He roared with wrath on learning of the enemy’s entrance into Belgium, considering this the most unheard-of treason in history.  He suffered agonies of shame at remembering that at first he had held the exalted patriots of his country responsible for the war. . . .  What perfidy, methodically carried out after long years of preparation!  The accounts of the sackings, fires and butcheries made him turn pale and gnash his teeth.  To him, to Marcelo Desnoyers, might happen the very same thing that Belgium was enduring, if the barbarians should invade France.  He had a home in the city, a castle in the country, and a family.  Through association of ideas, the women assaulted by the soldiery, made him think of Chichi and the dear Dona Luisa.  The mansions in flames called to his mind the rare and costly furnishings accumulated in his expensive dwellings—­the armorial bearings of his social elevation.  The old folk that were shot, the women foully mutilated, the children with their hands cut off, all the horrors of a war of terror, aroused the violence of his character.

And such things could happen with impunity in this day and generation! . . .

In order to convince himself that punishment was near, that vengeance was overtaking the guilty ones, he felt the necessity of mingling daily with the people crowding around the Gare de l’Est.

Although the greater part of the troops were operating on the frontiers, that was not diminishing the activity in Paris.  Entire battalions were no longer going off, but day and night soldiers were coming to the station singly or in groups.  These were Reserves without uniform on their way to enroll themselves with their companies, officials who until then had been busy with the work of the mobilization, platoons in arms destined to fill the great gaps opened by death.

The multitude, pressed against the railing, was greeting those who were going off, following them with their eyes while they were crossing the large square.  The latest editions of the daily papers were announced with hoarse yells, and instantly the dark throng would be spotted with white, all reading with avidity the printed sheets.  Good news:  “Vive la France!” A doubtful despatch, foreshadowing calamity:  “No matter!  We must press on at all costs!  The Russians will close in behind them!” And while these dialogues, inspired by the latest news were taking place, many young girls were going among the groups offering little flags and tricolored cockades—­and passing through the patio, men and still more men were disappearing behind the glass doors, on their way to the war.

A sub-lieutenant of the Reserves, with his bag on his shoulder, was accompanied by his father toward the file of policemen keeping the crowds back.  Desnoyers saw in the young officer a certain resemblance to his son.  The father was wearing in his lapel the black and green ribbon of 1870—­a decoration which always filled Desnoyers with remorse.  He was tall and gaunt, but was still trying to hold himself erect, with a heavy frown.  He wanted to show himself fierce, inhuman, in order to hide his emotion.