OSTEND


In July she had gone to Ostend with an American. A gentleman, but mad.
One of those men with a fixed idea that everything would always be
all right and that nothing really and permanently uncomfortable
could possibly happen. A very fair man, with red hair, and radiating
wrinkles all round his eyes--phenomenon due to his humorous outlook on
the world. He laughed at her because she travelled with all her bonds
of the City of Paris on her person. He had met her one night, and
the next morning suggested the Ostend excursion. Too sudden,
too capricious, of course; but she had always desired to see the
cosmopolitanism of Ostend. Trouville she did not like, as you had sand
with every meal if you lived near the front. Hotel Astoria at Ostend.
Complete flat in the hotel. Very chic. The red-haired one, the
_rouquin_, had broad ideas, very broad ideas, of what was due to a
woman. In fact, one might say that he carried generosity in details to
excess. But naturally with Americans it was necessary to be surprised
at nothing. The _rouquin_ said steadily that war would not break out.
He said so until the day on which it broke out. He then became a Turk.
Yes, a Turk. He assumed rights over her, the rights of protection, but
very strange rights. He would not let her try to return to Paris. He
said the Germans might get to Paris, but to Ostend, never--because
of the English! Difficult to believe, but he had locked her up in the
complete flat. The Ostend season had collapsed--pluff--like that. The
hotel staff vanished almost entirely. One or two old fat Belgian
women on the bedroom floors--that seemed to be all. The _rouquin_ was
exquisitely polite, but very firm. In fine, he was a master. It was
astonishing what he did. They were the sole remaining guests in the
Astoria. And they remained because he refused to permit the management