These allusions to the Emperor aggravated Frau von Hartrott more than anything else.  In the first days of the war, her sister had surprised her weeping before the newspaper caricatures and leaflets sold in the streets.

“Such an excellent man . . . so knightly . . . such a good father to his family!  He wasn’t to blame for anything.  It was his enemies who forced him to assume the offensive.”

Her veneration for exalted personages was making her take the attacks upon this admired grandee as though they were directed against her own family.

One night in the dining room, she abandoned her tragic silence.  Certain sarcasms, shot by Desnoyers at her hero, brought the tears to her eyes, and this sentimental indulgence turned her thoughts upon her sons who were undoubtedly taking part in the invasion.

Her brother-in-law was longing for the extermination of all the enemy.  “May every barbarian be exterminated! . . . every one of the bandits in pointed helmets who have just burned Louvain and other towns, shooting defenceless peasants, old men, women and children!”

“You forget that I am a mother,” sobbed Frau von Hartrott.  “You forget that among those whose extermination you are imploring, are my sons.”

Her violent weeping made Desnoyers realize more than ever the abyss yawning between him and this woman lodged in his own house.  His resentment, however, overleapt family considerations. . . .  She might weep for her sons all she wanted to; that was her right.  But these sons were aggressors and wantonly doing evil.  It was the other mothers who were inspiring his pity—­those who were living tranquilly in their smiling little Belgian towns when their sons were suddenly shot down, their daughters violated and their houses burned to the ground.

As though this description of the horrors of war were a fresh insult to her, Dona Elena wept harder than ever.  What falsehoods!  The Kaiser was an excellent man.  His soldiers were gentlemen, the German army was a model of civilization and goodness.  Her husband had belonged to this army, her sons were marching in its ranks.  And she knew her sons—­well-bred and incapable of wrong-doing.  These Belgian calumnies she could no longer listen to . . . and, with dramatic abandon, she flung herself into the arms of her sister.

Senor Desnoyers raged against the fate that condemned him to live under the same roof with this woman.  What an unfortunate complication for the family! . . . and the frontiers were closed, making it impossible to get rid of her!

“Very well, then,” he thundered.  “Let us talk no more about it.  We shall never reach an understanding, for we belong to two different worlds.  It’s a great pity that you can’t go back to your own people.”

After that, he refrained from mentioning the war in his sister-in-law’s presence.  Chichi was the only one keeping up her aggressive and noisy enthusiasm.  Upon reading in the papers the news of the shootings, sackings, burning of cities, and the dolorous flight of those who had seen their all reduced to ashes, she again felt the necessity of assuming the role of lady-assassin.  Ay, if she could only once get her hands on one of those bandits! . . .  What did the men amount to anyway if they couldn’t exterminate the whole lot? . . .