The French cannon began thundering on the village side.  Bands of soldiers were exploring the castle and the nearest woods.  From the ruined rooms, from the depths of the cellars, from the clumps of shrubbery in the park, from the stables and burned garage, came surging forth men dressed in greenish gray and pointed helmets.  They all threw up their arms, extending their open hands:—­“Kamarades . . . kamarades, non kaput.”  With the restlessness of remorse, they were in dread of immediate execution.  They had suddenly lost all their haughtiness on finding that they no longer had any official powers and were free from discipline.  Some of those who knew a little French, spoke of their wives and children, in order to soften the enemies that were threatening them with their bayonets.  A brawny Teuton came up to Desnoyers and clapped him on the back.  It was Redbeard.  He pressed his heart and then pointed to the owner of the castle.  “Franzosen . . . great friend of the Franzosen” . . . and he grinned ingratiatingly at his protector.

Don Marcelo remained at the castle until the following morning, and was astounded to see Georgette and her mother emerge unexpectedly from the depths of the ruined lodge.  They were weeping at the sight of the French uniforms.

“It could not go on,” sobbed the widow.  “God does not die.”

After a bad night among the ruins, the owner decided to leave Villeblanche.  What was there for him to do now in the destroyed castle? . . .  The presence of so many dead was racking his nerves.  There were hundreds, there were thousands.  The soldiers and the farmers were interring great heaps of them wherever he went, digging burial trenches close to the castle, in all the avenues of the park, in the garden paths, around the outbuildings.  Even the depths of the circular lagoon were filled with corpses.  How could he ever live again in that tragic community composed mostly of his enemies? . . .  Farewell forever, castle of Villeblanche!

He turned his steps toward Paris, planning to get there the best way he could.  He came upon corpses everywhere, but they were not all the gray-green uniform.  Many of his countrymen had fallen in the gallant offensive.  Many would still fall in the last throes of the battle that was going on behind them, agitating the horizon with its incessant uproar.  Everywhere red pantaloons were sticking up out of the stubble, hobnailed boots glistening in upright position near the roadside, livid heads, amputated bodies, stray limbs—­and, scattered through this funereal medley, red kepis and Oriental caps, helmets with tufts of horse hair, twisted swords, broken bayonets, guns and great mounds of cannon cartridges.  Dead horses were strewing the plain with their swollen carcasses.  Artillery wagons with their charred wood and bent iron frames revealed the tragic moment of the explosion.  Rectangles of overturned earth marked the situation of the enemy’s batteries before their retreat.  Amidst the broken cannons and trucks were cones of carbonized material, the remains of men and horses burned by the Germans on the night before their withdrawal.