A Little Garrison. Fritz Oswald Bilse
a black Vandyke beard, and his special forte was a carefully trained and extremely long nail on the little finger. It was said that this nail demanded a goodly portion of his leisure hours. His voice told its own story of bonhommie and unctuous Rhine wine.
Behind this couple hove in sight the figure of the commander. Everybody stepped aside with a show of deference, and all around he was saluted with deep bows, while he slowly stepped up to Captain König and his lady. The bowlegs and the robust body were not relieved by a face of finer mould, and thus it was that Colonel von Kronau scarcely corresponded with the popular conception of a dashing cavalry officer. Most striking about him was a tear that permanently glistened in the corner of his eye. This tear he always allowed to grow to a certain size, when he would, by a dexterous motion born of long practice, propel it from its resting-place over at his vis-à-vis, either at the latter’s feet or in his face, as the case might be. It largely depended on the size of the tear and the rank of his vis-à-vis.
The lady who accompanied him and who had the face and manners of a governess was his better half. She had squeezed herself on this occasion into a dowdy dress of pearl-gray silk, with a purple collar of velvet.
Almost simultaneously the remainder of the invited personages filed in. There was First Lieutenant Borgert. His shifting eyes seldom looked squarely at any one whom he deigned to address. He was fleshy, but his movements were nevertheless elastic and suave. Behind him stood First Lieutenant Leimann, under-sized and prematurely bent, with a neck several sizes too short for him and a suspicion of deformity between the shoulders. A pear-shaped head protruded from between them, fitfully lit up by a pair of pig’s eyes, which either restlessly shot glances or else were so completely buried under their lids as to become invisible. A monocle hung down his bosom from a broad ribbon, but he never used it, for fear of becoming ridiculous.
These two gentlemen dwelt together in the same house, each occupying a floor, and were inseparables. Though perennially short of cash, they saw no reason to deny themselves the luxuries of this mundane sphere. On the contrary, they lived like heirs to great fortunes.
“Pardon me, my gracious lady,”[3] remarked Leimann to the hostess, “but my wife could not come immediately, having her old complaint—nervous headache, you know!” In saying this he made a face as though he didn’t himself believe what he was saying. “But she will doubtless come a bit later.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Frau Clara sweetly answered, “but I hope she will soon feel well enough to appear.”
After little Lieutenant Bleibtreu, a special friend of the house and the only subaltern in Captain König’s squadron, had in his turn saluted everybody, the servant announced that the meal was served. The diners, in couples, ranged strictly according to rank, passed in. The dining-room looked cheerful, and the table had been arranged with Frau Clara’s customary taste.
Everybody having been served, conversation started slowly. “The weather has turned so fine of late that we can commence playing tennis,” remarked Frau Colonel von Kronau.
“Certainly,” chimed in her husband, masticating vigorously. “I shall call a meeting of the club next week, and then nothing will stand in the way.”
“Charming!” enthusiastically fluted Frau Stark. “I love it passionately, and you, of course, will all join in? You, my dear Frau Kahle, were one of the most zealous members last season. And how is it with you, Frau König?”
“I’ll have to forego the pleasure,” she replied, “for it does not agree with me.”
“And your husband?”
“I don’t know how to play,” the captain said; “but I like to watch graceful ladies at it.”
Frau Stark bit her lips and shot an angry glance at the captain. “What did he mean by ‘graceful ladies,’ anyway?” she thought. That was meant for her, no doubt. And she remembered unpleasant comment made because she with her fifty years had started riding a patient old mare belonging to her husband’s squadron. One of the sergeants was giving her lessons.
“Some civilians, I believe, will join,” broke in the colonel. “I will have a list circulating.”
Everybody knew this was buncombe, the colonel being extremely unpopular in civilian circles, and they smiled incredulously.
“I will join you,” said Herr von Konradi, “provided the heat is not excessive. Next week, however, I have no leisure. I must sow my peas, or it will be too late.”
“Yes,” put in König, “or they will not thrive.”
“What? Not thrive? Peas will always turn out well if properly attended to,” said the colonel’s wife, with a touch of asperity.
“I fear I must contradict you, my gracious lady,” retorted the captain. “Last year’s did not turn out well anywhere.”
“They must be sowed at moonlight, and not a word be spoken, then they will do finely, every time,” said the Frau Colonel, eagerly. “But don’t imagine that I am superstitious. I am simply stating a fact.”
It was a bold thing to do, for whatever the colonel’s wife said must not be gainsaid, yet Lieutenant Bleibtreu could not help it. He laughingly said: “Sowing, therefore, bacon in between while the sun is shining, we’ll have one of my favorite dishes ready made.”
The colonel’s lady merely transfixed him with an envenomed stare. After a dramatic interval she resumed: “But, come to think of it, I myself won’t have leisure next week. My goose-liver pâtés are not yet finished.”
“You prepare them yourself?” asked the agricultural counsellor with deep interest.
“Of course. I do up six potfuls every year. The colonel dotes on this kind of stuff.”
“And where do you procure your truffles, may I ask? I am myself looking for a trustworthy person.”
“Truffles? Nonsense, it tastes every bit as good without them—that is all imagination.”
“Oh, but you must excuse me, my gracious lady; truffles are the very soul of a goose-liver pâté. Without them it is insipid—‘Hamlet’ with Hamlet left out.”
“ ‘Hamlet’?” rejoined the lady with the governess face. “We were talking of truffles.”
Herr von Konradi shrugged his shoulders. Nobody else said a word. Just then Frau First Lieutenant Leimann entered. She looked as fresh and bright as the morning star.
“A thousand pardons, Frau König,” she smiled, “but I had to finish some important letters.” And she sat down in the place reserved for her.
“We heard you were suffering from headache,” was the general remark.
“Headache? Yes, I forgot—I did have it. But that is such an old story with me that I scarcely think of mentioning it any more.”
She was a handsome young woman, and the fact was made more apparent by the really tasteful gown she wore.
During all this time the adjutant had not said a word. He attended strictly to the business that had brought him here. His voracity attracted no attention, because everybody was used to it. Off and on he merely emitted a species of grunt in token of approval or dissent of what had been said. He was still eating when the hostess finally gave the signal to rise. Then everybody wished everybody else a “blessed digestion,”[4] and made for the adjoining rooms, where the ladies were served with coffee and the men with cordials, beer, and cigars.
Informal chatting was indulged in. The colonel, after briefly despatching a trifling matter connected with the service, for which purpose he retained Müller, who was fairly oozing with good cheer, retired to a quiet corner with Frau Stark. Since their conversation was carried on in whispers, First Lieutenant Borgert, despite