And with his right hand he measured off the child’s diminutive stature.  He trembled with laughter and grief at recalling the little chap.  Then he broke forth into eulogies about his wife—­excellent manager of the home, a mother who was always modestly sacrificing herself for her children and husband.  Ay, the sweet Augusta! . . .  After twenty years of married life, he adored her as on the day he first saw her.  In a pocket of his uniform, he was keeping all the letters that she had written him since the beginning of the campaign.

“Look at her, Monsieur. . . .  There are my children.”

From his breast pocket, he had drawn forth a silver medallion, adorned with the art of Munich, and touching a spring, he displayed the pictures of all the family—­the Frau Kommandeur, of an austere and frigid beauty, imitating the air and coiffure of the Empress; the Frauleine Kommandeur, clad in white, with uplifted eyes as though they were singing a musical romance; and at the end, the children in the uniforms of the army schools or private institutions.  And to think that he might lose these beloved beings if a bit of iron should hit him! . . .  And he had to live far from them now that it was such fine weather for long walks in the country! . . .

“Sad war!” he again said.  “May God punish the English!”

With a solicitude that Don Marcelo greatly appreciated, he in turn inquired about the Frenchman’s family.  He pitied him for having so few children, and smiled a little over the enthusiasm with which the old gentleman spoke of his daughter, saluting Fraulein Chichi as a witty sprite, and expressing great sympathy on learning that the only son was causing his parents great sorrow by his conduct.

Tender-hearted Commandant! . . .  He was the first rational and human being that he had met in this hell of an invasion.  “There are good people everywhere,” he told himself.  He hoped that this new acquaintance would not be moved from the castle; for if the Germans had to stay there, it would better be this man than the others.

An orderly came to summon Don Marcelo to the presence of His Excellency.  After passing through the salons with closed eyes so as to avoid useless distress and wrath, he found the Count in his own bedroom.  The doors had been forced open, the floors stripped of carpet and the window frames of curtains.  Only the pieces of furniture broken in the first moments now occupied their former places.  The sleeping rooms had been stripped more methodically, everything having been taken that was not required for immediate use.  Because the General with his suite had been lodging there the night before, this apartment had escaped the arbitrary destruction.

The Count received him with the civility of a grandee who wishes to be attentive to his guests.  He could not consent that Herr Desnoyers—­a relative of a von Hartrott—­whom he vaguely remembered having seen at Court, should be staying in the Keeper’s lodge.  He must return to his own room, occupying that bed, solemn as a catafalque with columns and plumes, which had had the honor, a few hours before, of serving as the resting-place of an illustrious General of the Empire.