CHAPTER V

THE INVASION

Don Marcelo was fleeing to take refuge in his castle when he met the

mayor of Villeblanche. The noise of the firing had made him hurry to the

barricade. When he learned of the apparition of the group of stragglers

he threw up his hands in despair. They were crazy. Their resistance was

going to be fatal for the village, and he ran on to beg them to cease.

For some time nothing happened to disturb the morning calm. Desnoyers

had climbed to the top of his towers and was surveying the country with

his field glasses. He couldn’t make out the highway through the nearest

group of trees, but he suspected that underneath their branches great

activity was going on--masses of men on guard, troops preparing for the

attack. The unexpected defense of the fugitives had upset the advance

of the invasion. Desnoyers thought despairingly of that handful of mad

fellows and their stubborn chief. What was their fate going to be? . . .

Focussing his glasses on the village, he saw the red spots of kepis

waving like poppies over the green of the meadows. They were the

retreating men, now convinced of the uselessness of their resistance.

Perhaps they had found a ford or forgotten boat by which they might

cross the Maine, and so were continuing their retreat toward the river.

At any minute now the Germans were going to enter Villeblanche.

Half an hour of profound silence passed by. The village lay silhouetted

against a background of hills--a mass of roofs beneath the church tower

finished with its cross and iron weather cock. Everything seemed as

tranquil as in the best days of peace. Suddenly he noticed that the

grove was vomiting forth something noisy and penetrating--a bubble of

vapor accompanied by a deafening report. Something was hurtling through

the air with a strident curve. Then a roof in the village opened like

a crater, vomiting forth flying wood, fragments of plaster and broken

furniture. All the interior of the house seemed to be escaping in a

stream of smoke, dirt and splinters.

The invaders were bombarding Villeblanche before attempting attack, as

though fearing to encounter persistent resistance in its streets. More

projectiles fell. Some passed over the houses, exploding between

the hamlet and the castle. The towers of the Desnoyers property

were beginning to attract the aim of the artillerymen. The owner

was therefore about to abandon his dangerous observatory when he saw

something white like a tablecloth or sheet floating from the church

tower. His neighbors had hoisted this signal of peace in order to avoid

bombardment. A few more missiles fell and then there was silence.

When Don Marcelo reached his park he found the Warden burying at the

foot of a tree the sporting rifles still remaining in his castle. Then

he went toward the great iron gates. The enemies were going to come,

and he had to receive them. While uneasily awaiting their arrival his

compunctions again tormented him. What was he doing there? Why had he

remained? . . . But his obstinate temperament immediately put aside

the promptings of fear. He was there because he had to guard his own.

Besides, it was too late now to think about such things.

Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by a sound like the deafening

tearing of strong cloth. “Shots, Master,” said the Warden. “Firing! It

must be in the square.”

A few minutes after they saw running toward them a woman from the

village, an old soul, dried up and darkened by age, who was panting

from her great exertion, and looking wildly around her. She was fleeing

blindly, trying to escape from danger and shut out horrible visions.

Desnoyers and the Keeper’s family listened to her explanations

interrupted with hiccoughs of terror.

The Germans were in Villeblanche. They had entered first in an

automobile driven at full speed from one end of the village to the

other. Its mitrailleuse was firing at random against closed houses and

open doors, knocking down all the people in sight. The old woman flung

up her arms with a gesture of terror. . . . Dead . . . many dead . . .

wounded . . . blood! Then other iron-plated vehicles had stopped in

the square, and behind them cavalrymen, battalions of infantry, many

battalions coming from everywhere. The helmeted men seemed furious; they

accused the villagers of having fired at them. In the square they had

struck the mayor and villagers who had come forward to meet them. The

priest, bending over some of the dying, had also been trodden under

foot. . . . All prisoners! The Germans were talking of shooting them.

The old dame’s words were cut short by the rumble of approaching

automobiles.

“Open the gates,” commanded the owner to the Warden. The massive iron

grill work swung open, and was never again closed. All property rights

were at an end.

An enormous automobile, covered with dust and filled with men, stopped

at the entrance. Behind them sounded the horns of other vehicles that

were putting on the brakes. Desnoyers saw soldiers leaping out, all

wearing the greenish-gray uniform with a sheath of the same tone

covering the pointed casque. The one who marched at their head put his

revolver to the millionaire’s forehead.

“Where are the sharpshooters?” he asked.

He was pale with the pallor of wrath, vengeance and fear. His face

was trembling under the influence of his triple emotion. Don Marcelo

explained slowly, contemplating at a short distance from his eyes the

black circle of the threatening tube. He had not seen any sharpshooters.

The only inhabitants of the castle were the Warden with his family and

himself, the owner of the castle.

The officer surveyed the edifice and then examined Desnoyers

with evident astonishment as though he thought his appearance too

unpretentious for a proprietor. He had taken him for a simple employee,

and his respect for social rank made him lower his revolver.

He did not, however, alter his haughty attitude. He pressed Don Marcelo

into the service as a guide, making him search ahead of him while forty

soldiers grouped themselves at his back. They advanced in two files to

the shelter of the trees which bordered the central avenue, with their

guns ready to shoot, and looking uneasily at the castle windows as

though expecting to receive from them hidden shots. Desnoyers marched

tranquilly through the centre, and the official, who had been imitating

the precautions of his men, finally joined him when he was crossing the

drawbridge.

The armed men scattered through the rooms in search of the enemy.

They ran their bayonets through beds and divans. Some, with automatic

destructiveness, slit the draperies and the rich bed coverings. The

owner protested; what was the sense in such useless destruction?

. . . He was suffering unbearable torture at seeing the enormous boots

spotting the rugs with mud, on hearing the clash of guns and knapsacks

against the most fragile, choicest pieces of furniture. Poor historic

mansion! . . .

The officer looked amazed that he should protest for such trifling

cause, but he gave orders in German and his men ceased their rude

explorations. Then, in justification of this extraordinary respect, he

added in French:

“I believe that you are going to have the honor of entertaining here the

general of our division.”

The certainty that the castle did not hold any hidden enemies made

him more amiable. He, nevertheless, persisted in his wrath against the

sharpshooters. A group of the villagers had opened fire upon the Uhlans

when they were entering unsuspiciously after the retreat of the French.

Desnoyers felt it necessary to protest. They were neither inhabitants

nor sharpshooters; they were French soldiers. He took good care to be

silent about their presence at the barricade, but he insisted that he

had distinguished their uniforms from a tower of the castle.

The official made a threatening face.

“You, too? . . . You, who appear a reasonable man, can repeat such yarns

as these?” And in order to close the conversation, he said, arrogantly:

“They were wearing uniforms, then, if you persist in saying so, but they

were sharpshooters just the same. The French Government has distributed

arms and uniforms among the farmers that they may assassinate us. . . .

Belgium did the same thing. . . . But we know their tricks, and we know

how to punish them, too!”

The village was going to be burned. It was necessary to avenge the four

German dead lying on the outskirts of Villeblanche, near the barricade.

The mayor, the priest, the principal inhabitants would all be shot.

By the time they reached the top floor Desnoyers could see floating

above the boughs of his park dark clouds whose outlines were reddened

by the sun. The top of the bell tower was the only thing that he could

distinguish at that distance. Around the iron weathercock were flying

long thin fringes like black cobwebs lifted by the breeze. An odor of

burning wood came toward the castle.

The German greeted this spectacle with a cruel smile. Then on descending

to the park, he ordered Desnoyers to follow him. His liberty and his

dignity had come to an end. Henceforth he was going to be an underling

at the beck and call of these men who would dispose of him as their

whims directed. Ay, why had he remained? . . . He obeyed, climbing into

an automobile beside the officer, who was still carrying his revolver

in his right hand. His men distributed themselves through the castle and

outbuildings, in order to prevent the flight of an imaginary enemy. The

Warden and his family seemed to be saying good-bye to him with their

eyes. Perhaps they were taking him to his death. . . .

Beyond the castle woods a new world was coming into existence. The short

cut to Villeblanche seemed to Desnoyers a leap of millions of leagues,

a fall into a red planet where men and things were covered with the film

of smoke and the glare of fire. He saw the village under a dark canopy

spotted with sparks and glowing embers. The bell tower was burning like

an enormous torch; the roof of the church was breaking into flames with

a crashing fury. The glare of the holocaust seemed to shrivel and grow

pale in the impassive light of the sun.

Running across the fields with the haste of desperation were shrieking

women and children. The animals had escaped from the stables, and driven

forth by the flames were racing wildly across the country. The cow and

the work horse were dragging their halters broken by their flight. Their

flanks were smoking and smelt of burnt hair. The pigs, the sheep and the

chickens were all tearing along mingled with the cats and the dogs. All

the domestic animals were returning to a brute existence, fleeing

from civilized man. Shots were heard and hellish ha-ha’s. The soldiers

outside of the village were making themselves merry in this hunt for

fugitives. Their guns were aimed at beasts and were hitting people.

Desnoyers saw men, many men, men everywhere. They were like gray ants,

marching in endless files towards the South, coming out from the woods,

filling the roads, crossing the fields. The green of vegetation was

disappearing under their tread; the dust was rising in spirals behind

the dull roll of the cannons and the measured trot of thousands of

horses. On the roadside several battalions had halted, with their

accompaniment of vehicles and draw horses. They were resting before

renewing their march. He knew this army. He had seen it in Berlin on

parade, and yet it seemed to have changed its former appearance. There

now remained very little of the heavy and imposing glitter, of the mute

and vainglorious haughtiness which had made his relatives-in-law weep

with admiration. War, with its realism, had wiped out all that was

theatrical about this formidable organization of death. The soldiers

appeared dirty and tired, out. The respiration of fat and sweaty bodies,

mixed with the strong smell of leather, floated over the regiments. All

the men had hungry faces.

For days and nights they had been following the heels of an enemy

which was always just eluding their grasp. In this forced advance the

provisions of the administration would often arrive so late at the

cantonments that they could depend only on what they happened to have

in their knapsacks. Desnoyers saw them lined up near the road devouring

hunks of black bread and mouldy sausages. Some had scattered through

the fields to dig up beet roots and other tubers, chewing with loud

crunchings the hard pulp to which the grit still adhered. An ensign was

shaking the fruit trees using as a catch-all the flag of his regiment.

That glorious standard, adorned with souvenirs of 1870, was serving as

a receptacle for green plums. Those who were seated on the ground were

improving this rest by drawing their perspiring, swollen feet from high

boots which were sending out an insufferable smell.

The regiments of infantry which Desnoyers had seen in Berlin reflecting

the light on metal and leather straps, the magnificent and terrifying

Hussars, the Cuirassiers in pure white uniform like the paladins of the

Holy Grail, the artillerymen with breasts crossed with white bands, all

the military variations that on parade had drawn forth the Hartrotts’

sighs of admiration--these were now all unified and mixed together,

of uniform color, all in greenish mustard like the dusty lizards that,

slipping along, try to be confounded with the earth.

