"I didn't," said Fanny feebly, wishing that she were dressed and upon her feet.
"Madame, a Turkish officer made the hole. I spoke to him about it; he said it was the German colonel who was here before him. But I am sure it was the Turk."
"A Turk!" said Philippe's mother in bewilderment. "So you have allowed a Turk to come in here!"
"Oh, I understand well enough that my house has been a den! The house where I was born--All my things, all my things--You must give that lamp back!"
"Dear madame, I will give everything back, I have hurt nothing--"
"Not ruined my carpet, my mother's carpet! Not soiled my walls, written your name upon them, cracked my windows, filled my room downstairs with rubbish, broken my furniture--But I am told this is what I must expect!" Fanny looked at her, petrified. "But I--" she began.
"You don't understand," said the young _concierge_ fiercely. "Don't you know who has lived here? In this room, in this bed, Turks, Bulgars, Germans. Four years of soldiers, coming in one week and gone the next. I could not stop it! When other houses were burnt I would say to myself, 'Madame is lucky.' When all your china was broken and your chairs used for firewood, could I help it? Can _she_ help it? She is your last soldier, and she has taken nothing. So much has gone from this house it is not worth while to worry about what remains. When you wrote to me last month to send you the barometer, it made me smile. Your barometer!"
"No, madame, no! Not till you come back with me. They should not have let you come alone. But you were always wilful. You cannot mean to live here?"
"I wish this woman gone to-day. I wish to sleep here to-night."
"No, madame, no. Sleep in the house opposite to-night. Give her time to find a lodging--"
"A lodging! She will find a lodging soon enough. A town full of soldiers--" muttered the old woman.
"I think this is a question for the billeting lieutenant," said Fanny. "He will explain to you that I am billeted here exactly as a soldier, that I have a right to be here until your arrival. It will be kind of you to give me a day in which to find another room."
"Where are _his_ things?" said the old woman unheedingly. "I must go up to the attics."
A vision of those broken toys came to Fanny, the dusty heap of horses, dolls and boxes--the poor disorder.