He began to worry about his castle at Villeblanche.  All that he owned in Paris suddenly seemed to him of slight importance to what he had in his historic mansion.  His best paintings were there, adorning the gloomy salons; there, too, the furnishings captured from the antiquarians after an auctioneering battle, and the crystal cabinets, the tapestries, the silver services.

He mentally reviewed all of these objects, not letting a single one escape his inventory.  Things that he had forgotten came surging up in his memory, and the fear of losing them seemed to give them greater lustre, increasing their size, and intensifying their value.  All the riches of Villeblanche were concentrated in one certain acquisition which Desnoyers admired most of all; for, to his mind, it stood for all the glory of his immense fortune—­in fact, the most luxurious appointment that even a millionaire could possess.

“My golden bath,” he thought.  “I have there my tub of gold.”

This bath of priceless metal he had procured, after much financial wrestling, from an auction, and he considered the purchase the culminating achievement of his wealth.  No one knew exactly its origin; perhaps it had been the property of luxurious princes; perhaps it owed its existence to the caprice of a demi-mondaine fond of display.  He and his had woven a legend around this golden cavity adorned with lions’ claws, dolphins and busts of naiads.  Undoubtedly it was once a king’s!  Chichi gravely affirmed that it had been Marie Antoinette’s, and the entire family thought that the home on the avenue Victor Hugo was altogether too modest and plebeian to enshrine such a jewel.  They therefore agreed to put it in the castle, where it was greatly venerated, although it was useless and solemn as a museum piece. . . .  And was he to permit the enemy in their advance toward the Marne to carry off this priceless treasure, as well as the other gorgeous things which he had accumulated with such patience Ah, no!  His soul of a collector would be capable of the greatest heroism before he would let that go.

Each day was bringing a fresh sheaf of bad news.  The papers were saying little, and the Government was so veiling its communications that the mind was left in great perplexity.  Nevertheless, the truth was mysteriously forcing its way, impelled by the pessimism of the alarmists, and the manipulation of the enemy’s spies who were remaining hidden in Paris.  The fatal news was being passed along in whispers.  “They have already crossed the frontier. . . .”  “They are already in Lille.” . . .  They were advancing at the rate of thirty-five miles a day.  The name of von Kluck was beginning to have a familiar ring.  English and French were retreating before the enveloping progression of the invaders.  Some were expecting another Sedan.  Desnoyers was following the advance of the Germans, going daily to the Gare du Nord.  Every twenty-four hours was lessening the radius of travel.  Bulletins