The persistency of the iron discipline was easily discernible. A word

from the chiefs, the sound of a whistle, and they all grouped themselves

together, the human being disappearing in the throngs of automatons; but

danger, weariness, and the uncertainty of triumph had for the time

being brought officers and men nearer together, obliterating caste

distinction. The officers were coming part way out of their overbearing,

haughty seclusion, and were condescending to talk with the lower orders

so as to revive their courage. One effort more and they would overwhelm

both French and English, repeating the triumph of Sedan, whose

anniversary they were going to celebrate in a few days! They were going

to enter Paris; it was only a matter of a week. Paris! Great shops

filled with luxurious things, famous restaurants, women, champagne,

money. . . . And the men, flattered that their commanders were stooping

to chat with them, forgot fatigue and hunger, reviving like the throngs

of the Crusade before the image of Jerusalem. “Nach Paris!” The joyous

shout circulated from the head to the tail of the marching columns. “To

Paris! To Paris!”

The scarcity of their food supply was here supplemented by the products

of a country rich in wines. When sacking houses they rarely found

eatables, but invariably a wine cellar. The humble German, the perpetual

beer drinker, who had always looked upon wine as a privilege of the

rich, could now open up casks with blows from his weapons, even bathing

his feet in the stream of precious liquid. Every battalion left as a

souvenir of its passing a wake of empty bottles; a halt in camp sowed

the land with glass cylinders. The regimental trucks, unable to renew

their stores of provisions, were accustomed to seize the wine in all the

towns. The soldier, lacking bread, would receive alcohol. . . .

This donation was always accompanied by the good counsels of the

officers--War is war; no pity toward our adversaries who do not deserve

it. The French were shooting their prisoners, and their women were

putting out the eyes of the wounded. Every dwelling was a den of traps.

The simple-hearted and innocent German entering therein was going to

certain death. The beds were made over subterranean caves, the wardrobes

were make-believe doors, in every corner was lurking an assassin. This

traitorous nation, which was arranging its ground like the scenario of

a melodrama, would have to be chastised. The municipal officers,

the priests, the schoolmasters were directing and protecting the

sharpshooters.

Desnoyers was shocked at the indifference with which these men were

stalking around the burning village. They did not appear to see the fire

and destruction; it was just an ordinary spectacle, not worth looking

at. Ever since they had crossed the frontier, smoldering and blasted

villages, fired by the advance guard, had marked their halting places on

Belgian and French soil.

When entering Villeblanche the automobile had to lower its speed. Burned

walls were bulging out over the street and half-charred beams were

obstructing the way, obliging the vehicle to zigzag through the smoking

rubbish. The vacant lots were burning like fire pans between the houses

still standing, with doors broken, but not yet in flames. Desnoyers saw

within these rectangular spaces partly burned wood, chairs, beds,

sewing machines, iron stoves, all the household goods of the well-to-do

countryman, being consumed or twisted into shapeless masses. Sometimes

he would spy an arm sticking out of the ruins, beginning to burn like a

long wax candle. No, it could not be possible . . . and then the

smell of cooking flesh began to mingle with that of the soot, wood and

plaster.

He closed his eyes, not able to look any longer. He thought for a moment

he must be dreaming. It was unbelievable that such horrors could

take place in less than an hour. Human wickedness at its worst he had

supposed incapable of changing the aspect of a village in such a short

time.

An abrupt stoppage of the motor made him look around involuntarily. This

time the obstruction was the dead bodies in the street--two men and

a woman. They had probably fallen under the rain of bullets from the

machine gun which had passed through the town preceding the invasion.

Some soldiers were seated a little beyond them, with their backs to the

victims, as though ignoring their presence. The chauffeur yelled to

them to clear the track; with their guns and feet they pushed aside the

bodies still warm, at every turn leaving a trail of blood. The space was

hardly opened before the vehicle shot through . . . a thud, a leap--the

back wheels had evidently crushed some very fragile obstacle.

Desnoyers was still huddled in his seat, benumbed and with closed eyes.

The horror around him made him think of his own fate. Whither was this

lieutenant taking him? . . .

He soon saw the town hall flaming in the square; the church was now

nothing but a stone shell, bristling with flames. The houses of the

prosperous villagers had had their doors and windows chopped out by

axe-blows. Within them soldiers were moving about methodically. They

entered empty-handed and came out loaded with furniture and clothing.

Others, in the upper stories, were flinging out various objects;

accompanying their trophies with jests and guffaws. Suddenly they had

to come out flying, for fire was breaking out with the violence and

rapidity of an explosion. Following their footsteps was a group of men

with big boxes and metal cylinders. Someone at their head was pointing

out the buildings into whose broken windows were to be thrown the

lozenges and liquid streams which would produce catastrophe with

lightning rapidity.

Out of one of these flaming buildings two men, who seemed but bundles

of rags, were being dragged by some Germans. Above the blue sleeves of

their military cloaks Don Marcelo could distinguish blanched faces and

eyes immeasurably distended with suffering. Their legs were dragging on

the ground, sticking out between the tatters of their red pantaloons.

One of them still had on his kepis. Blood was gushing from different

parts of their bodies and behind them, like white serpents, were

trailing their loosened bandages. They were wounded Frenchmen,

stragglers who had remained in the village because too weak to keep up

with the retreat. Perhaps they had joined the group which, finding its

escape cut off, had attempted that insane resistance.

Wishing to make that matter more clearly understood, Desnoyers looked at

the official beside him, attempting to speak; but the officer silenced

him instantly: “French sharpshooters in disguise who are going to get

the punishment they deserve.” The German bayonets were sunk deep into

their bodies. Then blows with the guns fell on the head of one of them

. . . and these blows were repeated with dull thumps upon their skulls,

crackling as they burst open.

Again the old man wondered what his fate would be. Where was this

lieutenant taking him across such visions of horror? . . .

They had reached the outskirts of the village, where the dragoons had

built their barricade. The carts were still there, but at one side of

the road. They climbed out of the automobile, and he saw a group of

officers in gray, with sheathed helmets like the others. The one who had

brought him to this place was standing rigidly erect with one hand to

his visor, speaking to a military man standing a few paces in front of

the others. He looked at this man, who was scrutinizing him with his

little hard blue eyes that had carved his spare, furrowed countenance

with lines. He must be the general. His arrogant and piercing gaze was

sweeping him from head to foot. Don Marcelo felt a presentiment that his

life was hanging on this examination; should an evil suggestion, a

cruel caprice flash across this brain, he was surely lost. The general

shrugged his shoulders and said a few words in a contemptuous tone, then

entered his automobile with two of his aids, and the group disbanded.

The cruel uncertainty, the interminable moments before the official

returned to his side, filled Desnoyers with dread.

“His Excellency is very gracious,” announced the lieutenant. “He might

have shot you, but he pardons you and yet you people say that we are

savages!” . . .

With involuntary contempt, he further explained that he had conducted

him thither fully expecting that he would be shot. The General was

planning to punish all the prominent residents of Villeblanche, and he

had inferred, on his own initiative, that the owner of the castle must

be one of them.

“Military duty, sir. . . . War exacts it.”

After this excuse the petty official renewed his eulogies of His

Excellency. He was going to make his headquarters in Don Marcelo’s

property, and on that account granted him his life. He ought to thank

him. . . . Then again his face trembled with wrath. He pointed to some

bodies lying near the road. They were the corpses of Uhlans, covered

with some cloaks from which were protruding the enormous soles of their

boots.

“Plain murder!” he exclaimed. “A crime for which the guilty are going to

pay dearly!”

His indignation made him consider the death of four soldiers as an

unheard-of and monstrous outrage--as though in was only the enemy ought

to fall, keeping safe and sound the lives of his compatriots.

A band of infantry commanded by an officer approached. As their ranks

opened, Desnoyers saw the gray uniforms roughly pushing forward some of

the inhabitants. Their clothes were torn and some had blood on face and

hands. He recognized them one by one as they were lined up against the

mud wall, at twenty paces from the firing squad of soldiers--the mayor,

the priest, the forest guard, and some rich villagers whose houses he

had seen falling in flames.

“They are going to shoot them . . . in order to prevent any doubt about

it,” the lieutenant explained. “I wanted you to see this. It will serve

as an object lesson. In this way, you will feel more appreciative of the

leniency of His Excellency.”

The prisoners were mute. Their voices had been exhausted in vain

protest. All their life was concentrated in their eyes, looking around

them in stupefaction. . . . And was it possible that they would kill

them in cold blood without hearing their testimony, without admitting

the proofs of their innocence!

The certainty of approaching death soon gave almost all of them a noble

serenity. It was useless to complain. Only one rich countryman, famous

for his avarice, was whimpering desperately, saying over and over, “I do

not wish to die. . . . I do not want to die!”

Trembling and with eyes overflowing with tears, Desnoyers hid himself

behind his implacable guide. He knew them all, he had battled with them

all, and repented now of his former wrangling. The mayor had a red stain

on his forehead from a long skin wound. Upon his breast fluttered a

tattered tricolor; the municipality had placed it there that he might

receive the invaders who had torn most of it away. The priest was

holding his little round body as erect as possible, wishing to embrace

in a look of resignation the victims, the executioners, earth and

heaven. He appeared larger than usual and more imposing. His black

girdle, broken by the roughness of the soldiers, left his cassock loose

and floating. His waving, silvery hair was dripping blood, spotting with

its red drops the white clerical collar.

Upon seeing him cross the fatal field with unsteady step, because of his

obesity, a savage roar cut the tragic silence. The unarmed soldiers,

who had hastened to witness the execution, greeted the venerable old man

with shouts of laughter. “Death to the priest!” . . . The fanaticism of

the religious wars vibrated through their mockery. Almost all of them

were devout Catholics or fervent Protestants, but they believed only

in the priests of their own country. Outside of Germany, everything was

despicable--even their own religion.

The mayor and the priest changed their places in the file, seeking one

another. Each, with solemn courtesy, was offering the other the central

place in the group.

“Here, your Honor, is your place as mayor--at the head of all.”

“No, after you, Monsieur le cure.”

They were disputing for the last time, but in this supreme moment each

one was wishing to yield precedence to the other.

Instinctively they had clasped hands, looking straight ahead at the

firing squad, that had lowered its guns in a rigid, horizontal line.

Behind them sounded laments--“Good-bye, my children. . . . Adieu, life!

. . . I do not wish to die! . . . I do not want to die! . . .”

The two principal men felt the necessity of saying something, of closing

the page of their existence with an affirmation.

