Part 56

Paul Hatzfeldt wrote to Helen last September that the King of Prussia had promised to put Petit Val under special protection. He even wished to go there himself; but Paul thought Petit Val looked so spoiled that he was glad the King did not go. If it was spoiled in September last, imagine what it must have been six months later, with six months of soldiers to spoil it!

When we arrived at the château itself the officers, who had evidently just been lunching, came out to meet us, wondering, apparently, who this courageous lady (poor trembling me!) could possibly be. Henry knew their names, and presented them all to me; they clanked their heels together and made the most perfect of military salutes.

The commanding officer in charge of Petit Val is Count Arco, a major of a Bavarian regiment. I hastened to explain my presence among them, saying that I wished to collect the various things I had left in the château when I went away last August, and I had taken advantage of the first occasion which offered itself of coming here.

Count Arco held a short conversation with Henry, who told him I would like to go to my apartment. "Do not trouble to have anything disarranged for me," I said, "as I shall only be here for a short time. My mother-in-law is driving out later in the afternoon to take me back to Paris."

While we were talking Count Arco informed me that there were twenty six officers in the château itself and one hundred and twenty soldiers quartered round in the different pavilions, farm-houses, ateliers, and --I think he said--about fifty in the orangerie.

Presently an orderly appeared and conducted me to my rooms, which had evidently been hurriedly evacuated, but they looked quite nice and clean. I was agreeably surprised to find my writing-desk and commodes pretty nearly as I remembered to have left them. At any rate, letters, trinkets, and so forth seemed undisturbed. I wish I could say the same for my wearing apparel, which had considerably diminished since my departure. Waists without their skirts, and skirts without their waists, and I found various female articles unknown to me; but never mind! Honi soit qui mal y pense!

It was said in France that no German could resist a clock, and that the dearth of clocks after the war is quite noticeable. To prove the contrary, and to applaud the officers who had lived in Petit Val (and there had been many hundreds of them), my clock was ticking away as of old on my mantelpiece.

Having finished packing the things to take with me, I wished to have a look at protected Petit Val.

The "unavoidable destruction" had been interpreted in a very liberal sense.

The salon was a sight never to be forgotten. The mirrors which paneled the whole of the east wall were broken, as if stones had been thrown at them; every picture had been pierced by bayonets. The beautiful portrait of the Marquis de Marigny (the former owner of Petit Val and brother of Madame de Pompadour) had vanished. Instead of the Aubusson furniture we had left, which, I suppose, has been transferred to other homes, I found two pianos, one grand (not ours), two billiard-tables (not ours), some iron tables, and some very hard iron chairs (certainly not ours), annexed, I should say, from a neighboring café.

The library, formerly containing such rare and valuable books, is now a bedroom--the shelves half empty, the books scattered about, some of them piled up in a corner and used as a table. Henry said that, when any one wanted to light a fire or a pipe, they simply tore a page out of a book. What did they care? Was it not one of the "exigencies of war"? The frames and glasses of the engravings were broken; but, fortunately, all the engravings were not ruined.

You remember Mrs. Moulton's boudoir, where all was so dainty and complete? The soldiers had converted it into a kitchen, and at the moment we were there they were cooking some very smelly cabbage à la tedesco.

My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!

Evidently the all-powerful flag had not protected this, for it was without doors, windows, and parquets. The only thing in it was a dear little calf munching his last meal before being killed. To make it look more like a slaughter-house, there were haunches of beef hanging on the Louis XV. appliques, which had been left on the walls to serve as nails. Fresh blood was dropping from them on the sacks of potatoes underneath.

The officers had coffee served under the charmille.

I was glad to get something to sustain my sinking heart. Henry and I took a sad walk through the park. The once beautifully kept lawn is now like a ploughed field, full of ruts and stones.

The lake was shining in the sun, but on it there were no boats. The grotto over which used to trickle a little waterfall was completely dry, showing the ugly stucco false rocks. It seemed dismal and forlorn. I wondered how I ever could have thought it beautiful! The rivière was without its pretty rustic bridge; the picturesque pavilions were filled with soldiers; some were sitting on the porches mending their clothes.

Five o'clock came before we realized how late it was. We expected the carriage every moment; but there was no sign of it, though we scanned the length of the long avenue with the Count's field-glasses.

Why did Mrs. Moulton not come? Something must have happened! But what? Henry and I were seriously alarmed. Noticing our looks of dismay, Count Arco asked me if I was anxious. I replied that I naturally was anxious, because if my mother-in-law could not come or send the carriage she certainly would have telegraphed. He then inquired if I wished to send a telegram. No sooner had I said "yes" than an orderly appeared on horseback to take the telegram to the station. He returned, while we still stood in the avenue looking for the longed-for carriage, with the astounding news that all the telegraph wires were cut.

To take the train was our next idea, and the wondering orderly was again sent back to find out when the next train would start. This time he returned with still more astounding news.

There were no trains at all!

Count Arco seemed to be most agitated, and I could see, by the expression of the faces of the other officers, that they were more disturbed than they wanted us to notice.

What should I do? Everything was in ruins in the village. There was not even an auberge of the smallest dimensions. All the neighboring châteaux were abandoned. Of whom could I ask hospitality? Count Arco, seeing my embarrassment, proposed my staying the night at Petit Val. Henry's living there made it easier for me. So I accepted his offer; besides, there was no choice. The soldiers arranged my room according to their ideas of a lady's requirements, which included a boot-jack, ash-trays, beer-mugs, etc. Their intentions were of the best.

At seven o'clock Henry and I dined with the officers. It seemed strange to me to be presiding at my own table surrounded by German officers, Count Arco being my vis-à-vis.

Do you want to know what we had for dinner? Bean soup, brought from Germany. Sausages and cabbage, put up in Germany. Coffee and zwiebacks, I suppose also from Germany.

The evening passed quickly, and I must admit very pleasantly. Any one who had pretensions to music played or sang, Henry performed some of his compositions; one officer did some card tricks. They all had an anecdote of their experience from the past months, which they told with great relish. Henry whispered to Count Arco: "My sister-in-law sings. Why don't you ask her for a song?" I could have pinched him!

Although I was very tired and did not feel like it, I reflected that almost anything was preferable to being begged and teased. And, after all, why not be as amiable as my companions, who had done their best to amuse me?

I seated myself at the piano and commenced with one of Schumann's songs, and then I sang "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," of Massé, which had a great success, and at the refrain, "Et moi! j'ai l'âme triste," there was not a dry eye in the little circle. Graf Waldersee, one of the oldest warriors, wept like an infant while I was singing, and coming up to me, after blowing his nose, said, in his delightfully broken English, "You zing like an angle [I hope he meant angel]. It is as if ze paradise vas opened to us." Then he retired in a corner and wiped his eyes. I sang "Ein Jungling liebt ein Mädchen," of Schumann, and when I came to the line, "Und wem das just passieret, dem bricht das Herz entzwei," I heard a mournful sigh. It came from the Benjamin of the flock, a very young officer, who sat with his hands over his face sobbing audibly. What chord had I struck? Was his the heart that was breaking entzwei?