"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 a.s.s! ... 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.bleman"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 impa.s.sioned 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 inst.i.tute; 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 pa.s.s 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 quant.i.ty 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 Ca.s.sel. 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, pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sions, 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."