“Vive la Republique!” cried the mayor.

“Vive la France!” said the priest.

Desnoyers thought that both had said the same thing. Two uprights

flashed up above their heads--the arm of the priest making the sign of

the cross, and the sabre of the commander of the shooters, glistening

at the same instant. . . . A dry, dull thunderclap, followed by some

scattering, tardy shots.

Don Marcelo’s compassion for that forlorn cluster of massacred humanity

was intensified on beholding the grotesque forms which many assumed

in the moment of death. Some collapsed like half-emptied sacks; others

rebounded from the ground like balls; some leaped like gymnasts, with

upraised arms, falling on their backs, or face downward, like a swimmer.

In that human heap, he saw limbs writhing in the agony of death. Some

soldiers advanced like hunters bagging their prey. From the palpitating

mass fluttered locks of white hair, and a feeble hand, trying to repeat

the sacred sign. A few more shots and blows on the livid, mangled mass

. . . and the last tremors of life were extinguished forever.

The officer had lit a cigar.

“Whenever you wish,” he said to Desnoyers with ironical courtesy.

They re-entered the automobile in order to return to the castle by the

way of Villeblanche. The increasing number of fires and the dead bodies

in the streets no longer impressed the old man. He had seen so much!

What could now affect his sensibilities? . . . He was longing to get

out of the village as soon as possible to try to find the peace of the

country. But the country had disappeared under the invasion--soldier’s,

horses, cannons everywhere. Wherever they stopped to rest, they were

destroying all that they came in contact with. The marching battalions,

noisy and automatic as a machine were preceded by the fifes and drums,

and every now and then, in order to cheer their drooping spirits, were

breaking into their joyous cry, “Nach Paris!”

The castle, too, had been disfigured by the invasion. The number of

guards had greatly increased during the owner’s absence. He saw an

entire regiment of infantry encamped in the park. Thousands of men

were moving about under the trees, preparing the dinner in the movable

kitchens. The flower borders of the gardens, the exotic plants, the

carefully swept and gravelled avenues were all broken and spoiled by

this avalanche of men, beasts and vehicles.

A chief wearing on his sleeve the band of the military administration

was giving orders as though he were the proprietor. He did not even

condescend to look at this civilian walking beside the lieutenant with

the downcast look of a prisoner. The stables were vacant. Desnoyers saw

his last animals being driven off with sticks by the helmeted shepherds.

The costly progenitors of his herds were all beheaded in the park like

mere slaughter-house animals. In the chicken houses and dovecotes, there

was not a single bird left. The stables were filled with thin horses who

were gorging themselves before overflowing mangers. The feed from the

barns was being lavishly distributed through the avenue, much of it lost

before it could be used. The cavalry horses of various divisions were

turned loose in the meadows, destroying with their hoofs the canals,

the edges of the slopes, the level of the ground, all the work of

many months. The dry wood was uselessly burning in the park. Through

carelessness or mischief, someone had set the wood piles on fire. The

trees, with the bark dried by the summer heat, were crackling on being

licked by the flame.

The building was likewise occupied by a multitude of men under this same

superintendent. The open windows showed a continual shifting through the

rooms. Desnoyers heard great blows that re-echoed within his breast. Ay,

his historic mansion! . . . The General was going to establish himself

in it, after having examined on the banks of the Marne, the works of the

pontoon builders, who had been constructing several military bridges

for the troops. Don Marcelo’s outraged sense of ownership forced him to

speak. He feared that they would break the doors of the locked rooms--he

would like to go for the keys in order to give them up to those in

charge. The commissary would not listen to him but continued ignoring

his existence. The lieutenant replied with cutting amiability:

“It is not necessary; do not trouble yourself!”

After this considerate remark, he started to rejoin his regiment but

deemed it prudent before losing sight of Desnoyers to give him a little

advice. He must remain quietly at the castle; outside, he might be taken

for a spy, and he already knew how promptly the soldiers of the Emperor

settled all such little matters.

He could not remain in the garden looking at his dwelling from any

distance, because the Germans who were going and coming were diverting

themselves by playing practical jokes upon him. They would march toward

him in a straight line, as though they did not see him, and he would

have to hurry out of their way to avoid being thrown down by their

mechanical and rigid advance.

Finally he sought refuge in the lodge of the Keeper, whose good wife

stared with astonishment at seeing him drop into a kitchen chair

breathless and downcast, suddenly aged by losing the remarkable energy

that had been the wonder of his advanced years.

“Ah, Master. . . . Poor Master!”

Of all the events attending the invasion, the most unbelievable for this

poor woman was seeing her employer take refuge in her cottage.

“What is ever going to become of us!” she groaned.

Her husband was in constant demand by the invaders. His Excellency’s

assistants, installed in the basement apartments of the castle were

incessantly calling him to tell them the whereabouts of things which

they could not find. From every trip, he would return humiliated, his

eyes filled with tears. On his forehead was the black and blue mark of

a blow, and his jacket was badly torn. These were souvenirs of a futile

attempt at opposition, during his master’s absence, to the German

plundering of stables and castle rooms.

The millionaire felt himself linked by misfortune to these people,

considered until then with indifference. He was very grateful for the

loyalty of this sick and humble man, and the poor woman’s interest in

the castle as though it were her own, touched him greatly. The presence

of their daughter brought Chichi to his mind. He had passed near her

without noting the transformation in her, seeing her just the same

as when, with her little dog trot, she had accompanied the Master’s

daughter on her rounds through the parks and grounds. Now she was a

woman, slender and full grown, with the first feminine graces showing

subtly in her fourteen-year-old figure. Her mother would not let her

leave the lodge, fearing the soldiery which was invading every other

spot with its overflowing current, filtering into all open places,

breaking every obstacle which impeded their course.

Desnoyers broke his despairing silence to admit that he was feeling

hungry. He was ashamed of this bodily want, but the emotions of the day,

the executions seen so near, the danger still threatening, had awakened

in him a nervous appetite. The fact that he was so impotent in the midst

of his riches and unable to avail himself of anything on his estate but

aggravated his necessity.

“Poor Master!” again exclaimed the faithful soul.

And the woman looked with astonishment at the millionaire devouring a

bit of bread and a triangle of cheese, the only food that she could find

in her humble dwelling. The certainty that he would not be able to find

any other nourishment, no matter how much he might seek it, greatly

sharpened his cravings. To have acquired an enormous fortune only to

perish with hunger at the end of his existence! . . . The good wife, as

though guessing his thoughts, sighed, raising her eyes beseechingly to

heaven. Since the early morning hours, the world had completely changed

its course. Ay, this war! . . .

The rest of the afternoon and a part of the night, the proprietor kept

receiving news from the Keeper after his visits to the castle. The

General and numerous officers were now occupying the rooms. Not a single

door was locked, all having been opened with blows of the axe or gun.

Many things had completely disappeared; the man did not know exactly

how, but they had vanished--perhaps destroyed, or perhaps carried off

by those who were coming and going. The chief with the banded sleeve was

going from room to room examining everything, dictating in German to a

soldier who was writing down his orders. Meanwhile the General and his

staff were in the dining room drinking heavily, consulting the maps

spread out on the floor, and ordering the Warden to go down into the

vaults for the very best wines.

By nightfall, an onward movement was noticeable in the human tide that

had been overflowing the fields as far as the eye could reach. Some

bridges had been constructed across the Marne and the invasion had

renewed its march, shouting enthusiastically. “Nach Paris!” Those left

behind till the following day were to live in the ruined houses or

the open air. Desnoyers heard songs. Under the splendor of the evening

stars, the soldiers had grouped themselves in musical knots, chanting

a sweet and solemn chorus of religious gravity. Above the trees was

floating a red cloud, intensified by the dusk--a reflection of the

still burning village. Afar off were bonfires of farms and homesteads,

twinkling in the night with their blood-colored lights.

The bewildered proprietor of the castle finally fell asleep in a bed

in the lodge, made mercifully unconscious by the heavy and stupefying

slumber of exhaustion, without fright nor nightmare. He seemed to be

falling, falling into a bottomless pit, and on awaking fancied that he

had slept but a few minutes. The sun was turning the window shades to an

orange hue, spattered with shadows of waving boughs and birds fluttering

and twittering among the leaves. He shared their joy in the cool

refreshing dawn of the summer day. It certainly was a fine morning--but

whose dwelling was this? . . . He gazed dumbfounded at his bed and

surroundings. Suddenly the reality assaulted his brain that had been so

sweetly dulled by the first splendors of the day. Step by step, the host

of emotions compressed into the preceding day, came climbing up the long

stairway of his memory to the last black and red landing of the night

before. And he had slept tranquilly surrounded by enemies, under the

surveillance of an arbitrary power which might destroy him in one of its

caprices!

When he went into the kitchen, the Warden gave him some news. The

Germans were departing. The regiment encamped in the park had left at

daybreak, and after them others, and still others. In the village there

was still one regiment occupying the few houses yet standing and the

ruins of the charred ones. The General had gone also with his numerous

staff. There was nobody in the castle now but the head of a Reserve

brigade whom his aide called “The Count,” and a few officials.

Upon receiving this information, the proprietor ventured to leave the

lodge. He saw his gardens destroyed, but still beautiful. The trees were

still stately in spite of the damage done to their trunks. The birds

were flying about excitedly, rejoicing to find themselves again in

possession of the spaces so recently flooded by the human inundation.

Suddenly Desnoyers regretted having sallied forth. Five huge trucks were

lined up near the moat before the castle bridge. Gangs of soldiers were

coming out carrying on their shoulders enormous pieces of furniture,

like peons conducting a moving. A bulky object wrapped in damask

curtains--an excellent substitute for sacking--was being pushed by four

men toward one of the drays. The owner suspected immediately what it

must be. His bath! The famous tub of gold! . . . Then with an abrupt

revulsion of feeling, he felt no grief at his loss. He now detested the

ostentatious thing, attributing to it a fatal influence. On account of

it he was here. But, ay! . . . the other furnishings piled up in the

drays! . . . In that moment he suffered the extreme agony of misery and

impotence. It was impossible for him to defend his property, to dispute

with the head thief who was sacking his castle, tranquilly ignoring the

very existence of the owner. “Robbers! thieves!” and he fled back to the

lodge.

He passed the remainder of the morning with his elbow on the table, his

head in his hands, the same as the day before, letting the hours grind

slowly by, trying not to hear the rolling of the vehicles that were

bearing away these credentials of his wealth.

Toward midday, the Keeper announced that an officer who had arrived a

few hours before in an automobile was inquiring for him.

Responding to this summons, Desnoyers encountered outside the lodge,

a captain arrayed like the others in sheathed and pointed helmet,

in mustard-colored uniform, red leather boots, sword, revolver,

field-glasses and geographic map hanging in a case from his belt. He

appeared young; on his sleeve was the staff emblem.

