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 endors.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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? a.s.sa.s.sinations 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 a.s.sa.s.sinating 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sociated with the popular credulity, here intervened to set matters straight. The report of the a.s.sa.s.sination 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, pet.i.tioning 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 pa.s.sing 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-cla.s.s happiness suddenly cut short by war.
"What a life, Monsieur!" the officer rambled on. "May G.o.d 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 Ca.s.sel.
"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 inst.i.tutions. 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sing 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 ill.u.s.trious General of the Empire.