He replies, “All are here, all, all.” Then as an afterthought—“Except
the Crown Prince. He is at Belfort.”
“Wounded?” I ask. The rumour has even reached us here.
“No more than you nor me,” says the orderly as he goes smiling away.
This is quite a morning of excitements. We now have a General with his
aide-de-camp “drying” in the kitchen. They have been caught in an early
morning downpour. I wish the raindrops had been bullets! Every now and
again as the door opens I see him, standing by the stove, one hand
covering Madame Job with his revolver, the other applied to his back to
see his clothes don’t scorch.
Poor Madame Job. I know Albert, fried eggs, generals and revolvers are
playing a dreadful, fire-worky, Catherine-wheel dance in her tired,
frightened brain. For one second I have a sneaking, naughty sympathy
with the red-faced General. I know from experience he will have a very
watery breakfast....