“Do you know me? . . . I did not wish to pass through here without

seeing you.”

He spoke in Castilian, and Don Marcelo felt greater surprise at this

than at the many things which he had been experiencing so painfully

during the last twenty-four hours.

“You really do not know me?” queried the German, always in Spanish. “I

am Otto. . . . Captain Otto von Hartrott.”

The old man’s mind went painfully down the staircase of memory, stopping

this time at a far-distant landing. There he saw the old ranch, and his

brother-in-law announcing the birth of his second son. “I shall give

him Bismarck’s name,” Karl had said. Then, climbing back past many other

platforms, Desnoyers saw himself in Berlin during his visit to the

von Hartrott home where they were speaking proudly of Otto, almost

as learned as the older brother, but devoting his talents entirely to

martial matters. He was then a lieutenant and studying for admission to

the General Staff. “Who knows but he may turn out to be another Moltke?”

said the proud father . . . and the charming Chichi had thereupon

promptly bestowed upon the warlike wonder a nickname, accepted through

the family. From that time, Otto was Moltkecito (the baby Moltke) to his

Parisian relatives.

Desnoyers was astounded by the transformation which had meanwhile taken

place in the youth. This vigorous captain with the insolent air who

might shoot him at any minute was the same urchin whom he had seen

running around the ranch, the beardless Moltkecito who had been the butt

of his daughter’s ridicule. . . .

The soldier, meanwhile, was explaining his presence there. He belonged

to another division. There were many . . . many! They were advancing

rapidly, forming an extensive and solid wall from Verdun to Paris. His

general had sent him to maintain the contact with the next division, but

finding himself near the castle, he had wished to visit it. A family tie

was not a mere word. He still remembered the days that he had spent at

Villeblanche when the Hartrott family had paid a long visit to their

relatives in France. The officials now occupying the edifice had

detained him that he might lunch with them. One of them had casually

mentioned that the owner of the castle was somewhere about although

nobody knew exactly where. This had been a great surprise to Captain von

Hartrott who had tried to find him, regretting to see him taking refuge

in the Warden’s quarters.

“You must leave this hut; you are my uncle,” he said haughtily. “Return

to your castle where you belong. My comrades will be much pleased to

make your acquaintance; they are very distinguished men.”

He very much regretted whatever the old gentleman might have suffered.

. . . He did not know exactly in what that suffering had consisted, but

surmised that the first moments of the invasion had been cruel ones for

him.

“But what else can you expect?” he repeated several times. “That is

war.”

At the same time he approved of his having remained on his property.

They had special orders to seize the goods of the fugitives. Germany

wished the inhabitants to remain in their dwellings as though nothing

extraordinary had occurred. . . . Desnoyers protested. . . . “But if the

invaders were shooting the innocent ones and burning their homes!” . . .

His nephew prevented his saying more. He turned pale, an ashy hue

spreading over his face; his eyes snapped and his face trembled like

that of the lieutenant who had taken possession of the castle.

“You refer to the execution of the mayor and the others. My comrades

have just been telling me about it; yet that castigation was very mild;

they should have completely destroyed the entire village. They should

have killed even the women and children. We’ve got to put an end to

these sharpshooters.”

His uncle looked at him in amazement. His Moltkecito was as formidable

and ferocious as the others. . . . But the captain brought the

conversation to an abrupt close by repeating the monstrous and

everlasting excuse.

“Very horrible, but what else can you expect! . . . That is war.”

He then inquired after his mother, rejoicing to learn that she was in

the South. He had been uneasy at the idea of her remaining in Paris

. . . especially with all those revolutions which had been breaking out

there lately! . . . Desnoyers looked doubtful as if he could not have

heard correctly. What revolutions were those? . . . But the officer,

without further explanation, resumed his conversation about his family,

taking it for granted that his relative would be impatient to learn the

fate of his German kin.

They were all in magnificent state. Their illustrious father was

president of various patriotic societies (since his years no longer

permitted him to go to war) and was besides organizing future industrial

enterprises to improve the conquered countries. His brother, “the Sage,”

was giving lectures about the nations that the imperial victory

was bound to annex, censuring severely those whose ambitions were

unpretending or weak. The remaining brothers were distinguishing

themselves in the army, one of them having been presented with a medal

at Lorraine. The two sisters, although somewhat depressed by the absence

of their fiances, lieutenants of the Hussars, were employing their

time in visiting the hospitals and begging God to chastise traitorous

England.

Captain von Hartrott was slowly conducting his uncle toward the castle.

The gray and unbending soldiers who, until then, had been ignoring the

existence of Don Marcelo, looked at him with interest, now that he

was in intimate conversation with a member of the General Staff. He

perceived that these men were about to humanize themselves by casting

aside temporarily their inexorable and aggressive automatonism.

Upon entering his mansion something in his heart contracted with an

agonizing shudder. Everywhere he could see dreadful vacancies, which

made him recall the objects which had formerly been there. Rectangular

spots of stronger color announced the theft of furniture and paintings.

With what despatch and system the gentleman of the armlet had been doing

his work! . . . To the sadness that the cold and orderly spoliation

caused was added his indignation as an economical man, gazing upon the

slashed curtains, spotted rugs, broken crystal and porcelain--all the

debris from a ruthless and unscrupulous occupation.

His nephew, divining his thoughts, could only offer the same old

excuse--“What a mess! . . . But that is war!”

With Moltkecito, he did not have to subside into the respectful

civilities of fear.

“That is NOT war!” he thundered bitterly. “It is an expedition of

bandits. . . . Your comrades are nothing less than highwaymen.”

Captain von Hartrott swelled up with a jerk. Separating himself from the

complainant and looking fixedly at him, he spoke in a low voice, hissing

with wrath. “Look here, uncle! It is a lucky thing for you that you have

expressed yourself in Spanish, and those around you could not understand

you. If you persist in such comments you will probably receive a bullet

by way of an answer. The Emperor’s officials permit no insults.” And

his threatening attitude demonstrated the facility with which he could

forget his relationship if he should receive orders to proceed against

Don Marcelo.

Thus silenced, the vanquished proprietor hung his head. What was he

going to do? . . . The Captain now renewed his affability as though he

had forgotten what he had just said. He wished to present him to his

companions-at-arms. His Excellency, Count Meinbourg, the Major General,

upon learning that he was a relative of the von Hartrotts, had done him

the honor of inviting him to his table.

Invited into his own demesne, he finally reached the dining room, filled

with men in mustard color and high boots. Instinctively, he made

an inventory of the room. All in good order, nothing broken--walls,

draperies and furniture still intact; but an appraising glance within

the sideboard again caused a clutch at his heart. Two entire table

services of silver, and another of old porcelain had disappeared without

leaving the most insignificant of their pieces. He was obliged to

respond gravely to the presentations which his nephew was making, and

take the hand which the Count was extending with aristocratic languor.

The adversary began considering him with benevolence, on learning that

he was a millionaire from a distant land where riches were acquired very

rapidly.

Soon he was seated as a stranger at his own table, eating from the same

dishes that his family were accustomed to use, served by men with shaved

heads, wearing coarse, striped aprons over their uniforms. That which he

was eating was his, the wine was from his vaults; all that adorned

the room he had bought: the trees whose boughs were waving outside the

window also belonged to him. . . . And yet he felt as though he were in

this place for the first time, with all the discomfort and diffidence of

a total stranger. He ate because he was hungry, but the food and wines

seemed to have come from another planet.

He continued looking with consternation at those occupying the places of

his wife, children and the Lacours. . . .

They were speaking in German among themselves, but those having a

limited knowledge of French frequently availed themselves of that

language in order that their guest might understand them. Those who

could only mumble a few words, repeated them to an accompaniment of

amiable smiles. All were displaying an amicable desire to propitiate the

owner of the castle.

“You are going to lunch with the barbarians,” said the Count, offering

him a seat at his side. “Aren’t you afraid that we may eat you alive?”

The Germans burst into roars of laughter at the wit of His Excellency.

They all took great pains to demonstrate by word and manner that

barbarity was wrongly attributed to them by their enemies.

Don Marcelo looked from one to another. The fatigues of war, especially

the forced march of the last days, were very apparent in their persons.

Some were tall and slender with an angular slimness; others were stocky

and corpulent with short neck and head sunk between the shoulders.

These had lost much of their fat in a month’s campaign, the wrinkled and

flabby skin hanging in folds in various parts of their bodies. All had

shaved heads, the same as the soldiers. Around the table shone two rows

of cranial spheres, reddish or dark. Their ears stood out grotesquely,

and their jaw bones were in strong relief owing to their thinness. Some

had preserved the upright moustache in the style of the Emperor; the

most of them were shaved or had a stubby tuft like a brush.

A golden bracelet glistened on the wrist of the Count, stretched on

the table. He was the oldest of them all and the only one that kept

his hair, of a frosty red, carefully combed and glistening with pomade.

Although about fifty years old, he still maintained a youthful

vigor cultivated by exercise. Wrinkled, bony and strong, he tried

to dissimulate his uncouthness as a man of battle under a suave and

indolent laziness. The officers treated him with the greatest respect.

Hartrott told his uncle that the Count was a great artist, musician

and poet. The Emperor was his friend; they had known each other from

boyhood. Before the war, certain scandals concerning his private

life had exiled him from Court--mere lampoons of the socialists and

scandal-mongers. The Kaiser had always kept a secret affection for

his former chum. Everybody remembered his dance, “The Caprices of

Scheherazade,” represented with the greatest luxury in Berlin through

the endorsement of his powerful friend, William II. The Count had lived

many years in the Orient. In fact, he was a great gentleman and an

artist of exquisite sensibility as well as a soldier.

Since Desnoyers was now his guest, the Count could not permit him

to remain silent, so he made an opportunity of bringing him into the

conversation.

“Did you see any of the insurrections? . . . Did the troops have to kill

many people? How about the assassination of Poincare? . . .”

He asked these questions in quick succession and Don Marcelo, bewildered

by their absurdity, did not know how to reply. He believed that he must

have fallen in with a feast of fools. Then he suspected that they were

making fun of him. Uprisings? Assassinations of the President? . . .

Some gazed at him with pity because of his ignorance, others with

suspicion, believing that he was merely pretending not to know of these

events which had happened so near him.

His nephew insisted. “The daily papers in Germany have been full

of accounts of these matters. Fifteen days ago, the people of Paris

revolted against the Government, bombarding the Palais de l’Elysee, and

assassinating the President. The army had to resort to the machine guns

before order could be restored. . . . Everybody knows that.”

