How remote these struggles of a few months ago now seemed to him! . . .  The millionaire was greatly surprised to see the priest, on leaving his house to enter the church, greet the mayor as he passed, with a friendly smile.

After long years of hostile silence they had met on the evening of August first at the foot of the church tower.  The bell was ringing the alarm, announcing the mobilization to the men who were in the field—­and the two enemies had instinctively clasped hands.  All French!  This affectionate unanimity also came to meet the detested owner of the castle.  He had to exchange greetings first on one side, then on the other, grasping many a horny hand.  Behind his back the people broke out into kindly excuses—­“A good man, with no fault except a little bad temper. . . .”  And in a few minutes Monsieur Desnoyers was basking in the delightful atmosphere of popularity.

As the iron-willed old gentleman approached his castle he concluded that, although the fatigue of the long walk was making his knees tremble, the trip had been well worth while.  Never had his park appeared to him so extensive and so majestic as in that summer twilight, never so glistening white the swans that were gliding double over the quiet waters, never so imposing the great group of towers whose inverted images were repeated in the glassy green of the moats.  He felt eager to see at once the stables with their herds of animals; then a brief glance showed him that the stalls were comparatively empty.  Mobilization had carried off his best work horses; the driving and riding horses also had disappeared.  Those in charge of the grounds and the various stable boys were also in the army.  The Warden, a man upwards of fifty and consumptive, was the only one of the personnel left at the castle.  With his wife and daughter he was keeping the mangers filled, and from time to time was milking the neglected cows.

Within the noble edifice he again congratulated himself on the adamantine will which had brought him thither.  How could he ever give up such riches! . . .  He gloated over the paintings, the crystals, the draperies, all bathed in gold by the splendor of the dying day, and he felt more than proud to be their possessor.  This pride awakened in him an absurd, impossible courage, as though he were a gigantic being from another planet, and all humanity merely an ant hill that he could grind under foot.  Just let the enemy come!  He could hold his own against the whole lot! . . .  Then, when his common sense brought him out of his heroic delirium, he tried to calm himself with an equally illogical optimism.  They would not come.  He did not know why it was, but his heart told him that they would not get that far.

He passed the following morning reconnoitering the artificial meadows that he had made behind the park, lamenting their neglected condition due to the departure of the men, trying himself to open the sluice gates so as to give some water to the pasture lands which were beginning to dry up.  The grape vines were extending their branches the length of their supports, and the full bunches, nearly ripe, were beginning to show their triangular lusciousness among the leaves.  Ay, who would gather this abundant fruit! . . .