“Don’t fuss, Maman,” says M. Alfred the peacemaker. “It will be all right now the men in skirts are there....” A TEUTON FEAST _Friday._—Two men of the Brandenburger Cuirassiers come into the inn before breakfast. I am brought forward, as usual, to interpret. The shorter of the two, a square-jawed, swashbuckling kind of fellow, demands hay. I reply with superb mendacity, “We have no hay.” He follows this up with enquiries as to the disposition of the enemy. My face becomes vacant, my German resolves itself into a fluent mass of unintelligible sounds. Woe is me! At that moment the door into the yard opens, and M. Alfred is seen crossing the clean wide space, bearing stablewards half a hayrick on a long pitchfork. The Cuirassier gives a growl, thrusts his pug-nosed, underbred face almost into mine, and lands me a blow that knocks me up against the wall. “Isn’t that hay?” he asks fiercely, pointing. “Hay, but for us,” I answer calmly. “You lie!” He prods at my left shoulder with his bayonet, but he either fears to strike hard or the padded arrangement worn under my dress with a view to such contingencies does its work well. My wound is nothing but an abrasion of the skin. The swashbuckler swaggers into the yard and coolly appropriates the hayrick. His friend, a gentle-faced, blond giant looks down at me with regret. “You need not fear. I will see that you come to no harm. My friend there is a wild fellow,” he murmurs apologetically. “Fear. Ich bin Engländerin,” I answer simply. He laughs. “You are as brave as your brave little army. But—such a mere handful of men. How can it stand up against us!” The swashbuckler returns. They leave the inn together and later appear before the Gendarmerie with the weird medley of weapons which every cavalryman seems to carry. They hammer at the stable door. It is smashed and their horses feeding in the empty stalls in less time than it takes to relate. Their next step is to batter at the door of the Gendarmerie itself. I go to the back of the house whence a narrow window commands a view of the place. Perfidious people! They have no respect for the sanctity of home. The Commandant’s little treasures are quickly found. They run from room to room, opening drawers and rummaging through the contents, even overturning furniture. One man gets hold of a pile of letters, tied with ribbon. Love-letters perhaps. Downstairs they go and bring up a ham, bread, some wine. A “_pique-nique_” in war-time is huge fun. They thoroughly enjoy their impromptu meal in the back bedroom. The remains of food are left scattered about the uncarpeted floors; some of it is trodden carelessly under the soldiers’ feet.