But Desnoyers insisted that he did not know it, that nobody had

seen such things. And as his words were received in an atmosphere of

malicious doubt, he preferred to be silent. His Excellency, superior

spirit, incapable of being associated with the popular credulity, here

intervened to set matters straight. The report of the assassination was,

perhaps, not certain; the German periodicals might have unconsciously

exaggerated it. Just a few hours ago, the General of the Staff had

told him of the flight of the French Government to Bordeaux, and the

statement about the revolution in Paris and the firing of the French

troops was indisputable. “The gentleman has seen it all without doubt,

but does not wish to admit it.” Desnoyers felt obliged to contradict

this lordling, but his negative was not even listened to.

Paris! This name made all eyes glisten and everybody talkative. As soon

as possible they wished to reach the Eiffel Tower, to enter victorious

into the city, to receive their recompense for the privations and

fatigues of a month’s campaign. They were devotees of military glory,

they considered war necessary to existence, and yet they were bewailing

the hardship that it was imposing upon them. The Count exhaled the

plaint of the craftsmaster.

“Oh, the havoc that this war has brought in my plans!” he sighed. “This

winter they were going to bring out my dance in Paris!”

They all protested at his sadness; his work would surely be presented

after the triumph, and the French would have to recognize it.

“It will not be the same thing,” complained the Count. “I confess that I

adore Paris. . . . What a pity that these people have never wished to

be on familiar terms with us!” . . . And he relapsed into the silence of

the unappreciated man.

Desnoyers suddenly recognized in one of the officers who was talking,

with eyes bulging with covetousness, of the riches of Paris, the Chief

Thief with the band on his arm. He it was who so methodically had

sacked the castle. As though divining the old Frenchman’s thought, the

commissary began excusing himself.

“It is war, monsieur. . . .”

The same as the others! . . . War had to be paid with the treasures of

the conquered. That was the new German system; the healthy return to

the wars of ancient days; tributes imposed on the cities, and each house

sacked separately. In this way, the enemy’s resistance would be more

effectually overcome and the war soon brought to a close. He ought

not to be downcast over the appropriations, for his furnishings and

ornaments would all be sold in Germany. After the French defeat, he

could place a remonstrance claim with his government, petitioning it to

indemnify his loss; his relatives in Berlin would support his demand.

Desnoyers listened in consternation to his counsels. What kind of

mentality had these men, anyway? Were they insane, or were they trying

to have some fun at his expense? . . .

When the lunch was at last ended, the officers arose and adjusted their

swords for service. Captain von Hartrott rose, too; it was necessary for

him to return to his general; he had already dedicated too much time

to family expansion. His uncle accompanied him to the automobile where

Moltkecito once more justified the ruin and plunder of the castle.

“It is war. . . . We have to be very ruthless that it may not last long.

True kindness consists in being cruel, because then the terror-stricken

enemy gives in sooner, and so the world suffers less.”

Don Marcelo shrugged his shoulders before this sophistry. In the

doorway, the captain gave some orders to a soldier who soon returned

with a bit of chalk which had been used to number the lodging places.

Von Hartrott wished to protect his uncle and began tracing on the wall

near the door:--“Bitte, nicht plundern. Es sind freundliche Leute.”

In response to the old man’s repeated questions, he then translated the

inscription. “It means, ‘Please do not sack this house. Its occupants

are kind people . . . friendly people.’”

Ah, no! . . . Desnoyers repelled this protection vehemently. He did not

wish to be kind. He was silent because he could not be anything else.

. . . But a friend of the invaders of his country! . . . No, NO, NO!

His nephew rubbed out part of the lettering, leaving the first words,

“Bitte, nicht plundern.” Then he repeated the scrawled request at the

entrance of the park. He thought this notice advisable because His

Excellency might go away and other officials might be installed in the

castle. Von Hartrott had seen much and his smile seemed to imply that

nothing could surprise him, no matter how outrageous it might be. But

his relative continued scorning his protection, and laughing bitterly at

the impromptu signboard. What more could they carry off? . . . Had they

not already stolen the best?

“Good-bye, uncle! Soon we shall meet in Paris.”

And the captain climbed into his automobile, extending a soft, cold hand

that seemed to repel the old man with its flabbiness.

Upon returning to his castle, he saw a table and some chairs in the

shadow of a group of trees. His Excellency was taking his coffee in the

open air, and obliged him to take a seat beside him. Only three officers

were keeping him company. . . . There was here a grand consumption of

liquors from his wine cellars. They were talking together in German, and

for an hour Don Marcelo remained there, anxious to go but never finding

the opportune moment to leave his seat and disappear.

He employed his time in imagining the great stir among the troops hidden

by the trees. Another division of the army was passing by with the

incessant, deafening roar of the sea. An inexplicable phenomenon kept

the luminous calm of the afternoon in a continuous state of vibration.

A constant thundering sounded afar off as though an invisible storm were

always approaching from beyond the blue horizon line.

The Count, noticing his evident interest in the noise, interrupted his

German chat to explain.

“It is the cannon. A battle is going on. Soon we shall join in the

dance.”

The possibility of having to give up his quarters here, the most

comfortable that he had found in all the campaign, put His Excellency in

a bad humor.

“War,” he sighed, “a glorious life, but dirty and deadening! In an

entire month--to-day is the first that I have lived as a gentleman.”

And as though attracted by the luxuries that he might shortly have to

abandon, he rose and went toward the castle. Two of the Germans betook

themselves toward the village, and Desnoyers remained with the other

officer who was delightfully sampling his liquors. He was the chief of

the battalion encamped in the village.

“This is a sad war, Monsieur!” he said in French.

Of all the inimical group, this man was the only one for whom Don

Marcelo felt a vague attraction. “Although a German, he appears a good

sort,” meditated the old man, eyeing him carefully. In times of peace,

he must have been stout, but now he showed the loose and flaccid

exterior of one who has just lost much in weight. Desnoyers surmised

that the man had formerly lived in tranquil and vulgar sensuousness, in

a middle-class happiness suddenly cut short by war.

“What a life, Monsieur!” the officer rambled on. “May God punish well

those who have provoked this catastrophe!”

The Frenchman was almost affected. This man represented the Germany that

he had many times imagined, a sweet and tranquil Germany composed of

burghers, a little heavy and slow perhaps, but atoning for their natural

uncouthness by an innocent and poetic sentimentalism. This Blumhardt

whom his companions called Bataillon-Kommandeur, was undoubtedly the

good father of a large family. He fancied him walking with his wife and

children under the lindens of a provincial square, all listening with

religious unction to the melodies played by a military band. Then he

saw him in the beer gardens with his friends, discussing metaphysical

problems between business conversations. He was a man from old Germany,

a character from a romance by Goethe. Perhaps the glory of the Empire

had modified his existence, and instead of going to the beer gardens,

he was now accustomed to frequent the officers’ casino, while his family

maintained a separate existence--separated from the civilians by the

superciliousness of military caste; but at heart, he was always the good

German, ready to weep copiously before an affecting family scene or a

fragment of good music.

Commandant Blumhardt, meanwhile, was thinking of his family living in

Cassel.

“There are eight children, Monsieur,” he said with a visible effort to

control emotion. “The two eldest are preparing to become officers. The

youngest is starting school this year. . . . He is just so high.”

And with his right hand he measured off the child’s diminutive stature.

He trembled with laughter and grief at recalling the little chap. Then

he broke forth into eulogies about his wife--excellent manager of the

home, a mother who was always modestly sacrificing herself for her

children and husband. Ay, the sweet Augusta! . . . After twenty years of

married life, he adored her as on the day he first saw her. In a pocket

of his uniform, he was keeping all the letters that she had written him

since the beginning of the campaign.

“Look at her, Monsieur. . . . There are my children.”

From his breast pocket, he had drawn forth a silver medallion, adorned

with the art of Munich, and touching a spring, he displayed the pictures

of all the family--the Frau Kommandeur, of an austere and frigid beauty,

imitating the air and coiffure of the Empress; the Frauleine Kommandeur,

clad in white, with uplifted eyes as though they were singing a musical

romance; and at the end, the children in the uniforms of the army

schools or private institutions. And to think that he might lose these

beloved beings if a bit of iron should hit him! . . . And he had to live

far from them now that it was such fine weather for long walks in the

country! . . .

“Sad war!” he again said. “May God punish the English!”

With a solicitude that Don Marcelo greatly appreciated, he in turn

inquired about the Frenchman’s family. He pitied him for having so few

children, and smiled a little over the enthusiasm with which the old

gentleman spoke of his daughter, saluting Fraulein Chichi as a witty

sprite, and expressing great sympathy on learning that the only son was

causing his parents great sorrow by his conduct.

Tender-hearted Commandant! . . . He was the first rational and human

being that he had met in this hell of an invasion. “There are good

people everywhere,” he told himself. He hoped that this new acquaintance

would not be moved from the castle; for if the Germans had to stay

there, it would better be this man than the others.

An orderly came to summon Don Marcelo to the presence of His Excellency.

After passing through the salons with closed eyes so as to avoid useless

distress and wrath, he found the Count in his own bedroom. The doors had

been forced open, the floors stripped of carpet and the window frames of

curtains. Only the pieces of furniture broken in the first moments now

occupied their former places. The sleeping rooms had been stripped more

methodically, everything having been taken that was not required for

immediate use. Because the General with his suite had been lodging there

the night before, this apartment had escaped the arbitrary destruction.

The Count received him with the civility of a grandee who wishes to be

attentive to his guests. He could not consent that HERR Desnoyers--a

relative of a von Hartrott--whom he vaguely remembered having seen at

Court, should be staying in the Keeper’s lodge. He must return to his

own room, occupying that bed, solemn as a catafalque with columns and

plumes, which had had the honor, a few hours before, of serving as the

resting-place of an illustrious General of the Empire.

“I myself prefer to sleep here,” he added condescendingly. “This other

habitation accords better with my tastes.”

While saying this, he was entering Dona Luisa’s rooms, admiring its

Louis Quinze furniture of genuine value, with its dull golds and

tapestries mellowed by time. It was one of the most successful purchases

that Don Marcelo had made. The Count smiled with an artist’s scorn as he

recalled the man who had superintended the official sacking.

“What an ass! . . . To think that he left this behind, supposing that it

was old and ugly!”

Then he looked the owner of the castle squarely in the face.

“Monsieur Desnoyers, I do not believe that I am committing any

indiscretion, and even imagine that I am interpreting your desires when

I inform you that I intend taking this set of furniture with me. It will

serve as a souvenir of our acquaintance, a testimony to the friendship

springing up between us. . . . If it remains here, it will run the risk

of being destroyed. Warriors, of course, are not obliged to be artists.

I will guard these excellent treasures in Germany where you may see them

whenever you wish. We are all going to be one nation, you know. . . . My

friend, the Emperor, is soon to be proclaimed sovereign of the French.”

