shaven, he has blue eyes, which at first

seem to fasten on you and then wander away. Except on ceremonial

occasions I have never seen him in anything but the undress uniform of a

Divisional General, dark blue with the red collar and no decorations.

He had fine hands, which he appeared to contemplate with some

satisfaction.

"Major von Kessel," he continued, "has probably explained to you the

nature of your duties. I need hardly say that I wish you to have the

utmost liberty as to the way in which you perform them. My son is

entered for Kiel University, and I wish him to take his degree there.

You must therefore keep your eye on a syllabus. But beyond that, adopt

what methods you think good. Your special subjects are History and

Literature. I do not know your political views, Monsieur," he added,

smiling. "No doubt somewhat Liberal. But don't feel obliged to change

them. Liberalism is formidable only to democracies. Intelligent

sovereigns have always known how to use it for their own purposes."

He rang a bell.

"Inform Duke Joachim that I want him to come to my study."

My pupil was a tall, very fair young man, rather sleepy-looking. I

realized that I should never have cause to check the speed of his wits.

"Joachim," said the Grand Duke, in a less pleasant tone than that with

which he had favoured me, "this is Monsieur Vignerte, your new Professor

of Literature. I hope the progress you make under his charge will be

more rapid than when you were with Herr Ulricht. What marks did he get,

Kessel, in his last tactics examination?"

"Eight out of twenty," replied Kessel.

"It's not enough. You must get half marks next time. You can go."

The young man went out with ill-concealed relief.

"You see, monsieur," said the Grand Duke, turning to us, "you can always

count absolutely on my authority. Mark my son strictly, if anything

stiffly, and you will always have my approval."

He motioned to us to withdraw. "By the way," he added, recalling me,

"did Marçais tell you you might occasionally be required to display

your gifts as a reader to the Archduchess? Oh," he added, "I ought

perhaps to give you a warning, though it may be excessive caution on my

part. It is quite possible that my wife won't call upon you at all. At

the moment she has returned to her old passion for horses. But, in any

case, it does no harm to be forewarned, and you may be quite sure," he

concluded, with a smile which he well knew how to make irresistible,

"that I shall see that no unreasonable demands are made upon your

leisure."

"I shall be happy to put myself entirely at the Grand Duchess's disposal

whenever she so desires."

"Thank you," he said, and turned to his work.

In the corridor Kessel said:

"If the Grand Duchess takes it into her head to see you, she will send a

message immediately through me. I shall communicate with your valet, so

don't fail to call at your rooms."

Thus it was that from the day after my arrival at the castle to the day

of the fête of the Lautenburg Hussars, where I saw her for the first

time, I called at my rooms five or six times a day, more disappointed

than I cared to admit that the summons which would manifest the good

pleasure of the Grand Duchess Aurora-Anna-Eleanor towards me was not

forthcoming.

4. THE COURT

I doubt whether I should say "Court" in speaking of the entourage of the

Dukes of Lautenburg. The word is somewhat too heavy, but it fits in well

enough with the rigid etiquette which reigned at the castle.

I have already spoken of Major Count Albert von Kessel, of the 11th

Prussian Artillery Regiment, stationed at Königsberg. He passed out top

of the _Kriegs Academie_ at Berlin, and is undoubtedly one of the best

officers in the German Army. He's an officer to his finger-tips, and

although devoted body and soul to his profession, displays only the

inevitable minimum of that impossible Prussian arrogance. He always

treated me with the most perfect courtesy, and I have nothing but praise

for the advice he gave me and the influence he had over Duke Joachim.

Portly Colonel von Wendel, of Hanau Cuirassiers, combines the functions

of governor of the palace and head of the military household of the

Grand Duke. In the second capacity he has under his orders Captain

Müller, of the Würtemberg Chasseurs, and Lieutenants Bernhardt and von

Choisly, Uhlans and officers of the Grand Duke's staff.

