“Bon jour, madame” he said.  “Permit me to introduce myself.  Aspirant
B------, 23d Dragoons.”

“Regular army?” I said, for I knew by the look of him that this was a professional soldier.

“St. Cyr,” he replied.  That is the same as our West Point.

“You are welcome, Aspirant,” I said.  “Let me show you to your room.”

“Thank you,” he smiled.  “Not yet.  I only came to present myself, and thank you in advance for your courtesy.  I am in command of the squad on your hill, replacing an officer who is not yet out of the hospital.  I must see my men housed and the horses under shelter.  May I ask you, if my orderly comes with my kit, to show him where to put it, and explain to him how he may best get in and out of the house, when necessary, without disturbing your habits?”

I had to laugh as I explained to him that locking up, when soldiers were in the hamlet, was hardly even a formality, and that the orderly could come and go at his will.

“Good,” he replied.  “Then I’ll give myself the pleasure of seeing you after dinner.  I hope I shall in no way disturb you.  I am always in before nine,” and he saluted again, backed away from the door, and marched up the hill.  He literally neither walked nor ran, he marched.

I wish I could give you an idea of what he looks like.  At first sight I gave him nineteen years at the outside, in spite of his height and his soldierly bearing and his dignity.

Before he came in at half past eight his orderly had brought his kit, unpacked and made himself familiar with the lay of the house, and made friends with Amelie.  So the Aspirant settled into an armchair in front of the fire—­having asked my permission—­to chat a bit, and account for himself, and it was evident to me that he had already been asking questions regarding me—­spurred, as usual, by the surprise of finding an American here.  As the officers’ mess is at the foot of the hill, at Voisins, that had been easy.

So, knowing intuitively, just by his manner and his words, that he had asked questions about me—­he even knew that I had been here from the beginning of the war—­I, with the privilege of my white hairs, asked him even how old he was.  He told me he was twenty—­a year older than I thought—­that he was an only son, that his father was an officer in the reserves and they lived about forty-five miles the other side of Rheims, that his home was in the hands of the Germans, and the house, which had been literally stripped of everything of value, was the headquarters of a staff officer.  And it was all told so quietly, so simply, with no sign of emotion of any sort.

At exactly nine o’clock he rose to his feet, clicked his heels together, made me a drawing-room bow, of the best form, as he said:  “Eh, bien, madame, je vous quitte.  Bon soir et bonne nuit.”  Then he backed to the foot of the stairs, bowed again, turned and went up lightly on the toes of his heavy boots, and I never heard another sound of him.