The senator was of the same opinion.  Undoubtedly they would retaliate, carrying on an artillery duel.

All of the French batteries had opened fire.  The mountain was thundering, the shell whining, the horizon, still tranquil, was bristling with black, spiral columns.  The two realized more and more how snug they were in this retreat, like a box at the theatre.

Someone touched Lacour on the shoulder.  It was one of the captains who was conducting them through the front.

“We are going above,” he said simply.  “You must see close by how our cannons are working.  The sight will be well worth the trouble.”

Above? . . .  The illustrious man was as perplexed, as astonished as though he had suggested an interplanetary trip.  Above, when the enemy was going to reply from one minute to another? . . .

The captain explained that sub-Lieutenant Lacour was perhaps awaiting his father.  By telephone they had advised his battery stationed a little further on; it would be necessary to go now in order to see him.  So they again climbed up to the light through the mouth of the tunnel.  The senator then drew himself up, majestically erect.

“They are going to fire at us,” said a voice in his interior, “The foe is going to reply.”

But he adjusted his coat like a tragic mantle and advanced at a circumspect and solemn pace.  If those military men, adversaries of parliamentarism, fancied that they were going to laugh up their sleeve at the timidity of a civilian, he would show them their mistake!

Desnoyers could not but admire the resolution with which the great man made his exit from the shelter, exactly as if he were going to march against the foe.

At a little distance, the atmosphere was rent into tumultuous waves, making their legs tremble, their ears hum, and their necks feel as though they had just been struck.  They both thought that the Germans had begun to return the fire, but it was the French who were shooting.  A feathery stream of vapor came up out of the woods a dozen yards away, dissolving instantly.  One of the largest pieces, hidden in the nearby thicket, had just been discharged.  The captains continued their explanations without stopping their journey.  It was necessary to pass directly in front of the spitting monster, in spite of the violence of its reports, so as not to venture out into the open woods near the watch tower.  They were expecting from one second to another now, the response from their neighbors across the way.  The guide accompanying Don Marcelo congratulated him on the fearlessness with which he was enduring the cannonading.

“My friend is well acquainted with it,” remarked the senator proudly.  “He was in the battle of the Marne.”

The two soldiers evidently thought this very strange, considering Desnoyers’ advanced age.  To what section had he belonged?  In what capacity had he served? . . .

“Merely as a victim,” was the modest reply.