In the second year of the war an evil chance brought two uninvited guests of very high standing indeed--that is to say in the social ring of Potsdam. Their names are well known. Let us call them Prince Barenberg and Count Ludra. The first was a major, the second a captain. Their value as warriors in the field had not proved equal to their prominence as noblemen, so they were given duty in the rear. They were vicious coxcombs of the first order. Their uniforms incased them tightly. Like wasps they bent only at the waist. Their flat-topped caps were worn with an aggressive slant, their swords jingled menacingly, their hay-colored mustaches spoke arrogance in every upturned hair. When they bowed it was a mockery; when they smiled it was a sneer. For the comfortable quarters of the Chateau d'Azan they had a gross appreciation, for the enforced hospitality of its owners an insolent condescension. They took it as their due, and resented the silent protest underneath it. “Excellent wine, Herr Baron,” said the prince, who, like his comrade, drank profusely of the best in the cellar. “Your Rudesheimer Berg '94 is _kolossal._ Very friendly of you to save it for us. We Germans know good wine. What?” “You have that reputation,” answered the baron. “And say,” added the count, “let us have a couple of bottles more, dear landlord. You can put it in the bill.” “I shall do so,” said the baron gravely. “It shall be put in the bill with other things.” “But why,” drawled the prince, “does _la Baronne_ never favor us with her company? Still very attractive--musical probably--here is a piano--want good German music--console homesickness.” “Madame is indisposed,” answered the baron quietly, “but you may be sure she regrets your absence from home.” The officers looked at each other with half-tipsy, half-angry eyes. They suspected a jest at their expense, but could not quite catch it. “Impudence,” muttered the count, who was the sharper of the two when sober. “No,” said the prince, “it is only stupidity. These Walloons have no wit.” “Come,” he added, turning to the baron, “we sing you a good song of fatherland--show how _gemuthlich_ we Germans are. You Belgians have no word for that. What?” He sat down to the piano and pounded out _“Deutschland ueber Alles,”_ singing the air in a raucous voice, while Ludra added a rumbling bass. “What do you think of that? All Germans can sing. _Gemuthlich._ What?” “You are right,” said the baron, with downcast eyes. “We Belgians have no word for that. It is inexpressible--except in German. I bid you good night.”