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of his sword-hilt—the old caretaker just
entered the drawing-room in time to witness
this performance.
I am glad at least to be able to hail his
comrade-in-arms, the Adalbert of this book,
by his well-fitting Christian name; his
family name was too long to remember, I
have had to shorten it here for convenience
sake. I know well he is a rather unusual
type of German officer, but since I had the
good luck to have half an hour’s conversation
with this phenomenon I do not see why I
should not let the reader share the pleasure
of his acquaintance. Moreover, I was told
by Dr. Martin, who knew the Germans far
better than I do, that after all Adalbert was
not such an uncommon type of German
officer as I seemed to think—I was delighted
to hear it, so much the better for us. He
wanted to know if I was a nobleman:
sind sie Adel? He seemed to have his
doubts about it. It would amply satisfy
all my literary ambitions were I able to
present him with this photograph of himself,
slightly retouched by a lenient hand, but
very like him. I wish I knew where he was,
he ought not to be difficult to trace. Maybe
“Potsdam” would find him...
But the others, the dear old village doctor,
the white-haired Curé, Sœur Marthe and
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