squad on your hill, replacing an officer who is not yet out of the
hospital. I must see my men housed and the horses under shelter.
May I ask you, if my orderly comes with my kit, to show him where to
put it, and explain to him how he may best get in and out of the
house, when necessary, without disturbing your habits?"

I had to laugh as I explained to him that locking up, when soldiers
were in the hamlet, was hardly even a formality, and that the orderly
could come and go at his will.

"Good," he replied. "Then I'll give myself the pleasure of seeing you
after dinner. I hope I shall in no way disturb you. I am always in before
nine," and he saluted again, backed away from the door, and
marched up the hill. He literally neither walked nor ran, he marched.

I wish I could give you an idea of what he looks like. At first sight I
gave him nineteen years at the outside, in spite of his height and his
soldierly bearing and his dignity.

Before he came in at half past eight his orderly had brought his kit,
unpacked and made himself familiar with the lay of the house, and
made friends with Amelie. So the Aspirant settled into an armchair in
front of the fire--having asked my permission--to chat a bit, and
account for himself, and it was evident to me that he had already
been asking questions regarding me--spurred, as usual, by the
surprise of finding an American here. As the officers' mess is at the
foot of the hill, at Voisins, that had been easy.

So, knowing intuitively, just by his manner and his words, that he had
asked questions about me--he even knew that I had been here from
the beginning of the war--I, with the privilege of my white hairs, asked
him even how old he was. He told me he was twenty--a year older
than I thought--that he was an only son, that his father was an officer
in the reserves and they lived about forty-five miles the other side of
Rheims, that his home was in the hands of the Germans, and the
house, which had been literally stripped of everything of value, was
the headquarters of a staff officer. And it was all told so quietly, so
simply, with no sign of emotion of any sort.

At exactly nine o'clock he rose to his feet, clicked his heels together,
made me a drawing-room bow, of the best form, as he said: "Eh,
bien, madame, je vous quitte. Bon soir et bonne nuit." Then he
backed to the foot of the stairs, bowed again, turned and went up
lightly on the toes of his heavy boots, and I never hea