Spitting the cherry-stones into his hand, mechanically, absorbedly, he told them.
“Ach!” exclaimed Emilie sharply.
“And how did you get here?” asked Fräulein Hesse.
“I ran off,” he said.
There was a dead silence. He stood, putting himself at the mercy of the women. There came a hissing from the stove, and a stronger smell of coffee. Emilie turned swiftly away. He saw her fiat, straight back and her strong loins, as she bent over the stove.
“But what are you going to do?” said Fräulein Hesse, aghast.
“I don’t know,” he said, grasping at more cherries. He had come to an end.
“You’d better go to the barracks,” she said. “We’ll get the Herr Baron to come and see about it.”
Emilie was swiftly and quietly preparing the tray. She picked it up, and stood with the glittering china and silver before her, impassive, waiting for his reply. Bachmann remained with his head dropped, pale and obstinate. He could not bear to go back.
“I’m going to try to get into France,” he said.
“Yes, but they’ll catch you,” said Fräulein Hesse.
Emilie watched with steady, watchful grey eyes.
“I can have a try, if I could hide till to-night,” he said.
Both women knew what he wanted. And they all knew it was no good. Emilie picked up the tray,
