Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

After the War

ALTHOUGH HE was a colonel, a Prussian baron, a veteran officer of the Guard and the possessor of a castle on the banks of the Rhine, at which His Majesty the Kaiser had once stopped for a few hours, in other respects this Boche had a spirit rather generous for a Boche.

Having served two years at Paris as an embassy attaché, he recalled that sojourn with infinite graciousness, and never advertised more than was necessary the fact that he had spent two other years in the same city as an employee in a little restaurant near the Champ-de-Mars, frequented by orderlies of the officers of the École de Guerre. In this capacity he had acquired a real respect for the French soldier—for his discretion and the affectionate attachment which he bears his chiefs.

Certainly, war seemed to him a legitimate thing. But he practiced it, to use his own expression, “in a chivalrous manner.”

In the house that he occupied he would have felt himself at fault if he had not left his card once a month on his involuntary hostesses, if he had not sent them invitations, with a program, for the military musicals, and, on Sedan Day, a card for the review. At that, he was astonished that these ladies were not more appreciative of such delicate attentions.

In the line of service he showed himself strict (as was proper), but not brutal. He went so far as to speak to the under-officers as if they were almost human beings, and, in the evening, on the Mall, to converse with lieutenants who were neither noble nor long connected with the army (the war had so decimated the ranks of the others!). He even struck up a friendship, so to speak, with one of these, an attractive fellow, obsequious, correct, well educated, too, for an ordinary plebeian. With him the colonel talked freely and confidentially.

“When we shall have won the war I should like to live in Paris again. It is a very agreeable city. The Bois de Boulogne is exquisite at all seasons of the year; the theatres show excellent taste, and the women are charming.”

“I was highly delighted with the visit I made there in July, 1914,” answered the lieutenant. “One can do business easily, the people are hospitable, and, if one wishes to live the sort of life there that he lives at home, our compatriots are so numerous that, in the evenings, we can gather together just like a family. I speak of conditions before the war, of course.”

“Before the war! Before the war!” repeated the colonel a little abstractedly. “I feel that after the war all that will be considerably changed. Sometimes I read the Paris newspapers, and I am pained to see what a hostile feeling there is against us. The devil! War is war. We did not wish to make war, did we? We were forced to make it.

“Our superiority in all branches of human activity is such that no people can resist us. That is a fact. Why don’t the French admit it? Since we are the most cultured nation on earth—the chosen people, you might say—why don’t they let themselves be guided by us? We should realize great things together. But there the old Latin obstinacy comes in. How regrettable it is on their part! For—I tell you this between ourselves—I am very fond of the French.”

“So am I, Colonel.”

Thus exchanging ideas they regained the town, where in the twilight the demolished houses stood out jagged against the sky, since the horizon was lighted everywhere with conflagrations. The colonel sighed:

“Look at that. Don’t you believe that it cuts a sensitive German to the heart to see such a spectacle? There is the farm with the big mill on it—a fine farm, a perfect milling establishment, a magnificent investment. But it will all be in ashes tomorrow. Whose fault will that be?”

“It is war,” the lieutenant suggested, urbanely.

“Indispensable destructions, which the superior interest of our armies amply justifies. That is another thing which the French fail to understand.”

“Yet it is all very simple.”

The colonel threw away his cigar, which had gone out, stopped and lifted his finger.

“Under all circumstances, Lieutenant, remember this,” he said. “It may be that for strategic reasons we shall abandon this country. Let us root up the roads, destroy the bridges, turn the streams out of their courses, fell the trees and throw them across the highways—let us do everything, in a word, which the security of our armies requires. But let us commit no depredations on the inhabitants. For myself, I intend to set an example. In the house in which I live I shall see to it that nobody touches anything. In proportion as you have found me paternal and considerate, you will find me, if my orders are not scrupulously obeyed, a man of iron.”

The event which the colonel foresaw arrived. His regiment retreated. In conformity with instructions, not a tree was left standing, nor a bridge on its arches, nor a stream in its bed. The work was accomplished methodically; explosions succeeded one another at regular intervals. The house which the colonel lived in alone remained intact, with its old balconies of wrought iron, its garden of flowers, its windows hung with curtains.

The colonel departed with regret, carrying with him a few souvenirs—two silver candlesticks, a clock, a silver gilded water glass—mere trifles. But he left the furniture shining, the table linen carefully folded, the floors waxed like glass.

He had already reached the open country when he recalled that he had forgotten to leave a P. P. C. card. Desirous of being impeccable to the last extreme, he retraced his steps. But on entering his apartments he stopped, stupefied at first, then bursting with fury.

With blows from a pick four soldiers were demolishing the bathroom and the water pipes. Seeing him, the men redoubled their ardor. He shouted to them:

“Swine! I shall have you shot!”

A fifth man appeared, his sleeves rolled up, a hammer in his hand. It was the lieutenant who had been so amiable and correct.

“You? Is it you I find here?” bellowed the colonel. “You, who know my ideas? I shall send you before a court-martial!”

“At your orders,” answered the officer, clicking his heels. “But excuse me, Colonel. All this installation comes from the firm of Schwein, Boelleri & Co., of Mannheim, of which I am the representative for Northern France. Our house alone possesses these replacement parts. And after the war, I thought, how simple it would be for these people to apply to us for the plumbing fittings. It would be a very natural way of resuming business relations. As trifling as the thing seems, it concerns our industry in the highest degree.”

“Well, that is different,” said the colonel gravely. “Deutschland über alles! Consider that I have said nothing at all.”

Reassured by these words, the lieutenant finished demolishing, with a well-directed blow of his hammer, a syphon which had hitherto resisted his attack.