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BLASCO IBANEZ
THE FOUR HORSEMEN
OF THE APOCALYPSE
by Vicente Blasco-Ibanez
THIS REMARKABLE NOVEL has been pro-
nounced by the country's foremost critics to be
"the greatest novel of the war." Burton Rascoe,
then literary critic on the Chicago Tribune, re-
viewed this book on October 19, 1918. He said,
"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is, I
am convinced, the greatest novel the war has
produced ... It is primarily a great story,
related with the art of a practiced novelist
among whose virtues are sympathy and irony,
delicacy and taste, honesty, conviction and
vision. Secondarily, it is a noteworthy history
of the tragic days of France before the first
battle of the Marne. And, incidentally, it is the
most scathing indictment of the German people
that has appeared in fiction . . ."
And everywhere America's outstanding critics
supported Mr. Rascoe's estimate of this vivid,
vital book.
DURING THE FOLLOWING DECADE The
Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse broke all
Best-Seller records. Its powerful appeal, its
vivid, impressive picture of the devastation of
the war let loose by Germany, stirred the imagi-
nation of hundreds of thousands of Americans
who bought it, read it, talked about it, and
made it the outstanding Best-Seller of the post-
war years. Since its first enthusiastic reception,
it has gone through many printings with a
total sale of well over a million copies.
AT THE URGENT BEHEST of many who
well remember it, and for a generation of new
readers which comes to it for the first time,
we are reissuing this powerful, timely book.
(Continued on Flap II)
The group on the jacket reproduced through the courtesy
of the sculptor, Lee Lawrie.
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THE FOUR HORSEMEN
OF THE APOCALYPSE
Comments of the Press
"Superlatives are boomerangs, and enthusiasms too often won't stand record-
ing, but . . . the case of Vicente Blasco Ibaiiez's 'The Four Horsemen of
the Apocalypse' offers an exception. Months ago this tremendous novel of
the war was reviewed from the original on this page with many ardent
superlatives. Now it appears again in the translation of Charlotte Brewster
Jordan . . . and after a second reading it is possible to notice it even more
enthusiastically. Certainly in it Ibaiiez has fulfilled Sainte Beuve's definition
of what a classic should be ... it enriches the human mind and increases its
treasure." — Detroit Sunday News.
"It gives a new view point from which to see and feel the war."
— New York Times Book Review — leading article.
"It is in every page instinct with indescribable fascination. . . . Predictions
are rash, we know. But we venture this, that for portrayal at once of the
spirit and the grim substance of war . . . our time will see no more convinc-
ing work of genius than this." — The Tribune, New York.
"A much more broadly-based and at the same time more deeply-m.oving
story than any which the present reviewer has seen. These have seen the
war through the eyes of their own country. . . . Senor Ibaiiez seems to see
it through eyes that are world-wide in their sweep and with a mind that is
very human and pitiful in its comprehension of the suffering and the hero-
ism. . . . 'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse' is so far the distinguished
novel of the war." — Brooklyn Eagle.
The World gives " 'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse' preeminent place
among recent books of fiction as ... a world romance which compels inter-
national recognition and would receive it even though its theme were a less
gravely universal matter than the great war."
" 'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse' is a great novel, one of the three
or four outstanding novels of the war. It is rich and varied in scene, human
in its characterizations, interesting throughout, and, above all, refreshingly
straightforward and conclusive on the subject of the Germans and their
methods of warfare." — The Globe, New York.
"Now, for the first time, a recognized master of fiction, who comes of a
nation that has so far preserved its neutrality, has chosen the war for his
theme. It thus occupies a unique place in war fiction."
— New York Times Book Review — editorial.
"The splendid spirit of France in the hour of trial is the dominant note in
the story, but the wild life of the cattle herder, the careless, perfumed exist-
ence of the Frenchman of fashion, the egotistic career of the implacable
German, the prophetic utterances of the philosophic Russian and a thread
of romance are colorful elements in a perfect whole."
— Globe-Democrat, St. Louis.
"Extremely vivid ... a series of war pictures unsurpassed in the literature
of the times." — Publisher's Weekly.
"Powerful and masterful ... an altogether successful book by Spain's great-
est noveUst." — The Sun, New York.
THE FOUR HORSEMAN
OF THE APOCALYPSE
(LOS CUATRO JINETES DEL APOCALIPSIS)
FROM THE SPANISH OF
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ
Authorized Translation by
CHARLOTTE BREWSTER JORDAN
E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1918, by E. P. Button & Co., Inc.
All rights reserved.
First printing July 1918
New edition, i86th printing January 1941
Printed in the United States of America
American Book-Stratford Press, Inc
THE nm YORK PUBLIC uBnm
BELIMOWT REGIOftlAL BRANCH
^^
.^•^
Q^^^ CONTENTS
PART I
I. The Tryst — In the Garden of the Expia-
tory Chapel 3
II. Madariaga, the Centaur 38
III. The Desnoyers Family 79
IV. The Cousin from Berlin 118
V. In Which Appear the Four Horsemen . . 145
PART II
I. What Don Marcelo Envied ., ... 181
II. New Life , . . 200
III. The Retreat 223
IV. Near the Sacred Grotto 264
V. The Invasion 293
VI. The Banner OF the Red Cross .... 352
PART III
L After the Marne 387
II. In the Studio .401
III. War 417
IV. ''No One Will Kill Him** . . . , . 448
V. The Burial Fields , 465
Part I
CHAPTER I
THE TRYST
(In the Garden of the Chapelle Expiatoire)
They were to have met in the garden of the Chapelle
Expiatoire at five o'clock in the afternoon, but JuHo Des-
noyers with the impatience of a lover who hopes to ad-
vance the moment of meeting by presenting himself be-
fore the appointed time, arrived an half hour earlier. The
change of the seasons was at this time greatly confused
in his mind, and evidently demanded some readjustment.
Five months had passed since their last interview in
this square had afforded the wandering lovers the refuge
of a damp, depressing calmness near a boulevard of con-
tinual movement close to a great railroad station. The
hour of the appointment was always five and Julio was
accustomed to see his beloved approaching by the reflec-
tion of the recently lit street lamps, her figure enveloped
in furs, and holding her mufif before her face as if it were
a half-mask. Her sweet voice, greeting him, had
breathed forth a cloud of vapor, white and tenuous, con-
gealed by the cold. After various hesitating interviews,
they had abandoned the garden. Their love had acquired
the majestic importance of acknowledged fact, and
from five to seven had taken refuge in the fifth floor of
the rue de la Pompe where Julio had an artist's studio.
The curtains well drawn over the double glass windows,
the cosy hearth-fire sending forth its ruddy flame as the
3
4 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE^
only light of the room, the monotonous song of the sam-
ovar bubbling near the cups of tea — all the seclusion of
life isolated by an idolizing love — had dulled their per-
ceptions to the fact that the afternoons v/ere growing"
longer, that outside the sun was shining later and later
into the pearl-covered depths of the clouds, and that a
timid and pallid Spring was beginning to show its green
.■6nger tips in the buds of the branches suffering the last
nips of Winter — that wild, black boar who so often
turned on his tracks.
Then Julio had made his trip to Buenos Aires, encoun-
tering in the other hemisphere the last smile of Autumn
and the first icy winds from the pampas. And just as his
mind was becoming reconciled to the fact that for him
Winter was an eternal season — since it always came to
meet him in his change of domicile from one extreme of
the planet to the other — lo, Summer was unexpectedly
confronting him in this dreary garden!
A swarm of children was racing and screaming through
the short avenues around the monument. On entering
the place, the first thing that Julio encountered was a
hoop which came rolling toward his legs, trundled by a
childish hand. Then he stumbled over a ball Around
the chestnut trees was gathering the usual warm-weather
crowd, seeking the blue shade perforated with points of
light. Many nursemaids from the neighboring houses
were working and chattering here, following with indif-
ferent glances the rough games of the children confided
to their care. Near them were the men who had brought
their papers down into the garden under the impression
that they could read them in the midst of peaceful groves.
All of the benches were full. A few women were occupy-
ing camp stools with that feeling of superiority which
ownership always confers. The iron chairs, "pay-seats,"
were serving as resting places for various suburban
THE TRYST 5
dames, loaded down with packages, who were waiting
for straggling members of their famiUes in order to
take the train in the Gare Sadnt Lazare. . . .
And Julio, in his special delivery letter, had proposed
meeting in this place, supposing that it would be as little
frequented as in former times. She, too, with the same
thoughtlessness, had in her reply, set the usual hour of
five o'clock, believing that after passing a few minutes in
the Printemps or the Galeries on the pretext of shopping,
she would be able to slip over to the unfrequented garden
without risk of being seen by any of her numerous ac-
quaintances
Desnoyers was enjoying an almost forgotten sensation,
that of strolling through vast spaces, crushing as he
walked the grains of sand under his feet. For the past
twenty days his rovings had been upon planks, following
with the automatic precision of a riding school the oval
promenade on the deck of a ship. His feet accustomed
to insecure ground, still were keeping on terra iirma a cer-
tain sensation of elastic unsteadiness. His goings and
comings were not awakening the curiosity of the people
seated in the open, for a common preoccupation seemed
to be monopolizing all the men and women. The groups
were exchanging impressions. Those who happened to
have a paper in their hands, saw their neighbors ap-
proaching them with a smile of interrogation. There
had suddenly disappeared that distrust and suspicion
which impels the inhabitants of large cities mutually to
ignore one another, taking each other's measure at a
glance as though they were enemies,
*They are talking about the war," said Desnoyers to
himself. "At this time, all Paris speaks of nothing but
the possibility of war."
