“Everything is bearable so long as there is bread,” said Sancho Panza.
I begin to feel I could reckon with the Uhlans if only we had enough to
eat. Between the closely-drawn shutters of the little village shop can
be discerned packets of chocolate in small, neat, silver wrapped rows.
I would sell my chances of seeing England again for two good sticks or
twenty centimes in solid nickel coin with which to purchase them.
For lunch to-day I have a tiny piece of black bread. I eat it
lingeringly, carefully putting in the Gladstonian forty bites.
Yeastless, heavy as lead, it seems the most delicious food. I am
compunctious for having eaten so much when I think that there are only
three more such loaves. These are carefully hidden behind the cellar
door. They will last us some time, and the Uhlans will not find them
easily. But so beautiful is the Belgian nature, I am sure Mdme Job
and the others would willingly starve themselves that I—and even the
Germans—might have enough.
A hush is on the village since the word is passed round that the Duke
of Meiningen has entered the Gendarmerie beneath the shadow of the
still waving flag. No doubt it will presently be pulled down, “by order
of the Kaiser,” and replaced by the Imperial Eagle. We shall see!
In the meantime all documents and money are taken possession of by
the Prince. He comes out and speaks to the soldiers with some show of
anger. I gather that the upheaval the interior of the Gendarmerie has
undergone is set down to our account.
We shall be punished unless I interfere. In crudest German I explain
that none of us has been within the doors, that the disturbance and
looting are the work of German soldiers, that we should not dream of
interfering with a Belgian Governmental office. My excuses are met with
grunts. But I can see that they believe me. We shall pay no penalty for
this. I breathe again.
A tin case containing documents and money is set in the roadway by the
Gendarmerie door. The street is as full of soldiers with bayonets as of
cobblestones. The Prince stalks over to the post office, his scholarly
face grave with thought. Prince Ernst, his brother, mounted on a
splendid horse, guards the door.
The family of Job is behind fast-shut windows. So is the rest of the
village. Tragedy stalks in the air. We wonder what M. le Précepteur is
doing and what is going forward inside his house.
Suddenly shriek upon shriek ascends. Madame la Précepteur is in
hysterics. Her husband is being killed without doubt. The shrieks
intensify to yells. They are joined by a sturdy howl from M. Victor
and a whimpering cry, more pathetic than either, from the little baby
Germaine.
Madame Job puts her handkerchief to her face and begins to cry.
Monsieur puts his fingers in his ears. Messieurs Alfred and Floribert
have disappeared. I stand irresolute.
The owner of the café next door ventures into the open, and gazes
across that phalanx of impassive, well-armed men.
“Mademoiselle,” she calls. I go to the door and slip back the bolt. I
am ashamed to say I still hesitate. It is not exactly fear, but what
can I do, of what use am I, even if murder is being done; I, a woman,
defenceless, alone?
“I must go if you will not,” she says, gazing at me like a piteous
sheep. I am startled into action. Across the road I slip, in front of
the truculent-looking soldiers and seize Prince Ernst’s horse by the
bridle.
“May I go in?” I ask, hating to be forced to appeal to the enemy in
this way.
Instead of ordering me back or insulting me as I expect, a look of
immense relief flashes over his face.
“Pray do, Mademoiselle,” he says in French. “The poor woman is in great
distress. At nothing, nothing at all.”
“She naturally doesn’t like soldiers entering her house and taking the
post office papers and money,” I say, noting the large tin box on the
pavement, matching in appearance the one outside the Gendarmerie door.
“That is not the reason,” returns the Prince, looking a little
uncomfortable this time, “she is troubled because he is taken as
prisoner.”
“Prisoner,” I say, stupefied.
“C’est la guerre,” he answers a little cynically, a little sullenly.