Desnoyers remained silent. How could he reply to that look of cruel

irony, to the grimace with which the noble lord was underscoring his

words? . . .

“When the war is ended, I will send you a gift from Berlin,” he added in

a patronizing tone.

The old collector could say nothing to that, either. He was looking

at the vacant spots which many small pictures had left on the walls,

paintings by famous masters of the XVIII century. The banded brigand

must also have passed these by as too insignificant to carry off,

but the smirk illuminating the Count’s face revealed their ultimate

destination.

He had carefully scrutinized the entire apartment--the adjoining

bedroom, Chichi’s, the bathroom, even the feminine robe-room of the

family, which still contained some of the daughter’s gowns. The warrior

fondled with delight the fine silky folds of the materials, gloating

over their cool softness.

This contact made him think of Paris, of the fashions, of the

establishments of the great modistes. The rue de la Paix was the spot

which he most admired in his visits to the enemy’s city.

Don Marcelo noticed the strong mixture of perfumes which came from

his hair, his moustache, his entire body. Various little jars from the

dressing table were on the mantel.

“What a filthy thing war is!” exclaimed the German. “This morning I was

at last able to take a bath after a week’s abstinence; at noon I shall

take another. By the way, my dear sir, these perfumes are good, but

they are not elegant. When I have the pleasure of being presented to the

ladies, I shall give them the addresses of my source of supply. . . . I

use in my home essences from Turkey. I have many friends there. . . . At

the close of the war, I will send a consignment to the family.”

While speaking the Count’s eyes had been fixed upon some photographs

upon the table. Examining the portrait of Madame Desnoyers, he

guessed that she must be Dona Luisa. He smiled before the bewitchingly

mischievous face of Mademoiselle Chichi. Very enchanting; he specially

admired her militant, boyish expression; but he scrutinized the

photograph of Julio with special interest.

“Splendid type of youth,” he murmured. “An interesting head, and

artistic, too. He would create a great sensation in a fancy-dress ball.

What a Persian prince he would make! . . . A white aigrette on his head,

fastened with a great jewel, the breast bared, a black tunic with golden

birds. . . .”

And he continued seeing in his mind’s eye the heir of the Desnoyers

arrayed in all the gorgeous raiment of an Oriental monarch. The proud

father, because of the interest which his son was inspiring, began to

feel a glimmer of sympathy with the man. A pity that he should select so

unerringly and appropriate the choicest things in the castle!

Near the head of the bed, Don Marcelo saw lying upon a book of devotions

forgotten by his wife, a medallion containing another photograph. It did

not belong to his family, and the Count, following the direction of his

eyes, wished to show it to him. The hands of this son of Mars trembled.

. . . His disdainful haughtiness had suddenly disappeared. An official

of the Hussars of Death was smiling from the case; his sharp profile

with a beak curved like a bird of prey, was surmounted by a cap adorned

with skull and cross-bones.

“My best friend,” said the Count in tremulous tones. “The being that I

love most in all the world. . . . And to think that at this moment he

may be fighting, and they may kill him! . . . To think that I, too, may

die!”

Desnoyers believed that he must be getting a glimpse into a romance of

the nobleman’s past. That Hussar was undoubtedly his natural son. His

simplicity of mind could not conceive of anything else. Only a father’s

tenderness could so express itself . . . and he was almost touched by

this tenderness.

Here the interview came to an end, the warrior turning his back as he

left the room in order to hide his emotion. A few minutes after was

heard on the floor below the sound of a grand piano which the Commissary

had not been able to carry off, owing to the general’s interposition.

His voice was soon heard above the chords that he was playing. It was

rather a lifeless baritone, but he managed to impart an impassioned

tremolo to his romance. The listening old man was now really affected;

he did not understand the words, but the tears came into his eyes. He

thought of his family, of the sorrows and dangers about them and of the

difficulties surrounding his return to them. . . . As though under the

spell of the melody, little by little, he descended the stairs. What

an artist’s soul that haughty scoffer had! . . . At first sight, the

Germans with their rough exterior and their discipline which made them

commit the greatest atrocities, gave one a wrong impression. One had to

live intimately with them to appreciate their true worth.

By the time the music had ceased, he had reached the castle bridge. A

sub-officer was watching the graceful movements of the swans gliding

double over the waters of the moat. He was a young Doctor of Laws who

just now was serving as secretary to His Excellency--a university man

mobilized by the war.

On speaking with Don Marcelo, he immediately revealed his academic

training. The order for departure had surprised the professor in a

private institute; he was just about to be married and all his plans had

been upset.

“What a calamity, sir! . . . What an overturning for the world! . . .

Yet many of us have foreseen that this catastrophe simply had to come.

We have felt strongly that it might break out any day. Capital, accursed

Capital is to blame.”

The speaker was a Socialist. He did not hesitate to admit his

co-operation in certain acts of his party that had brought persecutions

and set-backs to his career. But the Social-Democracy was now being

accepted by the Emperor and flattered by the most reactionary Junkers.

All were now one. The deputies of his party were forming in the

Reichstag the group most obedient to the government. . . . The only

belief that it retained from its former creed, was its anathematization

of Capital--responsible for the war.

Desnoyers ventured to disagree with this enemy who appeared of an

amiable and tolerant character. “Did he not think that the real

responsibility rested with German militarism? Had it not sought and

prepared this conflict, by its arrogance preventing any settlement?”

The Socialist denied this roundly. His deputies were supporting the war

and, therefore, must have good reason. Everything that he said showed an

absolute submission to discipline--the eternal German discipline, blind

and obedient, which was dominating even the most advanced parties. In

vain the Frenchman repeated arguments and facts which everybody had read

from the beginning of the war. His words simply slid over the calloused

brains of this revolutionist, accustomed to delegating all his reasoning

functions to others.

“Who can tell?” he finally said. “Perhaps we have made a mistake. But

just at this moment all is confused; the premises which would enable us

to draw exact conclusions are lacking. When the conflict ends, we shall

know the truly guilty parties, and if they are ours we shall throw the

responsibility upon them.”

Desnoyers could hardly keep from laughing at his simplicity. To wait

till the end of the war to know who was to blame! . . . And if the

Empire should come out conqueror, what responsibility could the

Socialists exact in the full pride of victory, they who always confined

themselves to electoral battles, without the slightest attempt at

rebellion?

“Whatever the cause may be,” concluded the Socialist, “this war is very

sad. How many dead! . . . I was at Charleroi. One has to see modern

warfare close by. . . . We shall conquer; we are going to enter Paris,

so they say, but many of our men must fall before obtaining the final

victory.”

And as though wishing to put these visions of death out of his mind, he

resumed his diversion of watching the swans, offering them bits of bread

so as to make them swing around in their slow and majestic course.

The Keeper and his family were continually crossing and recrossing the

bridge. Seeing their master on such friendly terms with the invaders,

they had lost some of the fear which had kept them shut up in their

cottage. To the woman it seemed but natural that Don Marcelo’s authority

should be recognized by these people; the master is always the master.

And as though she had received a part of this authority, she was

entering the castle fearlessly, followed by her daughter, in order to

put in order her master’s sleeping room. They had decided to pass the

night in rooms near his, that he might not feel so lonely among the

Germans.

The two women were carrying bedding and mattresses from the lodge to

the top floor. The Keeper was occupied in heating a second bath for His

Excellency while his wife was bemoaning with gestures of despair the

sacking of the castle. How many exquisite things had disappeared! . . .

Desirous of saving the remainder, she besought her master to make

complaints, as though he could prevent the individual and stealthy

robberies. The orderlies and followers of the Count were pocketing

everything they could lay their hands on, saying smilingly that

they were souvenirs. Later on the woman approached Desnoyers with a

mysterious air to impart a new revelation. She had seen a head officer

force open the chiffoniers where her mistress was accustomed to keep her

lingerie, and he was making up a package of the finest pieces, including

a great quantity of blonde lace.

“That’s the one, Master,” she said soon after, pointing to a German

who was writing in the garden, where an oblique ray of sunlight was

filtering through the branches upon his table.

Don Marcelo recognized him with surprise. Commandant Blumhardt, too!

. . . But immediately he excused the act. He supposed it was only

natural that this official should want to take something away from the

castle, since the Count had set the example. Besides, he took into

account the quality of the objects which he was appropriating. They were

not for himself; they were for the wife, for the daughters. . . . A good

father of his family! For more than an hour now, he had been sitting

before that table writing incessantly, conversing, pen in hand, with his

Augusta and all the family in Cassel. Better that this good man should

carry off his stuff than those other domineering officers with cutting

voices and insolent stiffness.

Desnoyers noticed, too, that the writer raised his head every time that

Georgette, the Warden’s daughter, passed by, following her with his

eyes. The poor father! . . . Undoubtedly he was comparing her with his

two girls home in Germany, with all their thoughts on the war. He, too,

was thinking of Chichi, fearing sometimes, that he might never see her

again. In one of her trips from the castle to her home, Blumhardt called

the child to him. She stopped before the table, timid and shrinking as

though she felt a presentiment of danger, but making an effort to smile.

The Prussian father meanwhile chatted with her, and patted her cheeks

with his great paws--a sight which touched Desnoyers deeply. The

memories of a pacific and virtuous life were rising above the horrors of

war. Decidedly this one enemy was a good man, anyway.

Because of his conclusion, the millionaire smiled indulgently when the

Commandant, leaving the table, came toward him--after delivering

his letter and a bulky package to a soldier to take to the battalion

post-office in the village.

“It is for my family,” he explained. “I do not let a day pass without

sending them a letter. Theirs are so precious to me! . . . I am also

sending them a few remembrances.”

Desnoyers was on the point of protesting. . . . But with a shrug of

indifference, he concluded to keep silence as if he did not object. The

Commandant continued talking of the sweet Augusta and their children

while the invisible tempest kept on thundering beyond the serene

twilight horizon. Each time the cannonading was more intense.

“The battle,” continued Blumhardt. “Always a battle! . . . Surely it is

the last and we are going to win. Within the week, we shall be entering

Paris. . . . But how many will never see it! So many dead! . . . I

understand that to-morrow we shall not be here. All the Reserves are to

combine with the attack so as to overcome the last resistance. . . . If

only I do not fall!” . . .

Thoughts of the possibility of death the following day contracted his

forehead in a scowl of hatred. A deep, vertical line was parting his

eyebrows. He frowned ferociously at Desnoyers as though making him

responsible for his death and the trouble of his family. For a few

moments Don Marcelo could hardly recognize this man, transformed by

warlike passions, as the sweet-natured and friendly Blumhardt of a

little while before.

