"What is that noise? Who is crying?" he asked.
"The dog, sir," said Glotz, "whom you kicked downstairs before."
"Hideous sound!" said Captain Fischer; "stop it."
And one of the soldiers went in and stopped it.
Captain Fischer went downstairs, followed by Glotz. When they entered the room Von Wedel turned away from Chérie and stood at attention.
Outside the boom of the cannon had ceased, but there were loud bursts of firing in the distance, sudden volleys which ceased as abruptly as they began. The three officers seemed to pay no heed to these sounds; they stood speaking together, the captain issuing brief orders, Von Wedel asking a question or two, and Glotz saying "Ja, Herr Kapitän—ja, Herr Leutnant" at brief intervals, like a mechanical toy. Glotz was round-faced and solemn. He never once looked at Louise, Chérie, or Mireille, who stood in a corner of the room watching the men with anxious eyes.
"What are they saying?" asked Louise in an undertone.
Chérie listened. So far as she could understand they were making arrangements as to where they should sleep.
"Eight men are to stay here," she translated in a whisper, "four in the attics and four downstairs. They themselves are going somewhere else—wait! They are talking of the Cheval Blanc—wait … wait … they are saying"—and her eyes dilated—"that they can't go there because the inn is burning...."
At this point Von Wedel gave a loud laugh and Fischer smiled. Only Glotz's chubby countenance remained solemn, like the face of an anxious baby.
"What are they saying now?" asked Louise.
Mireille whispered, "They are talking about the Pfarrer—that means the priest."
"About Monsieur le Curé? What are they saying about him?"
At this point Von Wedel laughed again. "Der alte Esel!… Seine eigene Schuld...."
"What is that? what is that?" asked Louise.
"The old donkey … his own fault," translated Mireille.
"And now what?" The captain was bending down and looking at his boots.
Chérie interpreted. "He says he will be glad to get the mud and blood off his feet...."
"Mud and blood?" echoed Louise in a horrified whisper. "Surely not."
Mireille nodded. "Koth und Blut—that is what he said."
A wave of sickness came over Louise; she felt the ground heave under her.
Now Von Wedel was helping the captain to take off his tunic, drawing the left sleeve down with great precaution.
"He says he is wounded," whispered Mireille.
"But he says it is nothing; that his arm is only grazed," supplemented Chérie.
The coat was off and Captain Fischer was carefully turning up his shirt-sleeve. Yes; the forearm was grazed and bleeding.
The captain examined it very carefully, and so did Von Wedel, bending over it and shaking his head with an air of great concern. The captain looked across at Louise and beckoned to her with his finger.
"Come here, Gnädige, please;" and as she approached him he said, "Your husband is a doctor, is he not? Then you will have some antiseptic in the house. Lysoform? Sublimate? Have you?" Louise nodded assent. "Bring me some," he said. "And a little boiled water if you have it."
Louise turned without a word and left the room.
"She is very stupid," said Von Wedel looking after her.
"She is very pretty," said the captain.
Louise passed the soldiers who stood in the hall talking together in low voices. She went down the stairs feeling dizzy and bewildered. Would these men stay in the house all night? Would they sleep and eat here? Would they order her about, and ogle Chérie, and bully little Mireille? How long would they stay, she wondered. A week? a month?… She entered her husband's surgery and turned on the light. The sight of his room, of his chair, of his book, open on the desk as he had left it, seemed to wring her heart in a vice of pain. "Claude! Claude!" she sobbed. "Come back! Come back and take care of us!"
But Claude was far away.
She found the little blue phial of pastilles of corrosive sublimate; she poured some distilled water into a small basin and found cotton and a packet of lint for a bandage. Then she went upstairs again, past the soldiers in grey, and entered the sitting-room. It was empty.
Where had they all gone to? Where had they taken Chérie and Mireille? She stumbled blindly up the short flight of stairs leading to the drawing-room. There she heard their voices, and went in.
Captain Fischer was reclining on the sofa, still in his shirt-sleeves, with his boots off. Von Wedel and Glotz were at the flower-adorned supper-table prepared for Chérie's birthday party, and were eating sandwiches in large mouthfuls. Their grey helmets were on the piano; their belts on a chair. Chérie stood cowering in a corner near the door.
"Where is Mireille?" cried Louise; and Chérie replied, "She is all right. He"—indicating the captain on the sofa—"has sent her to fetch him some slippers." Her lips quivered. "I wanted to go with her but they would not let me."
"I feel as if we were in a dream," murmured Louise.
"Ah," cried the man on the sofa, catching sight of Louise, "here is my good Samaritan." He crossed the room in his stockinged feet and took the basin out of her hands. He looked round a moment uncertain where to put it; then he drew up a satin chair and placed the basin of water on it.
"Gut," he said. "And what have we here?" He took the little bottle from her hand. "'Perchlor. of mercury, 1.0 gramme.' That is right." He shook one of the little pink tablets out on his palm and dropped it in the water. "Now, charming lady, will you be a sister of mercy to a poor wounded man?" He bared his arm and sat down on the sofa again, making room for her beside him; but she stood in front of him, and dipping some pieces of cotton in the water she bathed the injured arm.
The door opened and Mireille came in with a pair of her father's slippers in her hand. When she saw her mother stooping over the man's arm her small face flushed scarlet. She flung the slippers down and, running to the corner where Chérie was standing, she hid her face on Chérie's arm.
"Ei, ei, the vixen!" laughed Von Wedel, taking another sandwich. "Now we want something to drink. Not these syrups," he added, pushing the grenadine and orangeade aside. "Let us have some champagne. Eh, Glotz? What do you say to that?"
"And some brandy," said Fischer. "This scratch is deucedly painful."
There was a moment's silence. Then Chérie, taking a step towards the door, said, "I will fetch some brandy."
"I'll come too," said Mireille.
"No, no, no, no," cried Von Wedel, catching hold of them each by one arm. "You two want to run away. I know your tricks! No. The vixen stays here; and the angel"—bending to gaze into Chérie's face—"comes with me and shows me where the brandy is kept."
"She shan't! she shan't!" screamed Mireille, clinging to Chérie's arm.
"Donner und Blitz!" exclaimed Von Wedel, "what a little demon. You just catch hold of her, Glotz, and keep her quiet."
Glotz, who had been sitting at the table eating silently, rose and dried his mouth on one of the beflowered tissue-paper serviettes. "I know where the cellar is," said he, "I saw it on my round with the Herr Kapitän. If the Herr Kapitän permits, I will fetch the brandy myself." And he left the room quickly, paying no heed to Von Wedel's murmured remark that he was a confounded interfering head of a sheep.
Louise had burst into tears when Von Wedel had told Glotz to hold Mireille, and although the captain patted her hand and told her not to cry she went on weeping bitterly while she bandaged his arm.
Von Wedel looked at her a moment and then turned to Chérie. "What relation are you to that weeping Niobe? I forget."
"Sister-in-law," murmured Chérie inaudibly.
"What? Speak louder. I can't hear," said Von Wedel, seating himself on a corner of the table and lighting one of Dr. Brandès's cigars.