In the Claws of the German Eagle | Page 3

This the patriarchal gentleman in the Hotel Metropole whispered to me
about a month after the Germans had captured Brussels. They had
taken away his responsibilities as President of the Belgian Red Cross,

so that now he had naught to do but to sit upon the lobby divan, of
which he covered much, being of extensive girth. But no more
extensive than his heart, from which radiated a genial glow of
benevolence to all--all except the invaders, the sight or mention of
whom put harshness in his face and anger in his voice.
"Scabbard-rattler!" he mumbled derisively, as an officer approached.
"Clicks his spurs to get attention! Wants you to look at him. Don't you
do it. I never do." He closed his eyes tightly, as if in sleep.
Oftentimes he did not need to feign his slumber. But sinking slowly
down into unconsciousness his native gentleness would return and a
smile would rest upon his lips; I doubt not that in his dreams the
Green-Gray troops of Despotism were ridden down by the Blue and
Red Republicans of France.
Once even he hummed a snatch of the Marseillaise. An extra loud blast
from the distant cannonading stirred him from his reverie. "Ah ha!" he
exclaimed, clasping my arm, the artillery--"it's getting nearer all the
time. They are driving back the Boches, eh? We'll be free to-morrow,
certain. Then we'll celebrate together in my country- home."
Walking over to the door, he peered down the street as if he already
expected to catch a glint of the vanguard of the Blue and Red. Twice he
did this and returned with confidence unshaken. "Mark my word," he
reiterated; "three days at the outside and we shall see the French!"
That was in September, 1914. Those three days passed away into as
many weeks, into as many months, and into almost as many years. I
cannot help wondering whether the same hopes stirred within him at
each fresh outburst of cannonading on the Somme. And whether
through those soul-sickening months that white- haired man peered
daily down those Brussels streets, yearning for the advent of the Red
and Blue Army of Deliverance. Red and Blue it was ever in his mind. If
once it had come in its new uniform of somber hue, it would have been
a disappointing shock I fear. He was an old man then; he is now
perhaps beyond all such human hurts. His pain was as real as anything I
saw in all the war. I had little time to dwell upon it, however, for
presently I was put into a situation that called for all my wits. I was
introduced to it by the announcement of the porter:
"An American gentleman to see you, sir."
That was joyful news to one held within the confines of a captive city,

from which all exit was, for the time being, closely barred.
It was September 28th, my birthday, too. The necessity of celebrating
this in utter boredom was a dismal prospect. Now this came upon me
like a little surprise-party.
Picking up a bit of paper on which I had been scribbling down a few
memoranda that I feared might escape my mind, I hastened into the
hallway to meet a somewhat spare, tall, and extremely erect-appearing
man. He greeted me with a smile and a bow--a rather dry smile and a
rather stiff bow for an American.
So I queried, "You're an American, are you?"
"Not exactly," he responded; "but I would like to talk with you."
Without the shadow of a suspicion, I told him it would be a great relief
from the tedium of the day to talk to any one.
"But I would prefer to talk to you in your room," he added.
"Certainly," I responded, stepping toward the elevator.
The hotel was practically deserted, so I was somewhat surprised when
two men, one a huge fellow built on a superdreadnaught plan, followed
us in and got out with us on the fifth floor. The superdreadnaught sailed
on into my room, which seemed a breach of propriety for an
un-introduced stranger. He closed the door rudely behind him. I was
prepared to resent this altogether high-handed intrusion, when my tall
guest said, very simply, "I am representing the Imperial German
Government."
I rallied under the shock sufficiently to say, "Will you take a chair?"
"No," came the laconic reply, "I will take you--and this," he said,
reaching for the piece of scribble-paper I had in my hands, "and any
baggage you have in your room."
I assured him that I had none, as I really expected to stay in Brussels
but a day. He pretended not to hear my reply, and said,
"We better take it with us, for we will probably need it."
He looked