Outside of the garden he could see also the same anxi-
ety which was making those around him so fraternal and
6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
sociable. The venders of newspapers were passing
through the boulevard crying the evening editions, their
furious speed repeatedly slackened by the eager hands of
the passers-by contending for the papers. Eveiy reader
was instantly surrounded by a group begging for news
or trying to decipher over his shoulder the great head-
lines at the top of the sheet. In the rue des Mathurins,
on the other side of the square, a circle of workmen un-
der the awning of a tavern were listening to the com-
ments of a friend who accompanied his words with ora-
torical gestures and wavings of the paper. The traffic in
the streets, the general bustle of the city was the same as
in other days, but it seemed to Julio that the vehicles were
whirling past more rapidly, that there was a feverish agi-
tation in the air and that people were speaking and smil-
ing in a different way. The women of the garden were
looking even at him as if they had seen him in former
days. He was able to approach them and begin a con-
versation without experiencing the slightest strangeness.
"They are talking of the war," he said again but with
the commiseration of a superior intelligence which fore-
sees the future and feels above the impressions of the
vulgar crowd.
He knew exactly what course he was going to follow.
He had disembarked at ten o'clock the night before, and
as it was not yet twenty-four hours since he had touched
land, his mentality was still that of a man who come:^
from afar, across oceanic immensities, from boundless
horizons, and is surprised at finding himself in touch
with the preoccupations which govern human communi-
ties. After disembarking he had spent two hours in a
cafe in Boulogne, listlessly watching the middle-class
families who passed their time in the monotonous placid-
ity of a life without dangers. Then the special train
for the passengers from South America had brought him
THE TR\S1 7
to Paris, leaving him at four in the morning on a plat-
■^orm of the Gare du Nord in the embrace of Pepe Argen-
sola, the young Spaniard whom he sometimes called "my
secretary" or "my valet" because it was difficult to define
exactly the relationship between them. In reality, he was
a mixture of friend and parasite, the poor comrade, com-
placent and capable in his companionship with a rich
youth on bad terms with his family, sharing with him the
ups and downs of fortune, picking up the crumbs of
prosperous days, or inventing expedients to keep up
appearances in the hours of poverty.
"What about the war?" Argensola had asked him be-
fore inquiring about the result of his trip, "You have
come a long ways and should know much."
Soon he was sound asleep in his dear old bed while his
"secretary" v/as pacing up and down the studio talking of
Servia, Russia and the Kaiser. This youth, too, skeptical
as he generally was about everything not connected with
his own interests, appeared infected by the general excite-
ment.
When Desnoyers awoke he found her note awaiting
him, setting their meeting at five that afternoon and also
containing a few words about the threatened danger
which was claiming the attention of all Paris. Upon go-
ing out in search of lunch the concierge, on the pretext
of welcoming him back, had asked him the war news.
And in the restaurant, the cafe and the street, always
war ... the possibility of war with Germany, . . .
Julio was an optimist. What did all this restlessness
signify to a man who had just been living more than
twenty days among Germans, crossing the Atlantic under
the flag of the Empire?
He had sailed from Buenos Aires in a steamer of the
Hamburg line, the Koenig Frederic August. The world
was in blessed tranqu2Uity when the boat left port Only
8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the whites and half-breeds of Mexico were exterminating
each other in conflicts in order that nobody might believe
that man is an animal degenerated by peace. On the
rest of the planet, the people were displaying unusual
prudence. Even aboard the transatlantic liner, the little
world of passengers of most diverse nationalities ap-
peared a fragment of future society implanted by way
of experiment in modern times — a sketch of the here-
after, without frontiers or race antagonisms.
One morning the ship band which every Sunday had
sounded the Choral of Luther, awoke those sleeping in
the first-class cabins with the most unheard-of serenade.
Desnoyers rubbed his eyes believing himself under the
hallucinations of a dream. The German horns were play-
ing the Marseillaise through the corridors and decks.
The steward, smiling at his astonishment, said, "The
fourteenth of July !" On the German steamers they cele-
brate as their own the great festivals of all the nations
represented by their cargo and passengers. Their cap-
tains are careful to observe scrupulously the rites of this
religion of the flag and its historic commemoration. The
most insignificant republic saw the ship decked in its
honor, affording one more diversion to help combat the
monotony of the voyage and further the lofty ends of
the Germanic propaganda. For the first time the great
festival of France was being celebrated on a German
vessel, and whilst the musicians continued escorting a
racy Marseillaise in double quick time through the differ-
ent floors, the morning groups were commenting on the
event.
"What finesse !" exclaimed the South American ladies.
"These Germans are not so phlegmatic as they seem. It
is an attention . . . something very distinguished. . . .
Ana it is possible that some still believe that they and the
French might come to blows?"
THE TRYST 9
The very few Frenchmen who were travelling- on the
Steamer found themselves admired as though they had in'
creased immeasurably in public esteem, Ther-- were only
three; — an old jeweller who had been visiting his branch
shops in America, and two demi-mondaines from the rue
de la Paix, the most timid and well-behaved persons
aboard, vestals with bright eyes and disdainful noses who
held themselves stiffly aloof in this uncongenial atmos-
phere.
At night there was a gala banquet in the dining room
at the end of which the French flag and that of the Em
pire formed a flaunting, conspicuous drapery. All the Ger-
man passengers v/ere in dress suits, and their wives were
wearing low-necked gowns. The uniforms of the atten-
dants were as resplendent as on a day of a grand review.
During dessert the tapping of a knife upon a glass re-
duced the table to sudden silence. The Commandant was
going to speak. And this brave mariner who united to
his nautical functions the obligation of making harangues
at banquets and opening the dance with the lady of most
importance, began unrolling a string of words like the
noise of clappers between long intervals of silence. Des-
noyers knew a little German as a souvenir of a visit to
some relatives in Berlin, and so was able to catch a few
words. The Commandant was repeating every few min-
utes "peace" and ''friends." A table neighbor, a com-
oiercial commissioner, offered his services as interpreter
to Julio, with that obsequiousness which lives on adver-
tisement.
"The Commandant asks God to maintain peace be-
tween Germany and France and hopes that the two
peoples will become increasingly friendly."
Another orator arose at the same table. He was the
most influential of the German passengers, a rich manu-
facturer from Dusseldorf who had just been visiting his
10 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
agents in America. He was never mentioned by name.
He bore the title of Commercial Counsellor, and among
his countrymen was always Herr Comerzienrath and his
wife was entitled Frau Rath. The Counsellor's Lady,
much younger than her important husband, had from the
first attracted the attention of Desnoyers. She, too, had
made an exception in favor of this young Argentinian,
abdicating her title from their first conversation. "Call
me Bertha," she said as condescendingly as a duchess of
Versailles might have spoken to a handsome abbot seated
at her feet. Her husband, also protested upon hearing
Desnoyers call him ''Counsellor," like his compatriots.
"My friends," he said, "call me 'Captain.' I command
a company of the Landsturm." And the air with which
the manufacturer accompanied these words, revealed the
melancholy of an unappreciated man scorning the honors
he has in order to think only of those he does not possess.
While he was delivering his discourse, Julio was ex-
amining his small head and thick neck which gave him a
certain resemblance to a bull dog. In imagination he saw
the high and oppressive collar of a uniform making a
double roll of fat above its stiff edge. The waxed, up-
right moustaches were bristling aggressively. His voice
was sharp and dry as though he were shaking out his
words. . . . Thus the Emperor would utter his ha-
rangues, so the martial burgher, with instinctive imita-
tion, was contracting his left arm, supporting his hand
upon the hilt of an invisible sword.
In spite of his fierce and oratorical gesture of com-
mand, all the listening Germans laughed uproariously at
his first words, like men who knew how to appreciate the
sacrifice of a Herr Comerzienrath when he deigns to
<fivert a resiivuy.
"He is saying very witty things about the French.**
THE TKYST it
volunteered the interpreter in a low voice, "but they are
not offensive."
Julio had guessed as much upon hearing repeatedly the
word Franzosen. He almost understood what the orator
was saying — "Franzosen — great children, light-hearted,
amusing, improvident. The things that they might do to-
gether if they would only forget past grudges !" The at
*^entive Germans were no longer laughing. The Counsel-
lor was laying aside his irony, that grandiloquent, crush-
ing irony, weighing many tons, as enormous as a ship.
Then he began unrolling the serious part of his harangue,
so that he himself, was also greatly affected.
"He says, sir," reported Julio's neighbor, "that he
wishes France to become a very great nation so that some
day we may march together against other enemies . . .
against others!"
And he winked one eye, smiling maliciously with that
smile of common intelligence which this allusion to the
mysterious enemy always awakened.
Finally the Captain-Counsellor raised his glass in a
toast to France. ^'Hoch!" he yelled as though he were
commanding an evolution of his soldierly Reserves.
Three times he sounded the cry and all the German con«
tingent springing to their feet, responded with a lusty
Hoch while the band in the corridor blared forth the
Marseillaise.
Desnoyers was greatly moved. Thrills of enthusiasm
were coursing up and down his spine. His eyes became
so moist that, when drinking his champagne, he almost
believed that he had swallowed some tears. He bore a
French name. He had French blood in his veins, and
this that the gringoes were doing — although generally
they seemed to him ridiculous and ordinary — was really
worth acknowlecjdn^. The subjects of the Kaiser cele-
12 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
brating the great date of the Revolution! He believed
that he v^as witnessing a great historic event.
"Very v^ell done !" he said to the other South Ameri-
cans at the near tables. "We must admit that they have
done the handsome thing."
Then v^^ith the vehemence of his twenty-seven years, he
accosted the jeweller in the passage way, reproaching him
for his silence. He was the only French citizen aboard.
He should have made a few words of acknowledgment.
The fiesta was ending awkwardly through his fault.
"And why have you not spoken as a son of France?"
retorted the jeweller.
"I am an Argentinian citizen," replied Julio.
And he left the older man believing that he ought to
have spoken and making explanations to those around
him. It was a very dangerous thing, he protested, to
meddle in diplomatic affairs. Furthermore, he had not
instructions from his government. And for a few hours
he believed that he had been on the point of playing a
great role in history.
