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Gerbeaux says the poor devil is one of the leading photographers of Brussels that by royal appointment he takes pictures of the queen and her children. But the queen would have trouble in recognizing her photographer if she could see him now with straw in his tousled hair, and his jaw lolling under the weight of his terror, and his big, wild eyes staring this way and that.
We were warned not to speak with him, or he with us; but Gerbeaux, after listening to him exchanging a few words with the lieutenant, said he judged from his accent that the little officer was from the south of France.
They told us that by now the air in the improvised prison was absolutely suffocating, what with the closeness, the fouled straw, the stale food and the proximity of so many dirty human bodies all packed into the kennel together. Ten of us slept on the floor of that little grogshop the five of our party lying spoon-fashion on two mattresses, Gerbeaux and Stevens making seven, and three soldiers.
No; I'll take that back; it is not strong enough. This day has been as long as the entire Christian Era. Four p.m. Gerbeaux, who was allowed to go out foraging, under escort of a guard, has returned with a rope of dried onions; a can of alphabet noodles; half a pound of stale, crumbly macaroons; a few fresh string beans; a pot of strained honey, and several clean collars of assorted sizes.
There were eight of us by now in the party of guests, our original group of five having been swollen by the addition of three others the Frenchman Gerbeaux, the American artist Stevens and the Belgian court- photographer Hennebert, who had been under arrest for five days.
At the far side of the room on a bench was another group of four prisoners; and of these we knew two personally Gerbeaux, a Frenchman who lived in Brussels and served as the resident Brussels correspondent of a Chicago paper; and Stevens, an American artist, originally from Michigan, but who for several years had divided his time between Paris and Brussels.
The night before, by chance, we had heard that Gerbeaux and Stevens were under detention, but until this moment of meeting we did not know their exact whereabouts. They the Frenchman, the American and the Belgian had started out from Brussels in an auto driven by the African, on Monday, just a day behind us.
Nor shall I forget, either, the appealing calls of Gerbeaux' black chauffeur, who was being left behind in the now empty guardhouse, and who, to judge from his tones, did not expect ever to see any of us again. As a matter of fact, I ran across him two weeks later in Liege. He had just been released and was trying to make his way back to Brussels. The way ahead of us was inky black.
Stevens was the young American who accompanied Gerbeaux, the Frenchman, and Hennebert, the Belgian, on their ill-timed expedition from Brussels in an automobile bearing without authority a Red Cross flag.
Gerbeaux was out to get a story for the Chicago paper which he served as Brussels correspondent, and the Belgian hoped to take some photographs; but a pure love of excitement brought Stevens along. He had his passport to prove his citizenship and a pass from General von Jarotzky, military commandant of Brussels, authorizing him to pass through the lines. He thought he was perfectly safe.
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