The Russian, without coming out of his revery, availed himself of another glass.  Then he smiled with cruel irony, his bearded face taking on the semblance of a tragic mask peeping between the curtains of the night.

“I wonder what those men up there are thinking!” he muttered.  “I wonder if any star knows that Bismarck ever existed! . . .  I wonder if the planets are aware of the divine mission of the German nation!”

And he continued laughing.

Some far-away and uncertain noise disturbed the stillness of the night, slipping through some of the chinks that cut the immense plain of roofs.  The three turned their heads so as to hear better. . . .  The sound of voices cut through the thick silence of night—­a masculine chorus chanting a hymn, simple, monotonous and solemn.  They guessed at what it must be, although they could not hear very well.  Various single notes floating with greater intensity on the night wind, enabled Argensola to piece together the short song, ending in a melodious, triumphant yell—­a true war song: 

     C’est l’Alsace et la Lorraine,
     C’est l’Alsace qu’il nous faut,
     Oh, oh, oh, oh.

A new band of men was going away through the streets below, toward the railway station, the gateway of the war.  They must be from the outlying districts, perhaps from the country, and passing through silence-wrapped Paris, they felt like singing of the great national hope, that those who were watching behind the dark facades might feel comforted, knowing that they were not alone.

“Just as it is in the opera,” said Julio listening to the last notes of the invisible chorus dying away into the night.

Tchernoff continued drinking, but with a distracted air, his eyes fixed on the red cloud that floated over the roofs.

The two friends conjectured his mental labor from his concentrated look, and the low exclamations which were escaping him like the echoes of an interior monologue.  Suddenly he leaped from thought to word without any forewarning, continuing aloud the course of his reasoning.

“And when the sun arises in a few hours, the world will see coursing through its fields the four horsemen, enemies of mankind. . . .  Already their wild steeds are pawing the ground with impatience; already the ill-omened riders have come together and are exchanging the last words before leaping into the saddle.”

“What horsemen are these?” asked Argensola.

“Those which go before the Beast.”

The two friends thought this reply as unintelligible as the preceding words.  Desnoyers again said mentally, “He is drunk,” but his curiosity forced him to ask, “What beast is that?”

“That of the Apocalypse.”

There was a brief silence, but the Russian’s terseness of speech did not last long.  He felt the necessity of expressing his enthusiasm for the dreamer on the island rock of Patmos.  The poet of great and mystic vision was exerting, across two thousand years, his influence over this mysterious revolutionary, tucked away on the top floor of a house in Paris.  John had foreseen it all.  His visions, unintelligible to the masses, nevertheless held within them the mystery of great human events.