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Wine, I believe, is
contraband of war. Certainly in this instance it was. As we speedily
discovered, it was a very unlucky common soldier who did not have a swig
of rare Burgundy or ancient claret to wash down his black bread and
sausage that night at supper.
Unwittingly we had bumped into the headquarters of the whole army--not
of a single corps, but of an army. In the thickening twilight on the
little square gorgeous staff officers came and went, afoot, on horseback
and in automobiles; and through an open window we caught a glimpse of a
splendid-looking general, sitting booted and sword-belted at a table in
the Prince de Caraman-Chimay's library, with hunting trophies--skin and
horn and claw--looking down at him from the high-paneled oak
wainscotings, and spick-and-span aides waiting to take his orders and
discharge his commissions.
It dawned on us that, having accidentally slipped through a hole in the
German rear guard, we had reached a point close to the front of
operations.


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