He then inquired after his mother, rejoicing to learn that she was in the South.  He had been uneasy at the idea of her remaining in Paris . . . especially with all those revolutions which had been breaking out there lately! . . .  Desnoyers looked doubtful as if he could not have heard correctly.  What revolutions were those? . . .  But the officer, without further explanation, resumed his conversation about his family, taking it for granted that his relative would be impatient to learn the fate of his German kin.

They were all in magnificent state.  Their illustrious father was president of various patriotic societies (since his years no longer permitted him to go to war) and was besides organizing future industrial enterprises to improve the conquered countries.  His brother, “the Sage,” was giving lectures about the nations that the imperial victory was bound to annex, censuring severely those whose ambitions were unpretending or weak.  The remaining brothers were distinguishing themselves in the army, one of them having been presented with a medal at Lorraine.  The two sisters, although somewhat depressed by the absence of their fiances, lieutenants of the Hussars, were employing their time in visiting the hospitals and begging God to chastise traitorous England.

Captain von Hartrott was slowly conducting his uncle toward the castle.  The gray and unbending soldiers who, until then, had been ignoring the existence of Don Marcelo, looked at him with interest, now that he was in intimate conversation with a member of the General Staff.  He perceived that these men were about to humanize themselves by casting aside temporarily their inexorable and aggressive automatonism.

Upon entering his mansion something in his heart contracted with an agonizing shudder.  Everywhere he could see dreadful vacancies, which made him recall the objects which had formerly been there.  Rectangular spots of stronger color announced the theft of furniture and paintings.  With what despatch and system the gentleman of the armlet had been doing his work! . . .  To the sadness that the cold and orderly spoliation caused was added his indignation as an economical man, gazing upon the slashed curtains, spotted rugs, broken crystal and porcelain—­all the debris from a ruthless and unscrupulous occupation.

His nephew, divining his thoughts, could only offer the same old excuse—­“What a mess! . . .  But that is war!”

With Moltkecito, he did not have to subside into the respectful civilities of fear.

“That is not war!” he thundered bitterly.  “It is an expedition of bandits. . . .  Your comrades are nothing less than highwaymen.”

Captain von Hartrott swelled up with a jerk.  Separating himself from the complainant and looking fixedly at him, he spoke in a low voice, hissing with wrath.  “Look here, uncle!  It is a lucky thing for you that you have expressed yourself in Spanish, and those around you could not understand you.  If you persist in such comments you will probably receive a bullet by way of an answer.  The Emperor’s officials permit no insults.”  And his threatening attitude demonstrated the facility with which he could forget his relationship if he should receive orders to proceed against Don Marcelo.