Suddenly Desnoyers regretted having sallied forth.  Five huge trucks were lined up near the moat before the castle bridge.  Gangs of soldiers were coming out carrying on their shoulders enormous pieces of furniture, like peons conducting a moving.  A bulky object wrapped in damask curtains—­an excellent substitute for sacking—­was being pushed by four men toward one of the drays.  The owner suspected immediately what it must be.  His bath!  The famous tub of gold! . . .  Then with an abrupt revulsion of feeling, he felt no grief at his loss.  He now detested the ostentatious thing, attributing to it a fatal influence.  On account of it he was here.  But, ay! . . . the other furnishings piled up in the drays! . . .  In that moment he suffered the extreme agony of misery and impotence.  It was impossible for him to defend his property, to dispute with the head thief who was sacking his castle, tranquilly ignoring the very existence of the owner.  “Robbers! thieves!” and he fled back to the lodge.

He passed the remainder of the morning with his elbow on the table, his head in his hands, the same as the day before, letting the hours grind slowly by, trying not to hear the rolling of the vehicles that were bearing away these credentials of his wealth.

Toward midday, the Keeper announced that an officer who had arrived a few hours before in an automobile was inquiring for him.

Responding to this summons, Desnoyers encountered outside the lodge, a captain arrayed like the others in sheathed and pointed helmet, in mustard-colored uniform, red leather boots, sword, revolver, field-glasses and geographic map hanging in a case from his belt.  He appeared young; on his sleeve was the staff emblem.

“Do you know me? . . .  I did not wish to pass through here without seeing you.”

He spoke in Castilian, and Don Marcelo felt greater surprise at this than at the many things which he had been experiencing so painfully during the last twenty-four hours.

“You really do not know me?” queried the German, always in Spanish.  “I am Otto. . . .  Captain Otto von Hartrott.”

The old man’s mind went painfully down the staircase of memory, stopping this time at a far-distant landing.  There he saw the old ranch, and his brother-in-law announcing the birth of his second son.  “I shall give him Bismarck’s name,” Karl had said.  Then, climbing back past many other platforms, Desnoyers saw himself in Berlin during his visit to the von Hartrott home where they were speaking proudly of Otto, almost as learned as the older brother, but devoting his talents entirely to martial matters.  He was then a lieutenant and studying for admission to the General Staff.  “Who knows but he may turn out to be another Moltke?” said the proud father . . . and the charming Chichi had thereupon promptly bestowed upon the warlike wonder a nickname, accepted through the family.  From that time, Otto was Moltkecito (the baby Moltke) to his Parisian relatives.