The sun was beginning to set when a sub-officer, the one of the

Social-Democracy, came running in search of the Commandant. Desnoyers

could not understand what was the matter because they were speaking

in German, but following the direction of the messenger’s continual

pointing, he saw beyond the iron gates a group of country people and

some soldiers with guns. Blumhardt, after a brief reflection, started

toward the group and Don Marcelo behind him.

Soon he saw a village lad in the charge of some Germans who were holding

their bayonets to his breast. His face was colorless, with the whiteness

of a wax candle. His shirt, blackened with soot, was so badly torn that

it told of a hand-to-hand struggle. On one temple was a gash, bleeding

badly. A short distance away was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding

a baby, and surrounded by four children all covered with black grime as

though coming from a coal mine.

The woman was pleading desperately, raising her hands appealingly, her

sobs interrupting her story which she was uselessly trying to tell the

soldiers, incapable of understanding her. The petty officer convoying

the band spoke in German with the Commandant while the woman besought

the intervention of Desnoyers. When she recognized the owner of the

castle, she suddenly regained her serenity, believing that he could

intercede for her.

That husky young boy was her son. They had all been hiding since the

day before in the cellar of their burned house. Hunger and the danger

of death from asphyxiation had forced them finally to venture forth. As

soon as the Germans had seen her son, they had beaten him and were going

to shoot him as they were shooting all the young men. They believed that

the lad was twenty years old, the age of a soldier, and in order that he

might not join the French army, they were going to kill him.

“It’s a lie!” shrieked the mother. “He is not more than eighteen . . .

not eighteen . . . a little less--he’s only seventeen.”

She turned to those who were following behind, in order to implore their

testimony--sad women, equally dirty, their ragged garments smelling of

fire, poverty and death. All assented, adding their outcries to those of

the mother. Some even went so far as to say that the overgrown boy was

only sixteen . . . fifteen! And to this feminine chorus was added the

wailing of the little ones looking at their brother with eyes distended

with terror.

The Commandant examined the prisoner while he listened to the official.

An employee of the township had said carelessly that the child was about

twenty, never dreaming that with this inaccuracy he was causing his

death.

“It was a lie!” repeated the mother guessing instinctively what they

were saying. “That man made a mistake. My boy is robust and, therefore,

looks older than he is, but he is not twenty. . . . The gentleman

from the castle who knows him can tell you so. Is it not so, Monsieur

Desnoyers?”

Since, in her maternal desperation, she had appealed to his protection,

Don Marcelo believed that he ought to intervene, and so he spoke to

the Commandant. He knew this youth very well (he did not ever remember

having seen him before) and believed that he really was under twenty.

“And even if he were of age,” he added, “is that a crime to shoot a man

for?”

Blumhardt did not reply. Since he had recovered his functions of

command, he ignored absolutely Don Marcelo’s existence. He was about to

say something, to give an order, but hesitated. It might be better to

consult His Excellency . . . and seeing that he was going toward the

castle, Desnoyers marched by his side.

“Commandant, this cannot be,” he commenced saying. “This lacks common

sense. To shoot a man on the suspicion that he may be twenty years old!”

But the Commandant remained silent and continued on his way. As they

crossed the bridge, they heard the sound of the piano--a good omen,

Desnoyers thought. The aesthete who had so touched him with his

impassioned voice, was going to say the saving word.

On entering the salon, he did not at first recognize His Excellency.

He saw a man sitting at the piano wearing no clothing but a Japanese

dressing gown--a woman’s rose-colored kimono, embroidered with golden

birds, belonging to Chichi. At any other time, he would have burst into

roars of laughter at beholding this scrawny, bony warrior with the

cruel eyes, with his brawny braceleted arms appearing through the loose

sleeves. After taking his bath, the Count had delayed putting on his

uniform, luxuriating in the silky contact of the feminine tunic so like

his Oriental garments in Berlin. Blumhardt did not betray the slightest

astonishment at the aspect of his general. In the customary attitude

of military erectness, he spoke in his own language while the Count

listened with a bored air, meanwhile passing his fingers idly over the

keys.

A shaft of sunlight from a nearby window was enveloping the piano and

musician in a halo of gold. Through the window, too, was wafting the

poetry of the sunset--the rustling of the leaves, the hushed song of the

birds and the hum of the insects whose transparent wings were glowing

like sparks in the last rays of the sun. The General, annoyed that his

dreaming melancholy should be interrupted by this inopportune visit, cut

short the Commandant’s story with a gesture of command and a word . . .

one word only. He said no more. He took two puffs from a Turkish

cigarette that was slowly scorching the wood of the piano, and again

ran his hands over the ivory keys, catching up the broken threads of the

vague and tender improvisation inspired by the gloaming.

“Thanks, Your Excellency,” said the gratified Desnoyers, surmising his

magnanimous response.

The Commandant had disappeared, nor could the Frenchman find him outside

the castle. A soldier was pacing up and down near the iron gates in

order to transmit commands, and the guards were pushing back with blows

from their guns, a screaming group of women and tiny children. The

entrance was entirely cleared! undoubtedly the crowds were returning

to the village after the General’s pardon. . . . Desnoyers was half way

down the avenue when he heard a howling sound composed of many voices, a

hair-raising shriek such as only womanly desperation can send forth. At

the same time, the air was vibrating with snaps, the loud cracking sound

that he knew from the day before. Shots! . . . He imagined that on

the other side of the iron railing there were some writhing bodies

struggling to escape from powerful arms, and others fleeing with bounds

of fear. He saw running toward him a horror-stricken, sobbing woman with

her hands to her head. It was the wife of the Keeper who a little while

before had joined the desperate group of women.

“Oh, don’t go on, Master,” she called stopping his hurried step. “They

have killed him. . . . They have just shot him.”

Don Marcelo stood rooted to the ground. Shot! . . . and after the

General’s pardon! . . . Suddenly he ran back to the castle, hardly

knowing what he was doing, and soon reached the salon. His Excellency

was still at the piano humming in low tones, his eyes moistened by the

poesy of his dreams. But the breathless old gentleman did not stop to

listen.

“They have shot him, Your Excellency. . . . They have just killed him in

spite of your order.”

The smile which crossed the Count’s face immediately informed him of his

mistake.

“That is war, my dear sir,” said the player, pausing for a moment. “War

with its cruel necessities. . . . It is always expedient to destroy the

enemy of to-morrow.”

And with a pedantic air as though he were giving a lesson, he discoursed

about the Orientals, great masters of the art of living. One of the

personages most admired by him was a certain Sultan of the Turkish

conquest who, with his own hands, had strangled the sons of the

adversary. “Our foes do not come into the world on horseback and

brandishing the lance,” said that hero. “All are born as children, and

it is advisable to wipe them from the face of the earth before they grow

up.”

Desnoyers listened without taking it in. One thought only was occupying

his mind. . . . That man that he had supposed just, that sentimentalist

so affected by his own singing, had, between two arpeggios, coldly given

the order for death! . . .

The Count made a gesture of impatience. He might retire now, and he

counselled him to be more discreet in the future, avoiding mixing

himself up in the affairs of the service. Then he turned his back,

running his hands over the piano, and giving himself up to harmonious

melancholy.

For Don Marcelo there now began an absurd life of the most extraordinary

events, an experience which was going to last four days. In his life

history, this period represented a long parenthesis of stupefaction,

slashed by the most horrible visions.

Not wishing to meet these men again, he abandoned his own bedroom,

taking refuge on the top floor in the servants’ quarters, near the

room selected by the Warden and his family. In vain the good woman kept

offering him things to eat as the night came on--he had no appetite. He

lay stretched out on the bed, preferring to be alone with his thoughts

in the dark. When would this martyrdom ever come to an end? . . .

There came into his mind the recollection of a trip which he had made

to London some years ago. In his imagination he again saw the British

Museum and certain Assyrian bas-reliefs--relics of bestial humanity,

which had filled him with terror. The warriors were represented as

burning the towns; the prisoners were beheaded in heaps; the pacific

countrymen were marching in lines with chains on their necks, forming

strings of slaves. Until that moment he had never realized the advance

which civilization had made through the centuries. Wars were still

breaking out now and then, but they had been regulated by the march of

progress. The life of the prisoner was now held sacred; the captured

towns must be respected; there existed a complete code of international

law to regulate how men should be killed and nations should combat,

causing the least possible harm. . . . But now he had just seen the

primitive realities of war. The same as that of thousands of years ago!

The men with the helmets were proceeding in exactly the same way as

those ferocious and perfumed satraps with blue mitre and curled beard.

The adversary was shot although not carrying arms; the prisoner died of

shot or blow from the gun; the civilian captives were sent in crowds

to Germany like those of other centuries. Of what avail was all our

so-called Progress? Where was our boasted civilization? . . .

He was awakened by the light of a candle in his eyes. The Warden’s wife

had come up again to see if he needed anything.

“Oh, what a night, Master! Just hear them yelling and singing! The

bottles that they have emptied! . . . They are in the dining room. You

better not see them. Now they are amusing themselves by breaking the

furniture. Even the Count is drunk; drunk, too, is that Commandant that

you were talking with, and all the rest. . . . Some of them are dancing

half-naked.”

She evidently wished to keep quiet about certain details, but her love

of talking got the better of her discretion. Some of the officers had

dressed themselves up in the hats and gowns of her mistress and were

dancing and shouting, imitating feminine seductiveness and affectations.

. . . One of them had been greeted with roars of enthusiasm upon

presenting himself with no other clothing than a “combination” of

Mademoiselle Chichi’s. Many were taking obscene delight in soiling the

rugs and filling the sideboard drawers with indescribable filth, using

the finest linens that they could lay their hands on.

Her master silenced her peremptorily. Why tell him such vile, disgusting

things? . . .

“And we are obliged to wait on them!” wailed the woman. “They are beside

themselves; they appear like different beings. The soldiers are saying

that they are going to resume their march at daybreak. There is a

great battle on, and they are going to win it; but it is necessary that

everyone of them should fight in it. . . . My poor, sick husband just

can’t stand it any longer. So many humiliations . . . and my little girl

. . . . My little girl!”

The child was her greatest anxiety. She had her well hidden away, but

she was watching uneasily the goings and comings of some of these

men maddened with alcohol. The most terrible of them all was that fat

officer who had patted Georgette so paternally.

Apprehension for her daughter’s safety made her hurry restlessly away,

saying over and over:

“God has forgotten the world. . . . Ay, what is ever going to become of

us!”

