And the soldier tarried to clean our boots while we
slept and bring us warm shaving water in the morning.
Being thus provided for we tramped away through the empty winding
streets to Number Five, Rue St. Cyr, which was a big, fine three-story
mansion with its own garden and courtyard. Arriving there we drew lots
for bedrooms. It fell to me to occupy one that evidently belonged to
the master of the house. He must have run away in a hurry. His
bathrobe still hung on a peg; his other pair of suspenders dangled over
the footboard; and his shaving brush, with dried lather on it, was on
the floor. I stepped on it as I got into bed and hurt my foot.
Goodness knows I was tired enough, but I lay awake a while thinking what
changes in our journalistic fortunes thirty days had brought us. Five
weeks before, bearing dangerously dubious credentials, we had trailed
afoot--a suspicious squad--at the tail of the German columns, liable to
be halted and locked up any minute by any fingerling of a sublieutenant
who might be so minded to so serve us.
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