"Sister-in-law," repeated Chérie faintly.
"Sister-in-law? Good." He puffed at the cigar. "And I'll be your brother-in-law, shall I? Ah, here is the wine!" he exclaimed as the door was thrown open.
But it was not the wine. It was another officer, dressed like the others in a grey uniform bereft of all insignia; he was very red and covered with dust and mud. He saluted the captain and nodded to the lieutenant, loosened his belt and flung his grey helmet on the piano where the others lay.
"Ah, Feldmann," cried Captain Fischer. "What have you done?"
"My duty," said the new-comer in a curious hoarse voice.
"Der Pfarrer?" … questioned Von Wedel.
The man nodded and made a grimace. "And that idiot of a scout-boy too. It was he who fired at you," he said turning to Fischer.
"It was not," said the captain. "It was an old man, from a window. Near the church."
"Oh well, I didn't see any old man," said Captain Feldmann. "And these civilians must be taught their lesson.... What have we here?" he added, surveying the table. "I am famished." And he took two or three sandwiches, placed them one on the other and ate them. "Beastly hole, this," he remarked, with his mouth full. "We needn't have come here at all."
"Oh yes, we need," declared Fischer very sternly.
"Well, we won't discuss that," said Feldmann. "And anyhow we are going on in the morning. I should like something to drink."
Chérie had flushed to the roots of her hair. She had grasped the one thing only—they were going on in the morning! At any cost she must tell Louise that wonderful news. And she did so rapidly, in low tones, in Flemish.
Louise, who had finished bandaging the officer's wounded arm, burst into tears again; this time they were tears of joy.
"What are these women?" inquired Feldmann, glancing around with his mouth full. "They look like ballet-dancers."
"That one," said Von Wedel, with a coarse laugh, pointing at Louise, "is the weeping Niobe; and that" indicating Mireille—"is the demon child. And this"—taking Chérie's wrist and drawing her towards him—"is my sister-in-law and an angel."
"And this is Veuve Clicquot '85," said Glotz entering with some bottles in his hand and stepping as if casually between Chérie and her tormentor.
The men turned all their attention to the wines, and sent Glotz to the cellar three or four times to fetch some more.
They wanted Martel; they wanted Kirsch; they wanted Pernod. Then they wanted more champagne. Then they wanted more sandwiches, which Louise went to make. Then they wanted coffee, which Feldmann insisted upon making himself on a spirit-lamp. They set fire to the tablecloth and to the tissue-paper serviettes, which they threw down and stamped out on the carpet.
Von Wedel sat down at the piano and sang "Traum durch die Dämmerung," and Feldmann wailed a chorus. Then Feldmann recited a poem. He was very tipsy and had to put one arm around Glotz's neck and lean heavily on Glotz's shoulder in order to be able to stand up and gesticulate.
Great laughter and applause from Captain Fischer and Von Wedel greeted this; only Glotz remained impassive; with Feldmann's arm around his neck, his chubby countenance unmoved, his expression vacant.
For some time they paid no heed to the three women clustered together in the furthest corner of the room, except to stretch out a detaining hand whenever they tried to move towards the door.
"No," declared Von Wedel, leering at them through his light, vague eyes. "No. You don't leave this room. Not all three together. Only one at a time; then we're sure she'll come back."
So they clung together with pale bewildered faces, whispering to each other every now and then the comforting words, "They will go away in the morning."
But the morning was not yet.
When Captain Fischer suggested that it was time to go to bed, the others called him an old screech-owl; whereupon Captain Fischer explained to them at great length that military discipline did not permit them to call him a screech-owl. And he called Louise to witness that he had been called a screech-owl.
But now Feldmann was singing "Gaudeamus igitur," so the captain joined in too.
"Come along," said Von Wedel, lurching towards Chérie with two glasses in his hand; "come, turtle-dove, Brüdershaft trinken!" He forced one of the glasses into her hand. "You must drink the pledge of brotherhood with us. Like this"—and he made her stand face to face with him, pushing his left arm through hers and raising his glass in his right hand.
Chérie shrank back, seeking refuge behind Louise. But he dragged her forward and caught her by the arm again.
"Obedience!" he roared, scowling at her. "Now sing; 'Lebe, liebe, trinke, schwärme'—and when I get to the words 'froh mit mir,' we clink our glasses together."
"Please not! please not!" implored Chérie.
"Froh mit mir"—repeated he, glaring at her through his heavy lids. And he sang:
At the last three words he clinked his glass against Chérie's. "Drink!" he commanded in a terrible voice. "If you do not drink, it is an insult which must be punished."
With a sob Chérie raised the glass to her lips.
Louise was wringing her hands. "The brute! the brute!" she cried, while Mireille holding her mother's skirts stared wide-eyed at the scene.
Captain Fischer looked across at Louise. "My Samaritan," … he mumbled. "My sister of mercy...." He rose and approached her with a stupefied smile.
Mireille rushed at him like a little fury. "Go away," she screamed, "go away!"
The Herr Kapitän took her not unkindly by the shoulders. "Little girls should be in bed," he said thickly. "My little girls are in bed long ago."
Louise clasped her hands. "I beg you, sir, have pity on us; let us go away.... The house is yours, but let us go away."
"Where do you want to go?" he asked dully.
"To our rooms," said Louise.
"You have no rooms; they are ours," he said, and bending forward he widened his eyes at her significantly.
Louise looked about her like a trapped animal. She saw Von Wedel and Feldmann who had Chérie between them and were forcing her to drink out of their glasses; she saw Glotz seated on the piano-stool looking on with fat, impassive face; she saw the man before her bending forward and leering suggestively, so close that she could feel his hot, acrid breath on her face. The enemy! The man with mud and blood on his feet … he was putting out his hand and touching her–
She fell on her knees and dragged Mireille down beside her! she lifted up her hands and raised her weeping face to him. "Your children … you have children at home … your little girls are in bed and asleep … they are safe … safe, locked in their house.... As God may guard them for you, oh protect us! spare us! Take care of us!… Be kind—be kind!" She dropped forward with her head on his feet—on Claude's slippers—and little Mireille with quick tears rolling down her face looked up at him and touched his sleeve with a trembling hand.
He looked down and frowned. His mouth worked. Yes. He had three yellow-headed little girls in Stuttgart. It was good that they were in Stuttgart and not in Belgium. But they were little German girls, while these were enemies. These were belligerents. Civilians if you will, but still belligerents....
He looked down at the woman's bowed head and fragile heaving shoulders, and he looked at the white, frightened child-face lifted to his. "Belligerents" … he growled, and cleared his throat and frowned. Then his chin quivered. "Get away," he said thickly. "Get away, both of you. Quick. Hide in the cellar—no—not in the cellar, in the stable—in the garden—anywhere. Don't go in the streets. The streets are full of drunken soldiers. Go."