]
The carp that live in the moat of the Chateau de Miramel (in the zone
of the armies in France) are of an age and ugliness incredible and
of a superlative cynicism. One of them--local tradition pointed to a
one-eyed old reprobate with a yellow face--is the richer these hundred
years past by an English peeress's diamond ring.
From the bottom of the moat one world-war is like another, and none
of them very different from peace. It is but a row of grinning red
healthy faces over the coping and a shower of bread and biscuit.
When the nightmare of BONAPARTE was ended in the Autumn of 1815, the
22nd K.R. Lancers, commanded by an English peer, billeted themselves
in and around the Chateau de Miramel. The English peer, finding time
hang heavy on his hands, or my lady's letters proving insistent, sent
for her to come out to him at Miramel. You could do that sort of
homely thing in 1815.
So my lady comes to Miramel, and the very first day, as she leans out
of window in the round tower, mishandles her diamond ring (gift of my
lord) and drops it into the moat. Her host, the good Comte de Miramel,
dredged and drained, but no trace of the diamond ring was ever found.
But old Cyclops, the carp, grinned horribly.
In due course my lord and lady went home to the Isle of Fogs, and
thence they sent their portraits to their host as a souvenir of their
stay.
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