Don Marcelo was now tinglingly awake. Through the open window was

blowing the clear night air. The cannonading was still going on,

prolonging the conflict way into the night. Below the castle the

soldiers were intoning a slow and melodious chant that sounded like a

psalm. From the interior of the edifice rose the whoopings of brutal

laughter, the crash of breaking furniture, and the mad chase of

dissolute pursuit. When would this diabolical orgy ever wear itself

down? . . . For a long time he was not at all sleepy, but was gradually

losing consciousness of what was going on around him when he was roused

with a start. Near him, on the same floor, a door had fallen with a

crash, unable to resist a succession of formidable batterings. This

was followed immediately by the screams of a woman, weeping, desperate

supplications, the noise of a struggle, reeling steps, and the thud of

bodies against the wall. He had a presentiment that it was Georgette

shrieking and trying to defend herself. Before he could put his feet to

the floor he heard a man’s voice, which he was sure was the Keeper’s;

she was safe.

“Ah, you villain!” . . .

Then the outbreak of a second struggle . . . a shot . . . silence!

Rushing down the hallway that ended at the stairway Desnoyers saw

lights, and many men who came trooping up the stairs, bounding over

several steps at a time. He almost fell over a body from which escaped a

groan of agony. At his feet lay the Warden, his chest moving like a pair

of bellows, his eyes glassy and unnaturally distended, his mouth covered

with blood. . . . Near him glistened a kitchen knife. Then he saw a man

with a revolver in one hand, and holding shut with the other a broken

door that someone was trying to open from within. Don Marcelo

recognized him, in spite of his greenish pallor and wild look. It was

Blumhardt--another Blumhardt with a bestial expression of terrifying

ferocity and lust.

Don Marcelo could see clearly how it had all happened--the debauchee

rushing through the castle in search of his prey, the anxious father in

close pursuit, the cries of the girl, the unequal struggle between the

consumptive with his emergency weapon and the warrior triumphant. The

fury of his youth awoke in the old Frenchman, sweeping everything before

it. What did it matter if he did die? . . .

“Ah, you villain!” he yelled, as the poor father had done.

And with clenched fists he marched up to the German, who smiled coldly

and held his revolver to his eyes. He was just going to shoot him . . .

but at that instant Desnoyers fell to the floor, knocked down by those

who were leaping up the stairs. He received many blows, the heavy boots

of the invaders hammering him with their heels. He felt a hot stream

pouring over his face. Blood! . . . He did not know whether it was his

own or that of the palpitating mortal slowly dying beside him. Then

he found himself lifted from the floor by many hands which pushed him

toward a man. It was His Excellency, with his uniform burst open and

smelling of wine. Eyes and voice were both trembling.

“My dear sir,” he stuttered, trying to recover this suave irony, “I

warned you not to interfere in our affairs and you have not obeyed me.

You may now take the consequences of your lack of discretion.”

He gave an order, and the old man felt himself pushed downstairs to the

cellars underneath the castle. Those conducting him were soldiers under

the command of a petty officer whom he recognized as the Socialist. This

young professor was the only one sober, but he maintained himself erect

and unapproachable with the ferocity of discipline.

He put his prisoner into an arched vault without any breathing-place

except a tiny window on a level with the floor. Many broken bottles and

chests with some straw were all that was in the cave.

“You have insulted a head officer!” said the official roughly, “and

they will probably shoot you to-morrow. Your only salvation lies in the

continuance of the revels, in which case they may forget you.”

As the door of this sub-cellar was broken, like all the others in the

building, a pile of boxes and furniture was heaped in the entrance way.

Don Marcelo passed the rest of the night tormented with the cold--the

only thing which worried him just then. He had abandoned all hope of

life; even the images of his family seemed blotted from his memory.

He worked in the dark in order to make himself more comfortable on the

chests, burrowing down into the straw for the sake of its heat. When the

morning breeze began to sift in through the little window he fell slowly

into a heavy, overpowering sleep, like that of criminals condemned to

death, or duellists before the fatal morning. He thought he heard

shouts in German, the galloping of horses, a distant sound of tattoo and

whistle such as the battalions of the invaders made with their fifes and

drums. . . . Then he lost all consciousness of his surroundings.

On opening his eyes again a ray of sunlight, slipping through the

window, was tracing a little golden square on the wall, giving a regal

splendor to the hanging cobwebs. Somebody was removing the barricade

before the door. A woman’s voice, timid and distressed, was calling

repeatedly:

“Master, are you here?”

He sprang up quickly, wishing to aid the worker outside, and pushing

vigorously. He thought that the invaders must have left. In no other way

could he imagine the Warden’s wife daring to try to get him out of his

cell.

“Yes, they have gone,” she said. “Nobody is left in the castle.”

As soon as he was able to get out Don Marcelo looked inquiringly at the

woman with her bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair and sorrow-drawn face.

The night had weighed her down pitilessly with the pressure of many

years. All the energy with which she had been working to free Desnoyers

disappeared on seeing him again. “Oh, Master . . . Master,” she moaned

convulsively; and she flung herself into his arms, bursting into tears.

Don Marcelo did not need to ask anything further; he dreaded to know the

truth. Nevertheless, he asked after her husband. Now that he was awake

and free, he cherished the fleeting hope that what he had gone through

the night before was but another of his nightmares. Perhaps the poor man

was still living. . . .

“They killed him, Monsieur. That man who seemed so good murdered him.

. . . And I don’t know where his body is; nobody will tell me.”

She had a suspicion that the corpse was in the fosse. The green and

tranquil waters had closed mysteriously over this victim of the night.

. . . Desnoyers suspected that another sorrow was troubling the mother

still more, but he kept modestly silent. It was she who finally spoke,

between outbursts of grief. . . . Georgette was now in the lodge.

Horror-stricken and shuddering, she had fled there when the invaders had

left the castle. They had kept her in their power until the last minute.

“Oh, Master, don’t look at her. . . . She is trembling and sobbing at

the thought that you may speak with her about what she has gone through.

She is almost out of her mind. She longs to die! Ay, my little girl!

. . . And is there no one who will punish these monsters?”

They had come up from the cellars and crossed the bridge, the woman

looking fixedly into the silent waters. The dead body of a swan was

floating upon them. Before their departure, while their horses were

being saddled, two officers had amused themselves by chasing with

revolver shots the birds swimming in the moat. The aquatic plants were

spotted with blood; among the leaves were floating some tufts of

limp white plumage like a bit of washing escaped from the hands of a

laundress.

Don Marcelo and the woman exchanged a compassionate glance, and then

looked pityingly at each other as the sunlight brought out more strongly

their aging, wan appearance.

The passing of these people had destroyed everything. There was no food

left in the castle except some crusts of dry bread forgotten in the

kitchen. “And we have to live, Monsieur!” exclaimed the woman with

reviving energy as she thought of her daughter’s need. “We have to

live, if only to see how God punishes them!” The old man shrugged his

shoulders in despair; God? . . . But the woman was right; they had to

live.

With the famished audacity of his early youth, when he was travelling

over boundless tracts of land, driving his herds of cattle, he now

rushed outside the park, hunting for some form of sustenance. He saw

the valley, fair and green, basking in the sun; the groups of trees, the

plots of yellowish soil with the hard spikes of stubble; the hedges in

which the birds were singing--all the summer splendor of a countryside

developed and cultivated during fifteen centuries by dozens and dozens

of generations. And yet--here he was alone at the mercy of chance,

likely to perish with hunger--more alone than when he was crossing the

towering heights of the Andes--those irregular slopes of rocks and

snow wrapped in endless silence, only broken from time to time by

the flapping of the condor’s wings. Nobody. . . . His gaze could not

distinguish a single movable point--everything fixed, motionless,

crystallized, as though contracted with fear before the peals of thunder

which were still rumbling around the horizon.

He went on toward the village--a mass of black walls with a few houses

still intact, and a roofless bell tower with its cross twisted by fire.

Nobody in the streets sown with bottles, charred chunks of wood, and

soot-covered rubbish. The dead bodies had disappeared, but a nauseating

smell of decomposing and burned flesh assailed his nostrils. He saw

a mound of earth where the shooting had taken place, and from it were

protruding two feet and a hand. At his approach several black forms flew

up into the air from a trench so shallow that the bodies within were

exposed to view. A whirring of stiff wings beat the air above him,

flying off with the croakings of wrath. He explored every nook and

corner, even approaching the place where the troopers had erected their

barricade. The carts were still by the roadside.

He then retraced his steps, calling out before the least injured

houses, and putting his head through the doors and windows that were

unobstructed or but half consumed. Was nobody left in Villeblanche? He

descried among the ruins something advancing on all fours, a species of

reptile that stopped its crawling with movements of hesitation and fear,

ready to retreat or slip into its hole under the ruins. Suddenly the

creature stopped and stood up. It was a man, an old man. Other human

larvae were coming forth conjured by his shouts--poor beings who hours

ago had given up the standing position which would have attracted

the bullets of the enemy, and had been enviously imitating the lower

organisms, squirming through the dirt as fast as they could scurry into

the bosom of the earth. They were mostly women and children, all filthy

and black, with snarled hair, the fierceness of animal appetite in their

eyes--the faintness of the weak animal in their hanging jaws. They

were all living hidden in the ruins of their homes. Fear had made them

temporarily forget their hunger, but finding that the enemy had gone,

they were suddenly assailed by all necessitous demands, intensified by

hours of anguish.

Desnoyers felt as though he were surrounded by a tribe of brutalized

and famished Indians like those he had often seen in his adventurous

voyages. He had brought with him from Paris a quantity of gold pieces,

and he pulled out a coin which glittered in the sun. Bread was needed,

everything eatable was needed; he would pay without haggling.

The flash of gold aroused looks of enthusiasm and greediness, but this

impression was short-lived, all eyes contemplating the yellow discs

with indifference. Don Marcelo was himself convinced that the miraculous

charm had lost its power. They all chanted a chorus of sorrow and

horrors with slow and plaintive voice, as though they stood weeping

before a bier: “Monsieur, they have killed my husband.” . . . “Monsieur,

my sons! Two of them are missing.” . . . “Monsieur, they have taken all

the men prisoners: they say it is to work the land in Germany.” . . .

“Monsieur, bread! . . . My little ones are dying of hunger!”

One woman was lamenting something worse than death. “My girl! . . . My

poor girl!” Her look of hatred and wild desperation revealed the secret

tragedy; her outcries and tears recalled that other mother who was

sobbing in the same way up at the castle. In the depths of some cave,

was lying the victim, half-dead with fatigue, shaken with a wild

delirium in which she still saw the succession of brutal faces, inflamed

with simian passion.

The miserable group, forming themselves into a circle around him,

stretched out their hands beseechingly toward the man whom they knew to

be so very rich. The women showed him the death-pallor on the faces

of their scarcely breathing babies, their eyes glazed with starvation.

“Bread! . . . bread!” they implored, as though he could work a miracle.

He gave to one mother the gold piece that he had in his hand and

distributed more to the others. They took them without looking at them,

and continued their lament, “Bread! . . . Bread!” And he had gone to the

village to make the same supplication! . . . He fled, recognizing the

uselessness of his efforts.