Alone and systematically, Brisbille was the reviler.  From the top of Chestnut Hill, where we were watching a strategical display, he pointed at the military mass.  “Maneuvers, do they call them?  I could die of laughing!  The red caps have dug trenches and the white-band caps have bunged ’em up again.  Take away the War Office, and you’ve only kids’ games left.”

“It’s war!” explained an influential military correspondent, who was standing by.

Then the journalist talked with a colleague about the Russians.

“The Russians!” Brisbille broke in; “when they’ve formed a republic——­”

“He’s a simpleton,” said the journalist, smiling.

The inebriate jumped astride his hobby horse.  “War me no war, it’s all lunacy!  And look, look—­look at those red trousers that you can see miles away!  They must do it on purpose for soldiers to be killed, that they don’t dress ’em in the color of nothing at all!”

A lady could not help breaking in here:  “What?” Change our little soldiers’ red trousers?  Impossible!  There’s no good reason for it.  They would never consent!  They would rebel.”

“Egad!” said a young officer; “why we should all throw up our commissions!  And any way, the red trousers are not the danger one thinks.  If they were as visible as all that, the High Command would have noticed it and would have taken steps—­just for field service, and without interfering with the parade uniform!”

The regimental sergeant-major cut the discussion short as he turned to Brisbille with vibrant scorn and said, “When the Day of Revenge comes, we shall have to be there to defend you!”

And Brisbille only uttered a shapeless reply, for the sergeant-major was an athlete, and gifted with a bad temper, especially when others were present.

The castle was quartering a Staff.  Hunting parties were given for the occasion in the manorial demesne, and passing processions of bedizened guests were seen.  Among the generals and nobles shone an Austrian prince of the blood royal, who bore one of the great names in the Almanach de Gotha, and who was officially in France to follow the military operations.

The presence of the Baroness’s semi-Imperial guest caused a great impression of historic glamour to hover over the country.  His name was repeated; his windows were pointed out in the middle of the principal front, and one thought himself lucky if he saw the curtains moving.  Many families of poor people detached themselves from their quarters in the evenings to take up positions before the wall behind which he was.

Marie and I, we were close to him twice.

One evening after dinner, we met him as one meets any passer-by among the rest.  He was walking alone, covered by a great gray waterproof.  His felt hat was adorned with a short feather.  He displayed the characteristic features of his race—­a long turned-down nose and a receding chin.