My friend Serval added:
“It was by way of reprisal that the Germans
destroyed the chateau of the district, which belonged
to me.”
I thought of the mothers of those four fine fellows
burned in that house and of the horrible heroism of
that other mother shot against the wall.
And I picked up a little stone, still blackened by
the flames.
I should say I did remember that Epiphany supper during
the war! exclaimed Count de Garens, an army captain.
I was quartermaster of cavalry at the time, and for
a fortnight had been scouting in front of the German
advance guard. The evening before we had cut
down a few Uhlans and had lost three men, one of whom
was that poor little Raudeville. You remember
Joseph de Raudeville, of course.
Well, on that day my commanding officer ordered me
to take six troopers and to go and occupy the village
of Porterin, where there had been five skirmishes
in three weeks, and to hold it all night. There
were not twenty houses left standing, not a dozen
houses in that wasps’ nest. So I took ten
troopers and set out about four o’clock, and
at five o’clock, while it was still pitch dark,
we reached the first houses of Porterin. I halted
and ordered Marchas—you know Pierre de Marchas,
who afterward married little Martel-Auvelin, the daughter
of the Marquis de Martel-Auvelin—to go
alone into the village, and to report to me what he
saw.
I had selected nothing but volunteers, all men of
good family. It is pleasant when on duty not
to be forced to be on intimate terms with unpleasant
fellows. This Marchas was as smart as possible,
cunning as a fox and supple as a serpent. He
could scent the Prussians as a dog can scent a hare,
could discover food where we should have died of hunger
without him, and obtained information from everybody,
and information which was always reliable, with incredible
cleverness.
In ten minutes he returned. “All right,”
he said; “there have been no Prussians here
for three days. It is a sinister place, is this
village. I have been talking to a Sister of Mercy,
who is caring for four or five wounded men in an abandoned
convent.”
I ordered them to ride on, and we entered the principal
street. On the right and left we could vaguely
see roofless walls, which were hardly visible in the
profound darkness. Here and there a light was
burning in a room; some family had remained to keep
its house standing as well as they were able; a family
of brave or of poor people. The rain began to
fall, a fine, icy cold rain, which froze as it fell
on our cloaks. The horses stumbled against stones,
against beams, against furniture. Marchas guided
us, going before us on foot, and leading his horse
by the bridle.
“Where are you taking us to?” I asked
him. And he replied: “I have a place
for us to lodge in, and a rare good one.”
And we presently stopped before a small house, evidently
belonging to some proprietor of the middle class.
It stood on the street, was quite inclosed, and had
a garden in the rear.
