[*]Duty

Graf Farlsberg, shrugged his shoulders and smiled:  “You are crazy, my friend!”

But all the officers had risen, surrounding their chief and beseeching him:  “Let the Captain go, Commander; it is so sad here!”

Finally the Major yielded:  “All right!” said he; and immediately the Baron sent for Pflicht.  Pflicht was an old non-commissioned officer, who had never been seen smiling, but who carried out with fanatical punctuality the orders of his superiors, no matter what they were.

Erect, with his impassive face, he received the Baron’s instructions; then he left the room; and five minutes later a large military wagon, covered with miller’s tarpaulin stretched in the shape of a dome, was being rapidly driven away under the heavy rain at the gallop of four horses.

At once an awakening thrill seemed to run through the group of officers and shook them from their lethargy; the languid poses straightened up, faces became animated and they began to talk.

Although the shower was continuing as heavy as ever, the Major affirmed that it was not so dark, and Lieutenant Otto announced positively that the weather was clearing up.  Even Mademoiselle Fifi seemed unable to keep still.  He rose and sat down again.  His harsh and clear eye was looking for something to break; suddenly, glaring at the lady with the mustache, the young prig drew his revolver:  “You shall not witness it, you!” said he, and, without leaving his seat, he aimed.  Two bullets fired in rapid succession put out the eyes of the portrait.

Then he exclaimed:  “Let us explode a mine!” And at once the conversation was interrupted, as if a powerful and new curiosity had taken hold of every one present.

A mine, that was his invention, his way of destroying, his favorite amusement.

When he hurriedly left his chateau, Comte Fernand d’Armoy d’Uville, the legitimate owner, had had no time to take with him nor hide away anything except the silver-plate, which he had stowed away in a hole made in a wall.  Now as he was immensely wealthy and lived in great luxury, his large salon, the door of which communicated with the dining-room, presented the appearance of a Picture Gallery before the precipitate flight of the master.

Priceless paintings and aquarelles were hanging on the walls, while on the tables, the etageres and the elegant cabinets, thousands of bric a brac and bibelots, statuettes, Dresden and Chinese vases, old ivories and Venice pottery peopled the large room with their precious and odd multitude.

Hardly any were left by this time.  Not that they had been stolen; the Major, Graf Farlsberg, would not have permitted nor tolerated it; but Mademoiselle Fifi once in a while exploded a mine; and on such occasions all the officers enjoyed themselves thoroughly for five minutes.

The little Markgraf went to the salon to fetch what he needed; he brought in a tiny and graceful Chinese tea-pot of the Rose family, which he filled with gun powder, and through the neck of which he carefully introduced a long piece of tinder, lighted it and, running, carried this infernal machine into the next room.