Desnoyers passed the rest of the evening in the smok-
ing room attracted thither by the presence of the Coun-
sellor's Lady. The Captain of the Landsturm, sticking a
preposterous cigar between his moustachios, was playing
poker with his countrymen ranking next to him in dignity
and riches. His wife stayed beside him most of the
time, watching the goings and comings of the stewards
carrying great bocks, without daring to share in this tre-
mendous consumption of beer. Her special preoccupa-
tion was to keep vacant near her a seat which Desnoyers
might occupy. She considered him the most distin-
guished man on board because he was accustomed to tak-
ing champagne with all his meals. He was of medium
height, a decided brunette, with a small foot, which
obliged her to tuck hers under her skirts, and a triangular
THE TRYST 13
face under two masses of hair, straight, black and glossy
as lacquer, the very opposite of the type of men about
her. Besides, he was living in Paris, in the city which
she had never seen after numerous trips in both hemi-
spheres.
"Oh, Paris ! Paris !" she sighed, opening her eyes and
pursing her lips in order to express her admiration when
she was speaking alone to the Argentinian. "How I
should love to go there!"
And in order that he might feel free to tell her things
about Paris, she permitted herself certain confidences
about the pleasures of Berlin, but with a blushing mod-
esty, admitting in advance that in the world there was
more — much more — that she wished to become ac-
quainted with.
While pacing around the Chapelle Expiatoire, Julio re-
called with a certain remorse the wife of Counsellor Erck-
mann. He who had made the trip to America for a
woman's sake, in order to collect money and marry her!
Then he immediately began making excuses for his con-
duct. Nobody was going to know. Furthermore he did
not pretend to be an ascetic, and Bertha Erckmann was
certainly a tempting adventure in mid-ocean. Upon re-
calling her, his imagination always saw a race horse —
large, spare, roan colored, and with a long stride. She
was an up-to-date German who admitted no defect in her
country except the excessive weight of its women, com-
bating in her person this national menace with every
known system of dieting. For her every meal was a
species of torment, and the procession of bocks in the
smoking room a tantalizing agony. The slenderness
achieved and mamtamed by will power only maae more
prominent the size of her frame, the powerful skeleton
with heavy jaws and large teeth, strong and dazzling,
14 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
which perhaps suggested Desnoyers' disrespectful com-
parison. ''She is thin, but enormous, nevertheless !" was
always his conclusion.
But then, he considered her, notwithstanding, the most
distinguished woman on board — distinguished for the sea
— elegant in the style of Munich, with clothes of inde-
scribable colors that suggested Persian art and the
vignettes of mediaeval manuscripts. The husband ad-
mired Bertha's elegance, lamenting her childlessness in
secret, almost as though it were a crime of high treason.
Germany was magnificent because of the fertility of it*^
women. The Kaiser, with his artistic hyperbole, had pro-
claimed that the true German beauty should have a waist
measure of at least a yard and a half.
When Desnoyers entered into the smoking room in
order to take the seat which Bertha had reserved for him.,
her husband and his wealthy hangers-on had their pack
of cards lying idle upon the green felt. Herr Rath was
continuing his discourse and his listeners, taking their
cigars from their mouths, were emitting grunts of appro-
bation. The arrival of Julio provoked a general smile of
amiability. Here was France coming to fraternize with
them. They knew that his father was French, and that
fact made him as welcome as though he came in direct
line from the palace of the Quai d'Orsay, representing
the highest diplomacy of the Republic. The craze for
proselyting made them all promptly concede to him un-
limited importance.
"We," continued the Counsellor looking fixedly at Des-
noyers as if he were expecting a solemn declaration from
him, "we wish to live on good terms with France."
The youth nodded his head so as not to appear inat-
tentive. It appeared to him a very good thing that these
peoples should not be enemies, and as far as he was con-
cerned, thev mi^ht affirm this relationship as often as the.*
THE TRYST 15
wished; the only thing that was interesting him just at
that time was a certain knee that was seeking his under
the table, transmitting its gentle warmth through a double
curtain of silk.
"But France/' complained the manufacturer, "is most
unresponsive towards us. For many years past, our Em-
peror has been holding out his hand with noble loyalty,
but she pretends not to see it. . . . That, you must ad-
mit, is not as it should be."
Just here Desnoyers believed that he ought to say
something in order that the spokesman might not divine
his more engrossing occupation.
"Perhaps you are not doing enough. If, first of all, you
would return that which you took away from France!"
Stupefied silence followed this remark, as if the alarm
signal had sounded through the boat. Some of those who
were about putting their cigars in their mouths, remained
with hands immovable within two inches of their lips,
their eyes almost popping out of their heads. But the
Captain of the Landsturm was there to formulate their
mute protest.
"Return!" he said in a voice almost extinguished by
the sudden swelling of his neck. "We have nothing to
return, for we have taken nothing. That which we pos-
sess, we acquire by our heroism."
The hidden knee with its agreeable friction made itself
more insinuating, as though counselling the youth to
greater prudence.
"Do not say such things," breathed Bertha, "thus only
the republicans, corrupted by Paris, talk. A youth so dis-
tinguished who has been in Berlin, and has relatives in
Germany!" . . .
But Desnoyers felt a hereditary impulse of aggressive-
ness before each of her husband's statements, enunciated
in haug"hty tones, and responded coldly : —
I6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
*'It is as if I should take your watch and then propose
that we should be friends, forgetting the occurrence. Al-
though you might forget, the first thing for me tc do
would be to return the watch."
Counsellor Erckmann wished to retort with so many
things at once that he stuttered horribly, leaping from one
idea to the other. To compare the reconquest of Alsace
to a robbery. A German country! The race . . . the
language . . . the history! . . .
*'But when did they announce their wish to be Ger-
man?" asked the youth without losing his calmness.
"When have you consulted their opinion?"
The Counsellor hesitated, not knowing whether to ar-
gue with this insolent fellow or crush him with his scorn.
"Young man, you do not know what you are talking
about," he finally blustered with withering contempt.
"You are an Argentinian and do not understand the
affairs of Europe."
And the others agreed, suddenly repudiating the citizen-
ship which they had attributed to him a little while be-
fore. The Counsellor, with military rudeness, brusquely
turned his back upon him, and taking up the pack, dis-
tributed the cards. The game was renewed. Desnoyers,
seeing himself isolated by the scornful silence, felt greatly
tempted to break up the playing by violence ; bu the hid-
den knee continued counselling self-control, and an in-
visible hand had sought his right, pressing it sweetly.
That was enough to make him recover his serenity. The
Counsellor's Lady seemed to be absorbed in the progress
of the game. He also looked on, a malignant smile con-
tracting slightly the lines of his mouth as he was men-
tally ejaculating by way of consolation, "Captain, Cap-
tain ! . . . You little know what is awaiting you !"
On terra iirma, he would never again have approached
these men ; but life on a transatlantic liner, with its in-
THE TRYST 17
evitable promisttiotisness, obliges forgetfulnesSc Th? fol-
lowing day the Counsellor and his friends came in search!
of him, flattering his sensibilities by erasing every irritat-
ing memory. He was a distinguished youth belonging tO'
a wealthy family, and all of them had shops and business
in his country. The only thing was that he should be
careful not to mention his French origin. He was an
Argentinian; and thereupon, the entire chorus interested
itself in the grandeur of his country and all the nations
of South America where they had agencies or invest-
ments— exaggerating its importance as though its petty
republics were great powers, commenting with gravity
upon the deeds and words of its political leaders and
giving him to understand that in Germany there was no
one who was not concerned about the future of South
America, predicting for all its divisions most glorious
prosperity — a reflex of the Empire, always provided, of
course, that they kept under Germaiiic influence.
In spite of these flatteries, Desnoyers was no longer
presenting himself with his former assiduity at the hour
of poker. The Counsellor's wife was retiring to her state-
room earlier than usual — their approach to the Equator
inducing such an irresistible desire for sleep, that she had
to abandon her husband to his card playing. Julio also
had mysterious occupations which prevented his appear-
ance on deck until after midnight. With the precipitation
of a man who desires to be seen in order to avoid suspi-
cion, he was accustomed to enter the smoking room talk-
ing loudly as he seated himself near the husband and his
boon companions.
The game had ended, and an orgy of beer and fat
cigars from Hamburg was celebrating the success of the
winners. It was the hour of Teutonic expansion, of inti-
macy among men, of heavy, sluggish jokes, of off-color
stories. The Counsellor was presiding with much majes-
I8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSH
ty over the diableries of his chums, prudent business men
from the Hanseatic ports who had big accounts in the
Deutsche Bank or were shopkeepers installed in the re-
public of the La Plata, with an innumerable family. He
was a warrior, a captain, and on applauding every heavy
jest with a laugh that distended his fat neck, he fancied
that he was among his comrades at arms.
In honor of the South Americans who, tired of pacing
the deck, had dropped in to hear what the gringoes were
saying, they were turning into Spanish the witticisms and
licentious anecdotes awakened in the memory by a super-
abundance of beer. Julio was marvelling at the ready
laugh of all these men. While the foreigners were re-
maining unmoved, they would break forth into loud
horse-laughs throwing themselves back in their seats.
And when the German audience was growing cold, the
story-teller would resort to an infallible expedient to
remedy his lack of success : —
''They told this yarn to the Kaiser, and when the
Kaiser heard it he laughed heartily."
It was not necessary to say mor<:. They all laughed
then. Ha, ha, ha! with a spontaneous roar but a short
one, a laugh in three blows, since to prolong it, might be
interpreted as a lack of respect to His Majesty.
As they neared Europe, a batch of news came to meet
the boat. The employees in the wireless telegraphy office
were working incessantly. One night, on entering the
smoking room, Desnoyers saw the German notables ges-
ticulating with animated countenances. They were no
longer drinking beer. They had had bottles of cham-
pagne uncorked, and the Counsellor's Lady, much im-
pressed, had not retired to her stateroom. Captain
Erckmann, spying the young Argentinian, offered him a
g/ass.
THE TRYST 19
**It is war,*' he shouted with enthusiasm. *'War at
last. . . . The hour has come !"
Desnoyers made a gesture of astonishment. War! . . .
