In the morning, the riot of the night was our only subject. The terrace in front of our windows showed not the slightest evidence of any disturbance, and we almost doubted our senses. At breakfast, the man who served us knew nothing; he had not wakened all night, he declared. Maarten Maartens, more and more intrigued, insisted on asking the headwaiter. The answer of that worthy was, “There was no disturbance at any time last night. If there had been, I could not have failed to hear it.” Maarten Maartens broke from this sturdy liar, and went off to the bureau of the Hotel. Here he found the manager, with whom he was personally acquainted, seated at his desk; two or three other people were near. To the Dutch novelist’s inquiry the manager answered--“There was no noise in any part of the hotel at any time last night. You were dreaming,--you had a nightmare.” Maarten Maartens, now thoroughly baffled, almost began to think that the noise must have been a delusion of the brain; when the manager, coming to him along a passage, and glancing hither and thither to make sure no one was listening, said, “The officers of a crack regiment from Cologne were supping last night here, in the large private room on the second floor. At three o’clock, as they were leaving, they threw everything that was on the table,--glass, china, silver, everything,--out of window on to the terrace below. But before four o’clock my waiters had removed every trace of what the officers had done. I tell you the facts because you are so persistent, but I must beg you to ask no more questions and make no more remarks. If it were known to the authorities that any complaints had been made, my licence would be withdrawn. My people are so well disciplined, that not a single man or woman employed in the hotel would admit that any incident had taken place.” Maarten Maartens said, “But would you allow civilians to behave like that?” “Civilians!” exclaimed the manager; “in their case I should telephone to the police at the crash of the first wine-glass.” Before we left Königswinter that day we went with Maarten Maartens to call on the publisher of the German edition of his writings, which had a very large sale. We were received with much ceremony in a modern house, sumptuously furnished, and set in an enchanting park which goes down to the Rhine. The civility of the great publisher and of his family was extreme. In the course of conversation Maarten Maartens, in whom the nocturnal bombardment of his bed-room rankled, told the story with a great deal of humour and liveliness. When he had finished there was a silence, and then the publisher said, very sententiously, “We never criticise the Army! Allow me to show you that part of the garden which has been finished since your last visit!”