Ruth Fielding at the War Front | Page 5

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 Ruth noticed this. The American girl watched her hostess covertly. The bare mention of a superstition that had the whole countryside by the throat, disturbed much the countess' self-control.
The next moment there was a step in the hall and then the door opened to admit the same young officer Ruth Fielding had met in the lane--Major Henri Marchand.
"Pardon, Maman," he said, bowing, and speaking to his mother quite like a little boy. "Do I offend?"
"Do come in and have a cup of tea, Henri. There is sugar and real cream--thanks to our two young friends here. You remember our petite Hetty, of course? And this is our very brave Mademoiselle Ruth Fielding, of the American Red Cross. My younger son, Monsieur Henri," the countess said easily.
Major Marchand advanced into the room promptly. To Henriette he bowed with a smile. Ruth put out her hand impulsively, and he