What war? . . Like all the others, he had read on the
news bulletin outside a radiogram stating that the Aus-
trian government had just sent an ultimatum to Servia;
but it made not the slightest impression on him, for he
was not at all interested in the Balkan affairs. Those were
but the quarrels of a miserable little nation monopolizing
the attention of the world, distracting it from more worth-
while matters. How could this event concern the martial
Counsellor? The two nations would soon come to an
understanding. Diplomacy sometimes amounted to some-
thing.
*'No," insisted the German ferociously. *Tt is war,
blessed v/ar. Russia will sustain Servia, and we will sup-
port our ally. . . . What will France do? Do you know
what France will do?" . . .
Julio shrugged his shoulders testily as though asking
to be left out of all international discussions.
"It is war," asserted the Counsellor, "the preventive
war that we need. Russia is growing too fast, and is
preparing to fight us. Four years more of peace and she
will have finished her strategic railroads, and her mihtary
power, united to that of her allies, will be worth as much
as ours. It is better to strike a powerful blow now. It
is necessary to take advantage of this opportunity. . . .
War. Preventive war !"
All his clan were listening in silence. Some did not ap-
pear to feel the contagion of his enthusiasm. War! . . .
In imagination they saw their business paralyzed, their
agencies bankrupt, the banks cutting down credit ... a
catastrophe more frightful to them than the slaughters ")f
battles. But they applauded with nods and grunts all of
Srckmann's ferocious demonstrations. He was a Herr
20 FOUR HORSEME>j OF THE APOCALYPSE
Rath, and an officer besides. He must be in the secrets
of the destiny of his country, and that was enough to
make them drink silently to the success of the war.
Julio thought that the Counsellor and his admirers must
be drunk. *Took here, Captain," he said in a conciliatory
tone, "what you say lacks logic. How could war possibly
be acceptable to industrial Germany? Every moment its
business is increasing, every month it conquers a new
market and every year its commercial balance soars up-
ward in unheard of proportions. Sixty years ago, it had
to man its boats with Berlin hacks drivers arrested by the
police. Now its commercial fleets and war vessels cross
all oceans, and there is no port where the German mer-
chant marine does not occupy the greatest part oi' the
docks. It would only be necessary to continue living in
this way, to put yourselves beyond the exigencies of war !
Twenty years more of peace, and the Germans would be
lords of the world's commerce, conquering England, the
former mistress of the seas, in a bloodless struggle. And
are they going to risk all this — like a gambler who stakes
his entire fortune on a single card — in a struggle that
might result unfavorably?" . . .
"No, war," insisted the Counsellor furiously, "preven-
tive war. We live surrounded by our enemies, and this
state of things cannot go on. It is best to end it at once.
Either they or we ! Germany feels herself strong enough
to challenge the world. We've got to put an end to this
Russian menace! And if France doesn't keep herself
quiet, so much the worse for her! . . . And if anyone
else . . . anyone dares to come in against us, so much the
worse for him! When I set up a new machine in my
shops, it is to make it produce unceasingly. We possess
the finest army in the world, and it is necessary to give it
exercise that it may not rust out."
He then continued with heavy emphasis, "They have
THE TRYST 21
put a band of iron around us in order to throttle us. But
Germany has a strong chest and has only to expand in
order to burst its bands. We must awake before they
manacle us in our sleep. Woe to those who then oppose
us! . . ."
Desnoyers felt obliged to reply to this arrogance. He
had never seen the iron circle of which the Germans were
complaining. The nations were merely unwilling to con-
tinue living, unsuspecting and inactive, before boundless
German ambition. They were simply preparing to defend
themselves against an almost certain attack. They wished
to maintain their dignity, repeatedly violated under most
absurd pretexts.
"I wonder if it is not the others," he concluded, *'who
are obliged to defend themselves because you represent a
menace to the world!"
An invisible hand sought his under the table, as it had
some nights before, to recommend prudence ; but now he
clasped it forcibly with the authority of a right acquired.
''Oh, sir \" sighed the sweet Bertha, "to talk like that, a
youth so distinguished who has . . ."
She was not able to finish, for her husband interrupted.
They were no longer in American waters, and the Coun-
sellor expressed himself with the rudeness of a master
of his house.
"I have the honor to inform you, young man," he said,
imitating the cutting coldness of the diplomats, "that you
are merely a South American and know nothing of the
affairs of Europe."
He did not call him an "Indian," but Julio heard the
implication as though he had used the word itself. Ah,
if that hidden handclasp had not held him with its senti-
mental thrills ! . . . But this contact kept him calm and
even made him smile. "Thanks, Captain," he said to him-
self. "It is the least you can do to get even with me 1"
22 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Here his relations with the German and his clientele
came to an end. The merchants, as they approached
nearer and nearer to their native land, began casting off
that servile desire of ingratiating themselves which they
had assumed in all their trips to the new world. They
now had more important things to occupy them. The
telegraphic service was working without cessation. The
Commandant of the vessel was conferring in his apart-
ment with the Counsellor as his compatriot of most im-
portance. His friends were hunting out the most obscure
places in order to talk confidentially with one another.
Even Bertha commenced to avoid Desnoyers. She was
still smiling distantly at him, but that smile was more of
a souvenir than a reality.
Between Lisbon and the coast of England, Julio spoke
with her husband for the last time. Every morning was
appearing on the bulletin board the alarming news trans-
mitted by radiograph. The Empire was arming itself
against its enemies. God would punish them, making all
manner of troubles fall upon them. Desnoyers was mo-
tionless with astonishment before the last piece of news —
"Three hundred thousand revolutionists are now besieg-
ing Paris. The suburbs are beginning to burn. The hor-
rors of the Commune have broken out again."
"My, but these Germans have gone mad!" exclaimed
the disgusted youth to the curious group surrounding the
radio-sheet. "We are going to lose the little sense that
we have left! . . . What revolutionists are they talking
about ? How could a revolution break out in Paris if the
men of the government are not reactionary?"
A gruff voice sounded behind him, rude, authoritative,
as if trying to banish the doubts of the audience. It was
the Herr Comer zienrath who was speaking.
"Young man, these notices are sent us by the first
agencies of Germany . . . and Germany never lies."
THE TRYST 23
After this affirmation, he turned his back upon them
and they saw him no more.
On the following morning, the last day of the voyage,
Desnoyers' steward awoke him in great excitement.
''Herr, come up on deck ! a most beautiful spectacle !"
The sea was veiled by the fog, but behind its hazy cur-
tains could be distinguished some silhouettes like islands
with great towers and sharp, pointed minarets. The
islands were advancing over the oily waters slowly and
majestically, with impressive dignity. Julio counted
eighteen They appeared to fill the ocean. It was the
Channel Fleet which had just left the English coast by
Government order, sailing around simply to show its
strength. Seeing this procession of dreadnoughts for the
first time, Desnoyers was reminded of a flock of marine
monsters, and gained a better idea of the British power.
The German ship passed among them, shrinking, humili-
ated, quickening its speed. "One might suppose," mused
the youth, *'that she had an uneasy conscience and wished
to scud to safety." A South American passenger near
him was jesting with one of the Germans, "What if they
have already declared war! . . . What if they should
make us prisoners !"
After midday, they entered Southampton roads. The
Frederic August hurried to get away as soon as possible,
and transacted business with dizzying celerity. The cargo
of passengers and baggage was enormous. Two launches
approached the transatlantic and discharged an avalanche
of German residents in England who invaded the decks
with the joy of those who tread friendly soil, desiring to
see Hamburg as soon as possible. Then the boat sailed
through the Channel with a speed most unusual in these
places.
The people, leaning on the railing, were commenting on
the extraordinary encounters in this marine boulevard.
24 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
usually frequented by ships of peace. Certain smoke
lines on the horizon were from the French squadron car*
tying President Poincare who was returning from Russia.
The European alarm had interrupted his trip. Then they
saw more English vessels patrolling the coast line like ag-
gressive and vigilant dogs. Two North American battle-
ships could be distinguished by their mast-heads in the
form of baskets. Then a Russian battleship, white and
glistening, passed at full steam on its way to the Baltic.
**Bad!" said the South American passengers regretfully.
"Very bad ! It looks this time as if it were going to be
serious !" and they glanced uneasily at the neighboring
coasts on both sides. Although they presented the usual
appearance, behind them, perhaps, a new period of his-
tory was in the making.
The transatlantic was due at Boulogne at midnight
where it was supposed to wait until daybreak to discharge
its passengers comfortably. It arrived, nevertheless, at
ten, dropped anchor outside the harbor, and the Com-
mandant gave orders that the disembarkation should take
place in less than an hour. For this reason they had
quickened their speed, consuming a vast amount of extra
coal. It was necessary to get away as soon as possible,
seeking the refuge of Hamburg. The radiographic ap-
paratus had evidently been working to some purpose.
By the glare of the bluish searchlights which were
spreading a livid clearness over the sea, began the unload-
ing of passengers and baggage for Paris, from the trans-
atlantic into the tenders. ''Hurry! Hurry!" The sea-
men were pushing forward the ladies of slow step who
were recounting their valises, believing that they had lost
some. The stewards loaded themselves up with babies a^,
though they were bundles. The general. precipitation dis-
sipated the usual exaggerated and oily Teutonic amiabil-
it>o "They are regular bootlickers/' thought DesnoyerSu
THE TRYST 25
"They believe that their hour of triumph has come, and
do not think it necessary to pretend any longer." . . .
He was soon in a launch that was bobbing up and down
on the waves near the black and immovable hulk of the
great liner, dotted with many circles of light and filled
with people waving handkerchiefs. Julio recognized
Bertha who was waving her hand without seeing him,
without knowing in which tender he was, but feeling
obliged to show her gratefulness for the sweet memories
that now were being lost in the mystery of the sea and
the night. ''Adieu, Frau Rath!"
The distance between the departing transatlantic and
the lighters was widening. As though it had been await-
ing this moment with impunity, a stentorian voice on the
upper deck shouted with a noisy guffaw, ''See you later!
