The war coincided with his socialistic tendencies.  Before this, when speaking of future revolution, he had felt a malign pleasure in imagining all the rich deprived of their fortunes and having to work in order to exist.  Now he was equally enthusiastic at the thought that all Frenchmen would share the same fate without class distinction.

“All with knapsacks on their backs and eating at mess.”

And he was even extending this military sobriety to those who remained behind the army.  War was going to cause great scarcity of provisions, and all would have to come down to very plain fare.

“You, too, Boss, who are too old to go to war—­you, with all your millions, will have to eat the same as I. . . .  Admit that it is a beautiful thing.”

Desnoyers was not offended by the malicious satisfaction that his future privations seemed to inspire in the carpenter.  He was very thoughtful.  A man of his stamp, an enemy of existing conditions, who had no property to defend, was going to war—­to death, perhaps—­because of a generous and distant ideal, in order that future generations might never know the actual horrors of war!  To do this, he was not hesitating at the sacrifice of his former cherished beliefs, all that he had held sacred till now. . . .  And he who belonged to the privileged class, who possessed so many tempting things, requiring defense, had given himself up to doubt and criticism! . . .

Hours after, he again saw the carpenter, near the Arc de Triomphe.  He was one of a group of workmen looking much as he did, and this group was joining others and still others that represented every social class—­well-dressed citizens, stylish and anaemic young men, graduate students with worn jackets, pale faces and thick glasses, and youthful priests who were smiling rather shamefacedly as though they had been caught at some ridiculous escapade.  At the head of this human herd was a sergeant, and as a rear guard, various soldiers with guns on their shoulders.  Forward march, Reservists! . . .

And a musical cry, a solemn harmony like a Greek chant, menacing and monotonous, surged up from this mass with open mouths, swinging arms, and legs that were opening and shutting like compasses.

Robert was singing the martial chorus with such great

energy that his eyes and Gallic moustachios were fairly trembling.  In spite of his corduroy suit and his bulging linen hand bag, he had the same grand and heroic aspect as the figures by Rude in the Arc de Triomphe.  The “affinity” and the boy were trudging along the sidewalk so as to accompany him to the station.  For a moment he took his eyes from them to speak with a companion in the line, shaven and serious-looking, undoubtedly the priest whom he had met the day before.  Now they were talking confidentially, intimately, with that brotherliness which contact with death inspires in mankind.

The millionaire followed the carpenter with a look of respect, immeasurably increased since he had taken his part in this human avalanche.  And this respect had in it something of envy, the envy that springs from an uneasy conscience.