Desnoyers was astounded by the transformation which had meanwhile taken place in the youth.  This vigorous captain with the insolent air who might shoot him at any minute was the same urchin whom he had seen running around the ranch, the beardless Moltkecito who had been the butt of his daughter’s ridicule. . . .

The soldier, meanwhile, was explaining his presence there.  He belonged to another division.  There were many . . . many!  They were advancing rapidly, forming an extensive and solid wall from Verdun to Paris.  His general had sent him to maintain the contact with the next division, but finding himself near the castle, he had wished to visit it.  A family tie was not a mere word.  He still remembered the days that he had spent at Villeblanche when the Hartrott family had paid a long visit to their relatives in France.  The officials now occupying the edifice had detained him that he might lunch with them.  One of them had casually mentioned that the owner of the castle was somewhere about although nobody knew exactly where.  This had been a great surprise to Captain von Hartrott who had tried to find him, regretting to see him taking refuge in the Warden’s quarters.

“You must leave this hut; you are my uncle,” he said haughtily.  “Return to your castle where you belong.  My comrades will be much pleased to make your acquaintance; they are very distinguished men.”

He very much regretted whatever the old gentleman might have suffered. . . .  He did not know exactly in what that suffering had consisted, but surmised that the first moments of the invasion had been cruel ones for him.

“But what else can you expect?” he repeated several times.  “That is war.”

At the same time he approved of his having remained on his property.  They had special orders to seize the goods of the fugitives.  Germany wished the inhabitants to remain in their dwellings as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. . . .  Desnoyers protested. . . .  “But if the invaders were shooting the innocent ones and burning their homes!” . . .  His nephew prevented his saying more.  He turned pale, an ashy hue spreading over his face; his eyes snapped and his face trembled like that of the lieutenant who had taken possession of the castle.

“You refer to the execution of the mayor and the others.  My comrades have just been telling me about it; yet that castigation was very mild; they should have completely destroyed the entire village.  They should have killed even the women and children.  We’ve got to put an end to these sharpshooters.”

His uncle looked at him in amazement.  His Moltkecito was as formidable and ferocious as the others. . . .  But the captain brought the conversation to an abrupt close by repeating the monstrous and everlasting excuse.

“Very horrible, but what else can you expect! . . .  That is war.”