In July she had gone to Ostend with an American.  A gentleman, but mad.  One of those men with a fixed idea that everything would always be all right and that nothing really and permanently uncomfortable could possibly happen.  A very fair man, with red hair, and radiating wrinkles all round his eyes—­phenomenon due to his humorous outlook on the world.  He laughed at her because she travelled with all her bonds of the City of Paris on her person.  He had met her one night, and the next morning suggested the Ostend excursion.  Too sudden, too capricious, of course; but she had always desired to see the cosmopolitanism of Ostend.  Trouville she did not like, as you had sand with every meal if you lived near the front.  Hotel Astoria at Ostend.  Complete flat in the hotel.  Very chic.  The red-haired one, the rouquin, had broad ideas, very broad ideas, of what was due to a woman.  In fact, one might say that he carried generosity in details to excess.  But naturally with Americans it was necessary to be surprised at nothing.  The rouquin said steadily that war would not break out.  He said so until the day on which it broke out.  He then became a Turk.  Yes, a Turk.  He assumed rights over her, the rights of protection, but very strange rights.  He would not let her try to return to Paris.  He said the Germans might get to Paris, but to Ostend, never—­because of the English!  Difficult to believe, but he had locked her up in the complete flat.  The Ostend season had collapsed—­pluff—­like that.  The hotel staff vanished almost entirely.  One or two old fat Belgian women on the bedroom floors—­that seemed to be all.  The rouquin was exquisitely polite, but very firm.  In fine, he was a master.  It was astonishing what he did.  They were the sole remaining guests in the Astoria.  And they remained because he refused to permit the management to turn him out.  Weeks passed.  Yes, weeks.  English forces came to Ostend.  Marvellous.  Among nations there was none like the English.  She did not see them herself.  She was ill.  The rouquin had told her that she was ill when she was not ill, but lo! the next day she was ill—­oh, a long time.  The rouquin told her the news—­battle of the Marne and all species of glorious deeds.  An old fat Belgian told her a different kind of news.  The stories of the fall of Liege, Namur, Brussels, Antwerp.  The massacres at Aerschot, at Louvain.  Terrible stories that travelled from mouth to mouth among women.  There was always rape and blood and filth mingled.  Stories of a frightful fascination ... unrepeatable!  Ah!

The rouquin had informed her one day that the Belgian Government had come to Ostend.  Proof enough, according to him, that Ostend could not be captured by the Germans!  After that he had said nothing about the Belgian Government for many days.  And then one day he had informed her casually that the Belgian Government was about to leave Ostend by steamer.  But days earlier the old fat woman had