A tin case containing documents and money is set in the roadway by the Gendarmerie door. The street is as full of soldiers with bayonets as of cobblestones. The Prince stalks over to the post office, his scholarly face grave with thought. Prince Ernst, his brother, mounted on a splendid horse, guards the door. The family of Job is behind fast-shut windows. So is the rest of the village. Tragedy stalks in the air. We wonder what M. le Précepteur is doing and what is going forward inside his house. Suddenly shriek upon shriek ascends. Madame la Précepteur is in hysterics. Her husband is being killed without doubt. The shrieks intensify to yells. They are joined by a sturdy howl from M. Victor and a whimpering cry, more pathetic than either, from the little baby Germaine. Madame Job puts her handkerchief to her face and begins to cry. Monsieur puts his fingers in his ears. Messieurs Alfred and Floribert have disappeared. I stand irresolute. The owner of the café next door ventures into the open, and gazes across that phalanx of impassive, well-armed men. “Mademoiselle,” she calls. I go to the door and slip back the bolt. I am ashamed to say I still hesitate. It is not exactly fear, but what can I do, of what use am I, even if murder is being done; I, a woman, defenceless, alone? “I must go if you will not,” she says, gazing at me like a piteous sheep. I am startled into action. Across the road I slip, in front of the truculent-looking soldiers and seize Prince Ernst’s horse by the bridle. “May I go in?” I ask, hating to be forced to appeal to the enemy in this way. Instead of ordering me back or insulting me as I expect, a look of immense relief flashes over his face. “Pray do, Mademoiselle,” he says in French. “The poor woman is in great distress. At nothing, nothing at all.” “She naturally doesn’t like soldiers entering her house and taking the post office papers and money,” I say, noting the large tin box on the pavement, matching in appearance the one outside the Gendarmerie door. “That is not the reason,” returns the Prince, looking a little uncomfortable this time, “she is troubled because he is taken as prisoner.” “Prisoner,” I say, stupefied. “C’est la guerre,” he answers a little cynically, a little sullenly. I turn away and stumble over the threshold. In the sitting-room are the Prince, two officers, M. le Précepteur, looking hot and sticky yet deathly white, holding Germaine in his arms. Mme la Précepteur in a morning wrapper is yelling in accents which make pig-killing seem gentle by comparison. Hanging to her skirts is M. Victor, decidedly unwashed, but, mercifully, by now too short of breath to cry effectively. “Mon pauvre mari, mes pauvres enfants,” sobs Madame. Her face is purple with emotion, the tears are coursing down her cheeks. She is a piteous spectacle of unrestrained grief. The Prince of Meiningen says to me in quiet tones the words every German seems to use when in a tight corner.