They go away. At two in the morning another lot arrive. A half-hearted
crew, or with insufficient weapons, for the stout, barred door refuses
to give way under their stalwart blows.
Some Brandenburgers sally out of the Gendarmerie and ask in colloquial
but expressive German, “Why the ... something they are making such a
row.”
The intruders sulkily reply they want cognac, “and quickly too.”
The officers came to the inn yesterday and ordered that the soldiers
should not be served with cognac. It seems the spirit makes them mad.
There is plenty of cognac in the bar. They have only got to break in
and help themselves. I don’t propose to do a Joan-of-Arc turn and drive
them away from the enticing bottles.
But the Brandenburgers order them off.
“We have tried ourselves. There is no cognac in the inn,” they say.
“Only a Fräulein who is very tired.”
The soldiers ride grumbling away. Kind Brandenburgers!
Hardly has the noise of the horses’ hoofs died down than the ear is
assailed by new and more terrifying sounds. At first it is a mere
rumbling noise as of great carts creaking heavily along the high road
from Vielsalm. Nearer it comes. It might be a procession of traction
engines. Now it is like one continuous clap of thunder. As it rounds
the bend from Malempré the noise is positively deafening.
I put my head out of the window. I can see nothing but vast grey,
indeterminate forms, heralded by what I imagine are rows of innumerable
horses. If only the darkness would lift and one could see a little.
These awful cargoes turn off by the Gendarmerie in the direction of
Namur. The noise is like hell let loose. It does not require much
imagination to picture them as great siege guns being slipped through
to Namur under cover of the night....