Soon we shall meet you in Paris!" And the marine
band, the very same band that three days before had as-
tonished Desnoyers with its unexpected Marseillaise,
burst forth into a military march of the time of Frederick
the Great — a march of grenadiers with an accompani-
ment of trumpets.
That had been the night before. Although twenty-four
hours had not yet passed by, Desnoyers was already con-
sidering it as a distant event of shadowy reality. His
thoughts, always disposed to take the opposite side, did
not share in the general alarm. The insolence of the
Counsellor now appeared to him but the boastings of a
burgher turned into a soldier. The disquietude of the
people of Paris, was but the nervous agitation of a city
which lived placidly and became alarmed at the first hint
of danger to its comfort. So many times they had spoken
of an immediate war, always settling things peacefully
at the last moment! . . . Furthermore he did not want
war to come because it would upset all his plans for the
future; and the man accepted as logical and reasonable
26 FOUR HORSEMEN UF THE APOCALYPSE
everything that suited his selfishness, placing it above
reality.
**No, there will not be war," he repeated as he con-
tinued pacing up and down the garden. *'These people
are beside themselves. How could a war possibly break
out in these days ?" . . .
And after disposing of his doubts, which certainly
would in a short time come up again, he thought of the
joy of the moment, consulting his watch. Five o'clock!
She might come now at any minute ! He thought that he
recognized her afar off in a lady who was passing
through the grating by the rue Pasquier. She seemed to
him a little different, but it occurred to him that possibly
the Summer fashions might have altered her appearance.
But soon he saw that he had made a mistake. She was
not alone, another lady was with her. They were perhaps
English or North American women who worshipped the
memory of Marie Antoinette and wished to visit the
Chapelle Expiatoire, the old tomb of the executed queen.
Julio watched them as they climbed the flights of steps
and crossed the interior patio in which were interred the
eight hundred Swiss soldiers killed in the attack of the
Tenth of August, with other victims of revolutionary
fury.
Disgusted at his error, he continued his tramp. His ill
humor made the monument with which the Bourbon res-
toration had adorned the old cemetery of the Madeleine,
appear uglier than ever to him. Time was passing, but
she did not come. Every time that he turned, he looked
hungrily at the entrances of the garden. And then it
happened as in all their meetings. She suddenly appeared
as if she had fallen from the sky or risen up from the
ground, like an apparition. A cough, a slight rustling of
footsteps, and as he turned, Julio almost collided with her.
"Marguerite! Oh, Marguerite!" . .
THE TRYST 27
It was she, and yet he was slow to recognize her. He
felt a certain strangeness in seeing in full reality the
countenance which had occupied his imagination for
three months, each time more spirituelle and shadowy
with the idealism of absence. But his doubts were of
short duration. Then it seemed as though time and space
were eliminated, that he had not made any voyage, and
but a few hours had intervened since their last interview.
Marguerite divined the expansion which might follow
Julio's exclamations, the vehement hand-clasp, perhaps
something more, so she kept herself calm and serene.
*'No; not here," she said with a grimace of repug-
nance. "What a ridiculous idea for us to have met
here !"
They were about to seat themselves on the iron chairs,
in the shadow of some shrubbery, when she rose sudden-
ly. Those who were passing along the boulevard might
see them by merely casting their eyes toward the garden.
At this time, many of her friends might be passing
through the neighborhood because of its proximity to the
big shops. . . . They, therefore, sought refuge at a cor-
ner of the mionument, placing themselves between it and
the rue des Mathurins. Desnoyers brought two chairs
near the hedge, so that when seated they were invisible to
those passing on the other side of the railing. But this
was not solitude. A few steps away, a fat, nearsighted
man was reading his paper, and a group of women were
chatting and embroidering. A woman with a red wig
and two dogs — some housekeeper who had come down
into the garden in order to give her pets an airing — ■
passed several times near the amorous pair, smiling dis-
creetly.
"How annoying !" groaned Marguerite. "'Why did we
ever come to this place!"
28 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
The two scrutinized each other carefully, wishing to
see exactly what transformation Time had wrought.
"You are darker than ever," she said. *'You look like
a man of the sea."
Julio was finding her even lovelier than before, and
felt sure that possessing her was well worth all the con-
trarieties which had brought about his trip to South
America. She was taller than he, with an elegantly pro-
portioned slenderness. *'She has the musical step/' Des-
noyers had told himself, when seeing her in his imagina-
tion ; and now, on beholding her again, the first thing that
he admired was her rhythmic tread, light and graceful
as she passed through the garden seeking another seat.
Her features were not regular but they had a piquant
fascination — a true Parisian face. Everything that had
been invented for the embellishment of feminine charm
was used about her person with the most exquisite fas-
tidiousness. She had always lived for herself. Only 3
few months before had she abdicated a part of this sweet
selfishness, sacrificing reunions, teas, and calls in order
to give Desnoyers some of the afternoon hours.
Stylish and painted like a priceless doll, with no loftier
ambition than to be a model, interpreting with personal
elegance the latest confections of the modistes, she was
at last experiencing the same preoccupations and joys as
other women, creating for herself an inner life. The
nucleus of this new life, hidden under her former
frivolity, was Desnoyers. Just as she was imagining that
she had reorganized her existence — adjusting the satis-
factions of worldly elegance to the delights of love in
intimate secrecy — a fulminating catastrophe (the inter-
vention of her husband whose possible appearance she
seemed to have overlooked) had disturbed her thought-
less happiness. She who was accustomed to think herself
the centre of the universe, imagining that events ought
THE TRYST 29
to revolve around her desires and tastes, had suffered
this cruel surprise with more astonishment than grief.
"And you, how do you think I look?" Marguerite
queried.
"I must tell you that the fashion has changed. The
sheath skirt has passed away. Now it is worn short
and with more fullness."
Desnoyers had to interest himself in her apparel with
the same devotion, mixing his appreciation of the latest
freak of the fashion-monger with his eulogies of Mar-
guerite's beauty.
"Have you thought much about me?" she continued.
"You have not been unfaithful to me a single time?
Not even once ? . . . Tell me the truth ; you know I can
always tell when you are lying."
"I have always thought of you," he said putting his
hand on his heart, as if he were swearing before a judge.
And he said it roundly, with an accent of truth, since
in his infidelities — now completely forgotten — the mem-
ory of Marguerite had always been present.
"But let us talk about you !" added Julio. "What have
you been doing all the time?"
He had brought his chair nearer to hers, and their
knees touched. He took one of her hands, patting it and
putting his finger in the glove opening. Oh, that ac-
cursed garden which would not permit greater intimacy
and obliged them to speak in a low tone, after three
months' absence! ... In spite of his discretion, the
man who was reading his paper raised his head and
looked irritably at them over his spectacles as though a
fly were distracting him with its buzzing. . . . The very
idea of talking love-nonsense in a public garden when
all Europe was threatened with calamity!
Repelling the audacious hand, Marguerite spoke tran-
quilly of her existence during the last months.
30 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"I have passed my life the best I could, but I have been
greatly bored. You know that I am now living with
mama, and mama is a lady of the old regime who does
not understand our tastes. I have been to the theatres
with my brother. I have made many calls on the lawyer
in order to learn the progress of my divorce and hurry
it along . . . and nothing else."
*'And your husband?'
"Don't let's talk about him. Do you want to? I pity
the poor man! So good ... so correct. The lawyer
assures me that he agrees to everything and will not
impose any obstacles. They tell me that he does not
come to Paris, that he lives in his factory. Our old
home is closed. There are times when I feel remorseful
over the way I have treated him."
"And I ?' queried Julio, withdrawing his hand.
"You are right," she returned smiling. "You are Life.
It is cruel but it is human. We have to live our lives
without taking others into consideration. It is necessary
to be selfish in order to be happy."
The two remained silent. The remembrance of the
husband had swept across them like a glacial blast. Julio
was the first to brighten up.
"And you have not danced in all this time ?"
"No, how could I ? The very idea, a woman in divorce
proceedings ! . . . I have not been to a single chic party
since you went away. I wanted to preserve a certain de-
corous mourning fiesta. How horrible it was! ... It
needed you, the Master !"
They had again clasped hands and were smiling.
Memories of the previous months were passing before
their eyes, visions of their life from five to seven in the
afternoon, dancing in the hotels of the Champs Elysees
where the tango had been inexorably associated with a
cup of tea.
THE TRYST 31
She appeared to tear herself away from these recollec-
tions, impelled by a tenacious obsession which had
slipped from her mind in the first moments of their
meeting.
*'Do you know much about what's happening? Tell
me all. People talk so much. . . . Do you really believe
that there will be war? Don't you think that it will all
end in some kind of settlement?"
Desnoyers comforted her with his optimism. He did
not believe in the possibility of a war. That was ridicu-
lous.
"I say so, too! Ours is not the epoch of savages. I
have known some Germans, chic and well-educated per-
sons who surely must think exactly as we do. An old
professor who comes to the house was explaining yes-
terday to mama that wars are no longer possible in these
progressive times. In two months' time, there would
scarcely be any men left, in three, the world would find
itself without money to continue the struggle. I do not
recall exactly how it was, but he explained it all very
clearly, in a manner most delightful to hear."
She reflected in silence, trying to co-ordinate her con-
fused recollections, but dismayed by the effort required,
added on her own account.
"Just imagine w^hat war would mean — how horrible!
Society life paralyzed. No more parties, nor clothes, nor
theatres ! Why, it is even possible that they might not
design any more fashions ! All the women in mourning.
Can you imagine it ? . . . And Paris deserted. . . . How
beautiful it seemed as I came to meet you this after-
noon ! . . . No, no, it cannot be ! Next month, you
know, we go to Vichy. Mama needs the waters. Then
to iJiarritz. After that, I shall go to a castle on the
Loire. And besides there are our affairs, my divorce,
our marriage which may take place the next year. -
3^? FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
And is war to hinder and cut short all this ! No, no, it is
not possible. My brother and others like him are fool-
ish enough to dream of danger from Germany. I am
sure that my husband, too, who is only interested in seri-
ous and bothersome matters, is among those who believe
that war is imminent and prepare to take part in it.