He is a good sort, who spends his time shouting when the Grand Duke

isn't there, and trembling like an aspen leaf when he is. I suspect

Kessel has a profound contempt for him. He, on the other hand, treats

Kessel, who is on the Great General Staff, with the greatest deference.

It would never enter his head that his double functions authorize him to

give orders to the taciturn artilleryman.

His _bête-noire_, however, is little Lieutenant von Hagen, of the

Lautenburg Hussars, the Grand Duchess's orderly officer. Rows between

the Colonel and the Lieutenant are of frequent occurrence, but the

junior is backed by the Grand Duchess, who cannot do without him. The

Grand Duke won't hear a word against him. Wendel has to give way. In the

first few days I became conscious of the mutual hatred of these two men.

Without ever getting as far as confidences, the Governor of the castle

made two or three bitter remarks about the difficulties of his task. I

felt that with a little encouragement...

But I'd promised to keep to my own job and never mix myself up in their

affairs.

All the same, little Hagen irritated me beyond words, with his monocle,

his way of looking you up and down, and the self-satisfaction of the man

who feels secure against anything. He had been attached as orderly to

the Grand Duchess for two years, and I understand that at the time she

took him from the Lautenburg Hussars he was on the point of blowing his

brains out as a result of some gaming scandal.

The rest, on the whole, are pleasant enough. They became a good deal

more agreeable when they learned I "was an officer of the Reserve." That

day Colonel von Wendel asked me to dinner. Frau von Wendel, a motherly,

red-haired woman of forty, called me "Monsieur le lieutenant." At

dessert she asked me in a tender voice if I had read the "Fiancée de

Messine." After all this was a better way of spending my time than at

the Sorbonne attending the lectures of M. Seignobos. I only mention his

name because it will do as well as any other.

5. THE LIBRARY AND THE LIBRARIAN

The former plays so considerable a part in my story, that I must devote

a little space to a description of it. As for the latter, Professor

Cyrus Beck, of Kiel University, it seems only just that I should say a

few words in praise of the man of whose death I have been the innocent

cause.

The library had been fitted up in the dismantled chapel of the castle, a

chapel somewhat in the Jesuitical style having been built in the palace.

The beautiful ogival chamber which cuts the great hall and the armoury

at right angles has thus been laid open. The door on the left leads to

the armoury, and the way into the library is by the door at the far end

of the great hall.

Though three or four times larger, it bears a strong resemblance to the

library of the Château de Montesquieu at La Brède, except that, if I

remember rightly, the vaulting at La Brède is romanesque. Otherwise the

general plan is the same. In the centre there is a huge case containing

a remarkable collection of coins, among them a gold medallion of

Conradin, which is a masterpiece. Five or six lecterns have been

transformed into portable desks, the very thing for working. A splendid

system of electric light makes research an easy matter, for the room is,

indeed, so dark that it is impossible to read or write without

artificial light.

Don't expect me to give you even the most summary description of the

riches amassed here since the time of Gutenberg.

I don't believe it possible to write any kind of book on Germany without

having recourse to the library of Lautenburg. The visitors' book

contains the most famous signatures. Amongst others I noticed those of

Leibnitz, Humboldt, Otfried Müller, Curtius, Schleiermacher and Renan.

Even more precious are the treasures contained in the sacristy. There,

in old wooden chests, formerly reserved for vestments and chalices, are

housed the priceless manuscripts which comprise the public and private

archives of the Dukes of Lautenburg, or purchases made by several of

those dukes who were interested in such matters. They have to thank the

Grand Duke Rudolf, brother of the present Grand Duke, for several of the

most important items of the collection. The librarian, Herr Cyrus Beck,

who is engaged in classifying them, kept them jealously under lock and

key.

This Professor Cyrus Beck, of Kiel University, was lent to the Grand

Duke Rudolf ten years ago by the Rector Etlicher, for the special

purpose of cataloguing his manuscripts.

