Ruth Fielding at the War Front | Page 5

Mademoiselle l'Americaine," he mumbled.
"Madame la Countess expects you."
He unchained the door and let them pass through. Then he shut and
chained the door again just as though the chateau was besieged.
The girls did not wait for him. They walked up the curved avenue to
the wide entrance to the great pile of masonry. The chateau was as
large as a good-sized hotel.
Before the war there had been many comforts, Ruth understood, that
now the countess was doing without. For instance, electric lights and
some kind of expensive heating arrangement.
Now the lady of the chateau burned oil, or candles, like the peasants,
and the chateau doors were wide open that the sun and air of this
grateful day might help dry the tomb-like atmosphere of the reception
hall.
"Ma foi!" said Henriette, commenting on this in a low voice, "even the
beautiful old armor--the suits of mail that the ancient Marchands wore
in the times of the Crusades--is rusty. See you! madame has not
servants enough now to begin to care for the place."
"I suppose she has stored away the rugs and the books from the library
shelves," began Ruth; but Henriette quickly said:

"Non! non! You do not understand, Mademoiselle, what our good lady
has done. The wonderful rugs she has sold--that off the library floor,
which, they say, the old count himself brought from Bagdad. And the
books--all her library--have gone to the convalescent hospitals, or to the
poilus in the trenches. For they, poor men, need the distraction of
reading."
"And some of your neighbors suspect her," repeated Ruth thoughtfully.
"It is because of that awful Thing--the werwolf!" hissed Henriette.
Then there was time for no further speech. A middle-aged woman
appeared, asked the girls in, and led the way to the library. A table was
set near the huge open fireplace in which a cheerful fire crackled. On
the table was a silver tea service and some delicate porcelain cups and
saucers.
The kettle bubbled on the hob. Chairs were drawn close before the
blaze, for, despite the "springiness" in the air without, the atmosphere
in the vast library of the chateau was damp and chill.
As the girls waited before the fire a curtain at the end of the room
swayed, parted, and the tall and plainly robed figure of the countess
entered. She had the air of a woman who had been strikingly beautiful
in her younger days. Indeed, she was beautiful still.
Her snowy hair was dressed becomingly; her checks were naturally
pink and quite smooth, despite the countless wrinkles that netted her
throat. The old lace at the neck of her gown softened her ivory-hued
skin and made its texture less noticeable.
Her gown was perfectly plain, cut in long, sweeping lines. Nor did she
wear a single jewel. She swept forward, smiling, and holding out her
hand to Ruth.
"Here is our little Hetty," she said, nodding to the French girl, who
blushed and bridled. "And Mademoiselle Fielding!" giving the latter a
warm handclasp and then patting Henriette's cheek. "Welcome!" She

put them at their ease at once.
The few family portraits on the walls were all the decorations of the
room. The book cases themselves were empty. Madame la Countess
made the tea. On the table were thin slices of war bread. There was no
butter, no sugar, and no milk.
"We are learning much these days," laughed the countess. "I am even
learning to like my chocolate without milk or cream."
"Oh!" And Henriette whipped from the pocket of her underskirt
something that had been making her dress sag on that side. When she
removed the wrappings she produced a small jar of thick yellow cream.
"My child! It is a luxury!" cried the countess. "I shall feel wicked."
"Perhaps it will be nice to feel wicked for once," Ruth said, feeling a
little choke in her throat.
She drew from concealment her own contribution to the
"feast"--several lumps of sugar.
"Do not fear," she added, smiling. "None of the poor poilus are
deprived. This is from my own private store. I wish there was more of
it, but I can't resist giving a lump now and then to the village children.
They are so hungry for it. They call me 'Mam'zelle Sucre'."
"And I would bring you cream often, Madame," Henriette hastened to
add, "but our good old Lally died, you know, and the little cow does
not give much milk as yet, and it is not as rich. Oh! if that werwolf had
not appeared to us! You remember, Mademoiselle Ruth? Then old
Lally died at once," and the French girl nodded her head vigorously,
being fully convinced of the truth of the old superstition.
The countess flushed and then paled, but nobody but