What nonsense ! Tell me that it is all nonsense. I need
to hear you say it."
Tranquilized by the affirmations of her lover, she then
changed the trend of the conversation. The possibility
of their approaching marriage brought to mind the object
of the voyage which Desnoyers had just made. There
had not been time for them to write to each other during
their brief separation.
"Did you succeed in getting the money? The joy of
seeing you made me forget all about such things. . . ."
Adopting the air of a business expert, he replied that
he had brought back less than he expected, for he had
found the country in the throes of one of its periodical
panics ; but still he had managed to get together about
four hundred thousand francs. In his purse he had a
check for that amount. Later on, they would send him
further remittances. A ranchman in Argentina, a sort
of relative, was looking after his affairs. Marguerite
appeared satisfied, and in spite of her frivolity, adopted
the air of a serious woman.
"Money, money!" she exclaimed sententiously. "And
yet there is no happiness without it ! With your four hun-
dred thousand and what I have, we shall be able to get
along. ... I told you that my husband wishes to give
me back my dowry. He has told my brother so. But
the state of his business, and the increased size of his
factory do not permit him to return it as quickly as he
would like. I can't help but feel sorry for the poor
THE TRYST 3'A
man ... so honorable and so upright in every way. If
he only were not so commonplace ! . . ."
Again Marguerite seemed to regret these tardy spon-
taneous eulogies which were chilling their interview. So
again she changed the trend of her chatter
*'And your family? Have you seen them?" . . .
Desnoyers had been to his father's home before start-
ing for the ChapeUe Exp-iatoire. A stealthy entrance
into the great house on the avenue Victor Hugo, and then
up to the first floor like a tradesman. Then he had slipt
into the kitchen like a soldier sweetheart of the maids.
His mother had come there to embrace him, poor Doiia
Luisa, weeping and kissing him frantically as though
she had feared to lose him forever. Close behind her
mother had come Luisita, nicknamed Chichi, who always
surveyed him with sympathetic curiosity as if she wished
to know better a brother so bad and adorable who had
led decent women from the paths of virtue, and com-
mitted all kinds of follies. Then Desnoyers had been
greatly surprised to see entering the kitchen with the air
of a tragedy queen, a noble mother of the drama, his
Aunt Elena, the one who had married a German and
was living in Berlin surrounded with innumerable chil-
dren.
"She has been in Paris a month. She is going to make
a little visit to our castle. And it appears that her eldest
son — my cousin, 'The Sage,* whom I have not seen for
years — is also coming here.*'
The home interview had several times been interrupted
by fear. ''Your father is at home, be careful," his mother
had said to him each time that he had spoken above a
whisper. And his Aunt Elena had stationed herself at
the door with a dramatic air, like a stage heroine re-
solved to plunge a dagger into the tyrant who should
dare to cross the threshold. The entire familv was e^-/
34 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
customed to submit to the rigid authority of Don Mar-
celo Desnoyers. "Oh, that old man!" exclaimed Julio,
referring to his father. "He may live many years yet,
but how he weighs upon us all !"
His mother, who had never wearied of looking at him.
finally had to bring the interview to an end, frightened by
certain approaching sounds. "Go, he might surprise us,
and he would be furious." So Julio had fled the paternal
home, caressed by the tears of the two ladies and the
admiring glances of Chichi, by turns ashamed and proud
of a brother who had caused such enthusiasm and scan-
dal among her friends.
Marguerite also spoke of Senor Desnoyers. A terrible
tyrant of the old school with whom they could never
come to an understanding.
The two remained silent, looking fixedly at each other.
Now that they had said the things of greatest urgency,
present interests became more absorbing. More immedi-
ate things, unspoken, seemed to well up in their timid and
vacillating eyes, before escaping in the form of words.
They did not dare to talk like lovers here. Every minute
the cloud of witnesses seemed increasing around them.
The woman with the dogs and the red wig was passing
with greater frequency, shortening her turns through the
square in order to greet them with a smile of complicity.
The reader of the daily paper was now exchanging views
with a friend on a neighboring bench regarding the possi-
bilities of war. The garden had become a thoroughfare.
The modistes upon going out from their establishments,
and the ladies returning from shopping, were crossing
through the square in order to shorten their walk. The
little avenue was a popular short-cut. All the pedes-
trians were casting curious glances at the elegant lady
and her companion seated in the shadow of the shrub-
berv with the timid yet would-be natural look of thosf^
THE TRYST 35^
who desire to hide themselves, yet at the same time feign
a casual air,
"How exasperating!" sighed Marguerite. 'They are
going to find us out!"
A girl looked at her so searchingly that she thought
she recognized in her an employee of a celebrated
modiste. Besides, some of her personal friends who had
met her in the crowded shops but an hour ago might be
returning home by way of the garden.
"Let us go," she said rising hurriedly. "If they should
spy us here together, just think what they might say ! . . •
and just when they are becoming a little forgetful!"
Desnoyers protested crossly. Go away? . . . Paris
had become a shrunken place for them nowadays because
Marguerite refused to go to a single place where there
was a possibiHty of their being surprised. In another
square, in a restaurant, wherever they might go — they
would run the same risk of being recognized. She would
only consider meetings in public places, and yet at the
same time, dreaded the curiosity of the people. If
Marguerite would like to go to his studio of such sweet
memories ! . . .
"To your home? No! no indeed!" she replied em-
phatically. "I cannot forget the last time I was there."
But Julio insisted, foreseeing a break in that firm nega-
tive. Where could they be more comfortable? Besides,
weren't they going to marry as soon as possible? . . .
"I tell you no," she repeated. "Who knows but my
husband may be watching me ! What a complication for
my divorce if he should surprise us in your house!"
Now it was he who eulogized the husband, insisting
that such watchfulness was incompatible with his char-
acter. The engineer had accepted the facts, consider-
ing them irreparable and was now thinking only of
reconstructing his life.
36 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE ^
^^No, it is better for us to separate," she continued.
"To-morrow we shall see each other again. You will
hunt a more favorable place. Think it over, and you
will find a solution for it all."
But he wished an immediate solution. They had
abandoned their seats, going slowly toward the rue des
Mathurins. Julio was speaking with a trembling and
persuasive eloquence. To-morrow? No, now. They
had only to call a taxicab. It would be only a matter
of a few minutes, and then the isolation, the mystery,
the return to a sweet past — to that intimacy in the
studio v/here they had passed their happiest hours. They
would believe that no time had elapsed since their first
meetings.
*'No," she faltered with a weakening accent, seeking a
last resistance. "Besides, your secretaiy might be there,
that Spaniard who lives with you. How ashamed I would
be to meet him again !"
Julio laughed. . . . Argensola ! How could that com-
rade who knew all about their past be an obstacle? If
they should happen to meet him in the house, he would
be sure to leave immediately. More than once, he had
had to go out so as not to be in the way. His discre-
tion was such that he had foreseen events. Probably
he had already left, conjecturing that a near visit would
be the most logical thing. His chum would simply go
wandering through the streets in search of news.
Marguerite was silent, as though yielding on seeing
her pretexts exhausted. Desnoyers was silent, too, con-
struing her stillness as assent. They had left the gar-
den and she was looking around uneasily, terrified to
find herself in the open street beside her lover, and
seeking a hiding-place. Suddenly she saw before her
the little red door of an automobile, opened by the hand
of her adorer.
THE TRYST 37
"Get in," ordered Julio.
And she climbed in hastily, anxious to hide herself as
soon as possible. The vehicle started at great speed.
Marguerite immediately pulled down the shade of the
v/indow on her side, but before she had finished and
could turn her head, she felt a hungry mouth kissing
the nape of her neck.
"No, not here,'' she said in a pleading tone. "Let us
be sensible !"
And while he, rebellious at these exlio»*tations, per-
sisted in his advances, the voice of MargutPte again
sounded above the noise of the rattling machinery of the
automobile as it bounded over the pavement.
"Do you really believe that there will be no war?
Do you believe that we will be able to marry? . . . Tel]
me again. I want you to encourage me. . . « I need to
hear it from your lips."
CHAPTER n
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR
In 1870 Marcelo Desnoyers was nineteen years old
He was born in the suburbs of Paris, an only child; his
father, interested in little building speculations, main-
tained his family in modest comfort. The mason wished
to make an architect of his son, and Marcelo was in
the midst of his preparatory studies when his father
suddenly died, leaving his affairs greatly involved. In
a few months, he and his mother descended the slopes
of ruin, and were obliged to give up their snug, middle-
class quarters and live like laborers.
When the fourteen-year-old boy had to choose a trade,
he learned wood carving. This craft was an art related
to the tastes awakened in Marcelo by his abandoned
studies. His mother retired to the country, living with
some relatives while the lad advanced rapidly in the
shops, aiding his master in all the important orders which
he received from the provinces. The first news of the
war with Prussia surprised him in Marseilles, working
on the decorations of a theatre.
Marcelo was opposed to the Empire like all the youths
of his generation. He was also much influenced by the
older workmen who had taken part in the Republic of
'48, and who still retained vivid recollections of the
Coup d'Etat of the second of December.
One day he saw in the streets of Marseilles a popular
manifestation in favor of peace which was practically 9
38
MADARIAGA, TPIE CENTAUR 39
protest against the government. The old repubHcans
in their implacable struggle with the Emperor, the com*^
panies of the International which had just been organ-
ized, and a great number of Italians and Spaniards who
had fled their countries on account of recent insurrec-
tions, composed the procession. A long-haired, consump-
tive scudent was carrying the flag. 'Tt is peace that we
want — a peace which may unite all mankind,'* chanted
the paraderso But on this earth, the noblest proposi-
tions are seldom heard, since Destiny amuses herself in
perverting them and turning them aside.