The present Grand Duke retained him in the same post in exchange for an

undertaking to give four hours a week to teach Duke Joachim the exact

sciences.

The old man spent half his remaining time among the manuscripts in the

sacristy, the rest in his laboratory, surrounded by furnaces and

retorts. This laboratory is situated in the triangle formed by the

armoury, the chapel and the walls of the castle. Like my room, it looks

out on the ravine of the Melna, or rather on the trees which almost

entirely shut out the view. The first time I ever entered the

laboratory, accompanied by Kessel, who was to introduce me to our

colleague, I was received much as Gulliver was among the spiders' webs

of the magician of Laputa. A harsh voice screamed out an order to shut

the door, declaring that the draught was putting out the burners. Then

a furious little fellow emerged from amid pungent fumes. Dr. Cyrus Beck

had a bald pate, as polished as if it had been subjected to the most

powerful acids. A long yellowish overall, covered with chemical stains,

enveloped him from head to foot. Among all his paraphernalia he looked

exactly as if he had stepped out of Hoffmann's tales.

He calmed down at the sight of Kessel, proffered his apologies, and told

us that he had just reached the psychological moment in his experiments

on the insulation of ... (something the name of which I have forgotten).

He had almost become pleasant when my companion told him that I myself

intended to do some research work in the manuscript section. He bowed as

Kessel told him that the Grand Duke hoped he would give me every

facility for this purpose, but I could see that he would not do more

than he could help.

"We'll see," I reflected philosophically. "This old chap is full of

fads. Sooner or later I'll find out the one to play up to."

I was in no hurry, having given myself a fortnight before starting on

what was then Professor Thierry's work, but eventually to be my own.

6. THE STATE OF LAUTENBUBG-DETMOLD

The Grand Duchy of Lautenburg-Detmold, one of the twenty-seven States of

the German Confederation, is about sixty miles long from north to south.

Its breadth varies between twelve and twenty-five miles. It has a

population of two hundred and eighty thousand. The Schwarzhugel, a last

buttress of the Harz, is the only orographical system which breaks the

monotony of the Hanoverian plain.

As regards its river system, the Grand Duchy is bounded by the Weser,

and crossed by the Aller. The Melna is the most important river, judging

by the length of its course in Lautenburg territory.

The Herrenwald, a forest of beech and fir, which starts to the north of

Lautenburg, covers a good third of its area. The rest consists of a

sandy tract, very difficult for agriculture, but particularly suited to

brick-making, the principal resource of the State.

There are two towns: Sandau, exclusively industrial, in the northern

plain, with twenty thousand inhabitants; Lautenburg, the capital, forty

thousand inhabitants, seat of a bishopric and the central assizes. A

cavalry brigade formed of the 11th Dragoons and the 7th Hussars, a

regiment of infantry, the 182nd, a half-regiment of artillery, and a

detachment of the 3rd Engineers are stationed there.

The constitution is monarchical, the Grand Dukes succeeding each other

in order of primogeniture, and women are not excluded. The Grand Duchess

Charlotte-Augusta reigned alone at the end of the eighteenth century,

and today the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus owes his title to his

marriage with the Grand Duchess Aurora.

The Grand Duke of Lautenburg is the immediate vassal of the King of

Würtemberg, and mediate vassal of the German Emperor.

The State of Lautenburg sends three deputies to the Reichstag. Two of

them are agrarians; the third, representing Sandau, is a Socialist. All

three sit of right in the Ducal Diet, which meets twice a year at the

Castle of Lautenburg. The President of the Municipal Council of

Lautenburg and two councillors elected by their colleagues are also

_ex-officio_ members of the Diet. The other members are elected, on a

narrow franchise, by the general population of the Grand Duchy. The

Grand Duke is President. A permanent committee of six members, somewhat

similar to our departmental commissions, dispatches current business

when the Diet is not in session.