It was just after that that I discovered the explanation of what had happened to my Irish scout on Saturday.  An exhausted soldier was in need of a stimulant, and one of his comrades, who was supporting him, asked me if I had anything.  I had nothing but the bottle out of which the Irish scout had drunk.  I rushed for it, poured some into the tin cup held out to me, and just as the poor fellow was about to drink, his comrade pulled the cup away, smelt it, and exclaimed, “Don’t drink that—­here, put some water in it.  That’s not cider.  It’s eau de vie des prunes.”

I can tell you I was startled.  I had never tasted eau de vie des prunes,—­a native brew, stronger than brandy, and far more dangerous,—­and my Irishman had pulled off a full champagne glass at a gulp, and never winked.  No wonder he fell off his wheel.  The wonder is that he did not die on the spot.  I was humiliated.  Still, he was Irish and perhaps he didn’t care.  I hope he didn’t.  But only think, he will never know that I did not do it on purpose.  He was probably gloriously drunk.  Anyway, it prevented his coming back to make that visit he threatened me with.

The detachment of the regiment which staggered past my gate camped in the fields below me and in the courtyards at Voisins, and the rest of them made themselves comfortable in the fields at the other side of the hill and the outbuildings on Amelie’s place, and the officers and the ambulance corps began to seek their quarters.

I was sitting in the library when my guest, Chef-Major Weitzel, rode up to the gate.  I had a good chance to look him over, as he marched up the path.  He was a dapper, upright, little chap.  He was covered with dust from his head to his heels.  I could have written his name on him anywhere.  Then I went to the door to meet him.  I suppose he had been told that he was to be lodged in the house of an American.  He stopped abruptly, halfway up the path, as I appeared, clicked his heels together, and made me his best bow, as he said:—­

“I am told, madame, that you are so gracious as to offer me a bed.”

I might have replied literally, “Offer?  I had no choice,” but I did not.  I said politely that if Monsieur le Chef-Major would take the trouble to enter, I should do myself the distinguished honor of conducting him to his chamber, having no servant for the moment to perform for him that service, and he bowed at me again, and marched in—­no other word for it—­and came up the stairs behind me.

As I opened the door of my guest-room, and stood aside to let him pass, I found that he had paused halfway up and was giving my raftered green salon and the library beyond a curious glance.  Being caught, he looked up at once and said:  “So you are not afraid?” I supposed he was inspired by the fact that there were no signs of any preparations to evacuate.

I replied that I could not exactly say that, but that I had not been sufficiently afraid to run away and leave my house to be looted unless I had to.