Scarcely had the friends of peace entered the rue
Cannehiere with their hymn and standard, when war
came to meet them, obliging them to resort to fist and
club. The day before, some battalions of Zouaves from
Algiers had disembarked in order to reinforce the army
on the frontier, and these veterans, accustomed to co-
lonial existence and undiscriminating as to the cause of
disturbances, seized the opportunity to intervene in this
manifestation, some with bayonets and others with un-
girded belts. "Hurrah for War!" and a rain of lashes
and blows fell upon the unarmed singers. Marcelo saw
the innocent student, the standard-bearer of peace,
knocked down wrapped in his flag, by the merry kicks
of the Zouaves. Then he knew no more, since he had
received various blows with a leather strap, and a knife
thrust in his shoulder; he had to run the same as the
others.
That day developed for the first time, his fiery, stub-
born character, irritable before contradiction, even to the
point of adopting the most extreme resolution. *'Down
with War!" Since it was not possible for him to pro-
test in any other way, he would leave the country. The
Emperor might arrange his affairs as best he could. The
struggle was going to be long and disastrous, according
40 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
to the enemies of the Empire. If he stayed, he would
in a few months be drawn for the soldiery. Desnoyers
renounced the honor of serving the Emperor. He hesi-
tated a little when he thought of his mother. But his
country relatives would not turn her out, and he planned
to work YQvy hard and send her money. Who knew
what riches might be waiting for him, on the other side
of the sea! . . . Good-bye, France!
Thanks to his savings, a harbor official found it to his
interest to offer him the choice of three boats. One was
sailing to Egypt, another to Australia, another to Mon-
tevideo and Buenos Aires, which made the strongest ap-
peal to him? . . , Desnoyers, remembering his readings,
wished to consult the wind and follow the course that
it indicated, as he had seen various heroes of novels
do. But that day the wind blew from the sea toward
France. He also wished to toss up a coin in order to
test his fate. Finally he decided upon the vessel sailing
first. Not until, with his scanty baggage, he was ac*
tually on the deck of the next boat to anchor, did he
take any interest in its course — ''For the Rio de la
Plata." . . . And he accepted these words with a fataU
istic shrug. "Very well, let it be South America !" The
country was not distasteful to him, since he knew it by
certain travel publications whose illustrations represent-
ed herds of cattle at liberty, half-naked, plumed Indians,
and hairy cowboys whirling over their heads serpentine
lassos tipped with balls.
The millionaire Desnoyers never forgot that trip to
America — forty-three days navigating in a little worn-
out steamer that rattled like a heap of old iron, groaned
in all its joints at the slightest roughness of the sea,
and had to stop four times for repairs, at the mercy of
the winds and waves.
In Montevideo, he learned cf the reverses suffered by
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 41
his country and that the French Empire no longer ex-
isted. He felt a little ashamed when he heard that the
nation was now self-governing, defending itself gal-
lantly behind the walls of Paris. And he had fled ! . . .
Months afterwards, the events of the Commune consoled
him for his flight. If he had remained, wTath at the
national downfall, his relations with his co-laborers, the
air in which he lived — everything would surely have
dragged him along to revolt. In that case, he would
have been shot or consigned to a colonial prison like so
many of his former comrades.
So his determination crystallized, and he stopped think-
ing about the affairs of his mother- country. The neces-
sities of existence in a foreign land whose language he
was beginning to pick up made him think only of him-
self. The turbulent and adventurous life of these new
nations compelled him to most absurd expedients and
varied occupations. Yet he felt himself strong with an
audacity and self-reHance which he never had in the
old world. **I am equal to everything," he said, *'if they
only give me time to prove it!" Although he had fled
from his country in order not to take up arms, he even
led a soldier's life for a brief period in his adopted land,
receiving a wound in one of the many hostilities between
the whites and reds in the unsettled districts.
In Buenos Aires, he again worked as a woodcarver.
The city was beginning to expand, breaking its shell as
a large village. Desnoyers spent many years ornament-
ing salons and fagades. It was a laborious existence,
sedentary and remunerative. But one day he became
tired of this slow saving which could only bring him
a mediocre fortune after a long time. He had gone to
the new world to become rich like so many others. And
at twenty-seven, he started forth again, a full-fledged
adventurer, avoiding the cities, wishing to snatch money
42 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
from untapped, natural sources. He worked farms in
the forests of the North, but the locusts obliterated his
crops in a few hours. He was a cattle-driver, with the
aid of only two peons, driving a herd of oxen and
mules over the snowy solitudes of the Andes to Bolivia
and Chile. In this life, making journeys of many
months' duration, across interminable plains, he lost ex-
act account of time and space. Just as he thought him-
self on the verge of winning a fortune, he lost it all
by an unfortunate speculation. And in a moment of
failure and despair, being now thirty years old, he be-
came an employee of Julio Madariaga.
He knew of this rustic millionaire through his pur-
chases of flocks — a Spaniard who had come to the coun-
try when very young, adapting himself very easily to
its customs, and living like a cowboy after he had ac-
quired enormous properties. The country folk, wishing
to put a title of respect before his name, called him
Don Madariaga.
"Comrade," he said to Desnoyers one day when he
happened to be in a good humor — a very rare thing for
him — **you must have passed through many ups and
downs. Your lack of silver may be smelled a long ways
off. Why lead such a dog's life ? Trust in me, Frenchy,
and remain here ! I am growing old, and I need a man."
After the Frenchman had arranged to stay with Mada-
riaga, every landed proprietor living within fifteen or
twenty leagues of the ranch, stopped the new employee
on the road to prophesy all sorts of misfortune.
"You will not stay long. Nobody can get along with
Don Madariaga. We have lost count of his overseers.
He is a man who must be killed or deserted. Soon you
will go, too!"
Desnoyers did not doubt but that there was some
truth in all this. Madariaga was an impossible charac-
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 43
ter, but feeling a certain sympathy with the Frenchman,
had tried not to annoy him with his irritabiHty.
"He's a regular pearl, this Frenchy," said the plains^
man as though trying to excuse himself for his consid\
erate treatment of his latest acquisition. "I like him
because he is very serious. . . . That is the way I like
a man."
Desnoyers did not know exactly what this much-
admired seriousness could be, but he felt a secret pride
in seeing him aggressive with everybody else, even his
family, whilst he took with him a tone of paternal bluff-
ness.
The family consisted of his wife Misia Petrona (whom
he always called the China) and two grown daughters
who had gone to school in Buenos Aires, but on return-
ing to the ranch had reverted somewhat to their orig-
inal rusticity.
Madariaga's fortune was enormous. He had lived in
the field since his arrival in America, when the white
race had not dared to settle outside the towns for fear
of the Indians. He had gained his first money as a
fearless trader, taking merchandise in a cart from fort
to fort. He had killed Indians, was twice wounded by
them, and for a while had lived as a captive with an
Indian chief whom he finally succeeded in making hh
staunch friend. With his earnings, he had bought land,
much land, almost worthless because of its insecurity,
devoting it to the raising of cattle that he had to defend,
gun in hand, from the pirates of the plains.
Then he had married his China, a young half-breed
who was running around barefoot, but owned many of
her forefather's fields. They had lived in an almost
savage poverty on their property which would have
taken manv a day's journey to go around. Afterwards,
wher th.' government wac pus!i>Ag the Indir-ns towar4«
44 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSI*
the frontiers, and offering the abandoned lands for sale,
considering it a patriotic sacrifice on the part of any one
wishing to acquire them, Madariaga bought and bought
at the lowest figure and longest terms. To get posses-
sion of vast tracts and populate it with blooded stock
became the mission of his life. At times, galloping with
Desnoyers through his boundless fields, he was not able
to repress his pride.
*'Tell me something, Frenchy! They say that further
up the country, there are some nations about the size of
my ranches. Is that so?" . . .
The Frenchman agreed. . . . The lands of Madariaga
were indeed greater than many principalities. This put
the old plainsman in rare good humor and he exclaimed
in ihe cowboy vernacular which had become second na-
ture to him
**Then it wouldn't be absurd to proclaim m}self king
some day? Just imagine it, Frenchy; — Don Madariaga,
the First. . . . The worst of it all is that I would also
be the last, for the China will not give me a son. . . .
She is a weak cow!"
The fame of his vast territories and his wealth in
stock reached even to Buenos Aires. Every one knew
of Madariaga by name, although very few had seen him.
When he went to the Capital, he passed unnoticed be-
cause of his country aspect — the same leggings that he
was used to wearing in the fields, his poncho wrapped
around him like a muffler above which rose the aggres-
sive points of a necktie, a tormenting ornament imposed
hy his daughters, who in vain arranged it with loving
hands that he might look a little more respectable.
One day he entered the ofiice of the richest merchant
of the capital.
"Sir, I know that you need some young bulls for thft
European market, and I have come to sell you a few/'
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 45
The man of affairs looked haughtily at the poor cow-
boy. He might explain his errand to one of the em-
ployees, he could not waste his time on such small mat-
ters. But the malicious grin on the rustic's face awoke
his curiosity.
"And how many are you able to sell, my good man?"
"About thirty thousand, sir."
It was not necessary to hear more. The supercilious
merchant sprang from his desk, and obsequiously of-
fered him a seat.
"You can be no other than Don Madariaga."
"At the service of God and yourself, sir," he re*
sponded in the manner of a Spanish countryman.
That was the most glorious moment of his existence.
In the outer office of the Directors of the Bank, the
clerks offered him a seat until the personage the other
side of the door should deign to receive him. But
scarcely was his name announced than that same di-
rector ran to admit him, and the employee was stupe-
fied to hear the ranchman say, by way of greeting, "I
have come to draw out three hundred thousand dol-
lars. I have abundant pasturage, and I wish to buy a
ranch or two in order to stock them."
His arbitrary and contradictory character weighed
upon the inhabitants of his lands with both cruel and
good-natured tyranny. No vagabond ever passed by the
ranch without being rudely assailed by its owner from
tlie outset.
"Don't tell me any of your hard-luck stories, friend,"
he would yell as if he were going to beat bim. "Under
the shed is a skinned beast; cut and eat as much as
you wish and so help yourself to continue your jour-
ney. . . . But no more of your yams!"
