D'Hubert, one fine afternoon,
made his way along a quiet street of a cheerful suburb towards Lieut.
Feraud's quarters, which were in a private house with a garden at the
back, belonging to an old maiden lady.
His knock at the door was answered instantly by a young maid in Alsatian
costume. Her fresh complexion and her long eyelashes, lowered demurely
at the sight of the tall officer, caused Lieut. D'Hubert, who was
accessible to esthetic impressions, to relax the cold, severe gravity of
his face. At the same time he observed that the girl had over her arm a
pair of hussar's breeches, blue with a red stripe.
"Lieut. Feraud in?" he inquired, benevolently.
"Oh, no, sir! He went out at six this morning."
The pretty maid tried to close the door. Lieut. D'Hubert, opposing this
move with gentle firmness, stepped into the ante-room, jingling his
spurs.
"Come, my dear! You don't mean to say he has not been home since six
o'clock this morning?"
Saying these words, Lieut. D'Hubert opened without ceremony the door
of a room so comfortably and neatly ordered that only from internal
evidence in the shape of boots, uniforms, and military accoutrements did
he acquire the conviction that it was Lieut.
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