Don Marcelo walked all the morning long.  The white, rectilinear ribbon of roadway was spotted with approaching groups that on the horizon line looked like a file of ants.  He did not see a single person going in his direction.  All were fleeing toward the South, and on meeting this city gentleman, well-shod, with walking stick and straw hat, going on alone toward the country which they were abandoning in terror, they showed the greatest astonishment.  They concluded that he must be some functionary, some celebrity from the Government.

At midday he was able to get a bit of bread, a little cheese and a bottle of white wine from a tavern near the road.  The proprietor was at the front, his wife sick and moaning in her bed.  The mother, a rather deaf old woman surrounded by her grandchildren, was watching from the doorway the procession of fugitives which had been filing by for the last three days.  “Monsieur, why do they flee?” she said to Desnoyers.  “War only concerns the soldiers.  We countryfolk have done no wrong to anybody, and we ought not to be afraid.”

Four hours later, on descending one of the hills that bounded the valley of the Marne, he saw afar the roofs of Villeblanche clustered around the church, and further on, beyond a little grove, the slatey points of the round towers of his castle.

The streets of the village were deserted.  Only on the outer edges of the square did he see some old women sitting as in the placid evenings of bygone summers.  Half of the neighborhood had fled; the others were staying by their firesides through sedentary routine, or deceiving themselves with a blind optimism.  If the Prussians should approach, what could they do to them? . . .  They would obey their orders without attempting any resistance, and it is impossible to punish people who obey. . . .  Anything would be preferable to losing the homes built by their forefathers which they had never left.

In the square he saw the mayor and the principal inhabitants grouped together.  Like the women, they all stared in astonishment at the owner of the castle.  He was the most unexpected of apparitions.  While so many were fleeing toward Paris, this Parisian had come to join them and share in their fate.  A smile of affection, a look of sympathy began to appear on the rough, bark-like countenances of the suspicious rustics.  For a long time Desnoyers had been on bad terms with the entire village.  He had harshly insisted on his rights, showing no tolerance in matters touching his property.  He had spoken many times of bringing suit against the mayor and sending half of the neighborhood to prison, so his enemies had retaliated by treacherously invading his lands, poaching in his hunting preserves, and causing him great trouble with counter-suits and involved claims.  His hatred of the community had even united him with the priest because he was on terms of permanent hostility with the mayor.  But his relations with the Church turned out as fruitless as his struggles with the State.  The priest was a kindly old soul who bore a certain resemblance to Renan, and seemed interested only in getting alms for his poor out of Don Marcelo, even carrying his good-natured boldness so far as to try to excuse the marauders on his property.