Desnoyers noticed, too, that the writer raised his head every time that Georgette, the Warden’s daughter, passed by, following her with his eyes.  The poor father! . . .  Undoubtedly he was comparing her with his two girls home in Germany, with all their thoughts on the war.  He, too, was thinking of Chichi, fearing sometimes, that he might never see her again.  In one of her trips from the castle to her home, Blumhardt called the child to him.  She stopped before the table, timid and shrinking as though she felt a presentiment of danger, but making an effort to smile.  The Prussian father meanwhile chatted with her, and patted her cheeks with his great paws—­a sight which touched Desnoyers deeply.  The memories of a pacific and virtuous life were rising above the horrors of war.  Decidedly this one enemy was a good man, anyway.

Because of his conclusion, the millionaire smiled indulgently when the Commandant, leaving the table, came toward him—­after delivering his letter and a bulky package to a soldier to take to the battalion post-office in the village.

“It is for my family,” he explained.  “I do not let a day pass without sending them a letter.  Theirs are so precious to me! . . .  I am also sending them a few remembrances.”

Desnoyers was on the point of protesting. . . .  But with a shrug of indifference, he concluded to keep silence as if he did not object.  The Commandant continued talking of the sweet Augusta and their children while the invisible tempest kept on thundering beyond the serene twilight horizon.  Each time the cannonading was more intense.

“The battle,” continued Blumhardt.  “Always a battle! . . .  Surely it is the last and we are going to win.  Within the week, we shall be entering Paris. . . .  But how many will never see it!  So many dead! . . .  I understand that to-morrow we shall not be here.  All the Reserves are to combine with the attack so as to overcome the last resistance. . . .  If only I do not fall!” . . .

Thoughts of the possibility of death the following day contracted his forehead in a scowl of hatred.  A deep, vertical line was parting his eyebrows.  He frowned ferociously at Desnoyers as though making him responsible for his death and the trouble of his family.  For a few moments Don Marcelo could hardly recognize this man, transformed by warlike passions, as the sweet-natured and friendly Blumhardt of a little while before.

The sun was beginning to set when a sub-officer, the one of the Social-Democracy, came running in search of the Commandant.  Desnoyers could not understand what was the matter because they were speaking in German, but following the direction of the messenger’s continual pointing, he saw beyond the iron gates a group of country people and some soldiers with guns.  Blumhardt, after a brief reflection, started toward the group and Don Marcelo behind him.

Soon he saw a village lad in the charge of some Germans who were holding their bayonets to his breast.  His face was colorless, with the whiteness of a wax candle.  His shirt, blackened with soot, was so badly torn that it told of a hand-to-hand struggle.  On one temple was a gash, bleeding badly.  A short distance away was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding a baby, and surrounded by four children all covered with black grime as though coming from a coal mine.