She went to the Brussels bank a fortnight after her mother’s death whilst still availing herself of the hospitality of Madame Trouessart:  to withdraw the jewellery and plate which she had deposited there on her mother’s account.  But there she found herself confronted with the red tape of the Latin which is more formidable, even, than that of the land of Dora at the present day.  These deposited articles were held on the order of Mrs. Warren; they could not be given up till her will was proved and letters of administration had been granted.  So that small resource in funds was withheld, at any rate till some time after peace had been declared.  However she had a thousand pounds (in notes) between her and penury, and the friendship of Minna von Stachelberg.  She would resume her evening lessons in English—­Madame Trouessart had found her several pupils—­and she would lodge—­as they kindly invited her to do—­with the Baptist pastor and his wife in the Rue Haute.  And she would help Minna at the hospital, and hope to be rewarded with the opportunity of bringing comfort and consolation to the wounded British prisoners.

Thus, with no unbearable misery, she passed the year 1916.  There were short commons in the way of food, and the cold was sometimes cruel.  But Madame Walcker was a wonderful cook and could make soup from a sausage skewer, and heaped edredons on Vivie’s bed.  Vivie sighed a little over the Blue Placards which announced endless German victories by land and sea; and she gasped over the dreadful Red Placards with their lists of victims sentenced to death by the military courts.  She ground her teeth over the announcement of Gabrielle Petit’s condemnation, and behind the shut door of Minna’s small sitting-room—­and she only shut the door not to compromise Minna—­she raved over the judicial murder of this Belgian heroine, who was shot, as was Edith Cavell, for nothing more than assisting young Belgians to escape from German-occupied Belgium.

She witnessed the air-raids of the Allies, when only comforting papers were dropped on Brussels city, but bombs on the German aerodromes outside; and she also saw the Germans turn their guns from the aeroplanes—­which soared high out of their reach or skimmed below range—­on to thickly-inhabited streets of the poorer quarters, to teach them to cheer the air-craft of the Allies!

She beheld—­or she was told of—­many acts of rapine, considered cruelty and unreasoning ferocity on the part of German officials or soldiers; yet saw or heard of acts and episodes of unlooked-for kindness, forbearance and sympathy from the same hated people.  Von Giesselin, after all, was a not uncommon type; and as to Minna von Stachelberg, she was a saint of the New Religion, the Service of Man.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BOMB IN PORTLAND PLACE