And he would turn his back upon the tramp, after
giving him a few dollars.
46 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
One day he became infuriated because a peon was
nailing the wire fencing too deliberately on the posts.
Everybody was robbing him! The following day he
spoke of a large sum of money that he would have to
pay for having endorsed the note of an acquaintance,
completely bankrupt. "Poor fellow! His luck is worse
than mine !"
Upon finding in the road the skeleton of a recently
killed sheep, he was beside himself with indignation. It
was not because of the loss of the meat. "Hunger
knows no law, and God has made meat for mankind
to eat. But they might at least have left the skin!"
. . . And he would rage against such wickedness, al-
ways repeating, "Lack of religion and good habits !" The
next time, the bandits stripped the flesh off of three
cows, leaving the skins in full view, and the ranchman
said, smiling, "That is the way I like people, honorable
and doing no wrong."
His vigor as a tireless centaur had helped him power-
fully in his task of populating his lands. He was ca-
pricious, despotic and with the same paternal instincts
as his compatriots who, centuries before when conquer-
ing the new world, had clarified its native blood. Like
the Castilian conquistadors, he had a fancy for copper-
colored beauty with oblique eyes and straight hair. When
Desnoyers saw him going ofif on some sudden pretext,
putting his horse at full gallop toward a neighboring
ranch, he would say to himself, smilingly, "He is going
in search ot a new peon who will help work his land
fifteen years from now."
The personnel of the ranch often used to comment
on the resemblance of certain youths laboring here the
same as the others, galloping from the first streak ©f
dawn over Ut^ nelds, attending to the various duties of
pasturing. The overseer, Cfiedonio, a half-breed thirty
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 47
years old, generally detested for his hard and avaricious
character, also bore a distant resemblance to the patron.
Almost every year, some woman from a great dis-
tance, dirty and bad-faced, presented herself at the
ranch, leading by the hand a little mongrel with eyes
like live coals. She would ask to speak with the pro-
prietor alone, and upon being confronted with her, he
usually recalled a trip made ten or twelve years before
in order to buy a herd of cattle.
"You remember. Patron, that you passed the night
on my ranch because the river had risen?"
The Patron did not remember anything about it But
a vague instinct warned him that the woman was prob-
ably telling the truth. **Well, what of it?"
'Tatron, here he is. . . . It is better for him to grow
to manhood by your side than in any other place."
And she presented him with the little hybrid. One
more, and offered with such simplicity! . . . ''Lack of
religion and good habits !" Then with sudden modesty,
he doubted the woman's veracity. Why must it neces-
sarily be his? . . . But his wavering was generally
short-lived.
*Tf it's mine, put it with the others."
The mother went away tranquilly, seeing the young-
ster's future assured, because this man so lavish in vio«
lence was equally so in generosity. In time there would
be a bit of land and a good flock of sheep for the urchin.
These adoptions at first aroused in Misia Petrona a
little rebellion — the only ones of her life; but the cen-
taur soon reduced her to terrified silence.
''And you dare to complain of me, you weak cow!
... A woman who has only given me daughters. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself."
The same hand that negligently extracted from his
pocket a wad of bills rolled into a ball, giving them away
48 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
capriciously without knowing just how much, also wore
a lash hanging from the wrist. It was supposed to be
for his horse, but it was used with equal facility when
any of his peons incurred his wrath.
"I strike because I can," he would say to pacify him-
self.
One day, the man receiving the blow, took a step
backward, hunting for the knife in his belt.
"You are not going to beat me. Patron. I was not
bom in these parts. ... I come from Corrientes.^'
The Patron remained with upraised thong. *'Is it
true that you were not bom here? . . . Then you are
right ; I cannot beat you. Here are five dollars for you."
When Desnoyers came on the place, Madariaga was
beginning to lose count of those who were imder his
dominion in the old Latin sense, and could take his
blows. There were so many that confusion often
reigned.
The Frenchman admired the Patron's expert eye for
his business. It was enough for him to contemplate for
a few moments a herd of cattle, to know its exact num-
ber. He would go galloping along with an indifferent
air, around an immense group of horned and stamping
beasts, and then would suddenly begin to separate the
different animals. He had discovered that they were
sick. With a buyer like Madariaga, all the tricks and
sharp practice of the drovers came to naught.
His serenity before trouble was also admirable. A
drought suddenly strewed his plains with dead cattle,
making the land seem like an abandoned battlefield.
Everywhere great black hulks. In the air, great spirals
of crows coming from leagues away. At other times, it
was the cold; an unexpected drop in the thermometer
would cover the ground with dead bodies. Ten thousand
animals, fifteen thousand, perhaps more, all perished! . . ,
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 4^
"What a knock-out!" Madarlaga would exclaim with
resignation. ''Without such troubles, this earth would
be a paradise. . . . Now, the thing to do is to save the
skins !"
And he would rail against the false pride of the emi-
grants, against the new customs among the poor which
prevented his securing enough hands to strip the victims
quickly, so that thousands of hides had to be lost. Their
bones whitened the earth like heaps of snow. The peon-
citos (little peons) went around putting the skulls of
cows with crumpled horns on the posts of the wire fences
— a rustic decoration which suggested a procession of
Grecian lyres.
"It is lucky that the land is left, anyway !" added the
ranchman.
He loved to race around his immense fields when they
were beginning to turn green in the late rains. He had
been among the first to convert these virgin wastes into
rich meadow-lands, supplementing the natural pasturage
with alfalfa. Where one beast had found sustenance be-
fore, he now bad three. *'The table is set," he would
chuckle, "we must now go in search of the guests.*'
And he kept on buying, at ridiculous prices, herds dying
of hunger in others' uncultivated fields, constantly in-
creasing his opulent lands and stock.
One morning Desnoyers saved his life. The old
ranchman had raised his lash against a recently arrived
peon who returned the attack, knife in hand. Mada-
riaga was defending himself as best he could, convinced
from one minute to another that he was going to receive
the deadly knife-thrubt — ^when Desnoyers ^Tived and,
drawing his revolver, overcame and disarmed tb** ''dveff
sary.
"Thanks, Frenchy," said tW ranchman, much touchede
"You are an all-round man, and I am going to reward
so FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
you. From this day I shall speak to you as I do to
my family."
Desnoyers did not know just what this familiar talk
might amount to, for his employer was so peculiar.
Certain personal favors, nevertheless, immediately began
to improve his position. He was no longer allowed to
eat in the administration building, the proprietor insist-
ing imperiously that henceforth Desnoyers should sit
at his own table, and thus he was admitted into the in-
timate life of the Madariaga family.
The wife v/as always silent when her husband was
present. She was used to rising in the middle of the
night in order to oversee the breakfasts of the peons,
the distribution of biscuit, and the boiling of the great
black kettles of coffee or shrub tea. She looked after
the chattering and lazy maids who so easily managed to
get lost in the nearby groves. In the kitchen, too, she
made her authority felt like a regular house-mistress,
but the minute that she heard her husband's voice she
shrank into a respectful and timorous silence. Upon
sitting down at table, the China would look at him with
devoted submission, her great, round eyes fixed on him
like an owl's. Desnoyers felt that in this mute admira-
tion was mingled great astonishment at the energy with
which the ranchman, already over seventy, was contin-
uing to bring new occupants to live on his demesne.
The two daughters, Luisa and Elena, accepted with
enthusiasm the new arrival who came to enliven the
monotonous conversations in the dining room, so often
cut short by their father's wrathful outbursts. Be-
sides, he was from Paris. "Paris!" sighed Elena, the
younger one, rolling her eyes. And Desnoyers was
henceforth consulted in all matters of style every time
they ordered any "confections'* from the shops of Bue*
nos Aires.
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 51
The interior of the house reflected the different tastes
of the two generations. The girls had a parlor with
a few handsome pieces of furniture placed against the
cracked walls, and some showy lamps that were never
lighted. The father, with his boorishness, often invad-
ed this room so cherished and admired by the two sis-
ters, making the carpets look shabby and faded under
his muddy boot-tracks. Upon the gilt centre-table, he
loved to lay his lash. Samples of maize scattered its
grains over a silk sofa which the young ladies tried to
keep very choice, as though they feared it might break.
Near the entrance to the dining room was a weighing
machine, and Madariaga became furious when his
daughters asked him to remove it to the offices. He was
not going to trouble himself to go outside every time
that he wanted to know the weight of a leather skin!
... A piano came into the ranch, and Elena passed the
hours practising exercises with desperate good will.
"Heavens and earth! She might at least play the Jota
or the Pericdn, or some other lively Spanish dance!'*
And the irate father, at the hour of siesta, betook him-
self to the nearby eucalyptus trees, to sleep upon his
poncho.
This younger daughter whom he dubbed La Roman-
tica, was the special victim of his wrath and ridicule.
Where had she picked up so many tastes which he and
his good China never had had ? Music books were piled
on the piano. In a corner of the absurd parlor were
some wooden boxes that had held preserves, which the
ranch carpenter had been made to press into service as
a bookcase.
"Look here, Frenchy," scoffed Madariaga. "All these
are novels and poems! Pure lies! . . . Hot air!"
He had his private library, vastly more important and
glorious, and occupying less space. In his desk, adorned
52 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
with guns, thongs, and chaps studded with silver, was a
little compartment containing deeds and various legal
documents which the ranchman surveyed with great
pride.
*Tay attention, now and hear marvellous things," an-
nounced the master to Desnoyers, as he took out one of
his memorandum books.
This volume contained the pedigree of the famous
animals which had improved his breeds of stock, th<
genealogical trees, the patents of nobility of his aristo-
cratic beasts. He would have to read its contents to
him since he did not permit even his family to touch
these records. And with his spectacles on the end of
his nose, he would spell out the credentials of each ani-
mal celebrity. ''Diamond IH, grandson of Diamond I,
owned by the King of England, son of Diamond II,
winner in the races." His Diamond had cost him
many thousands, but the finest horses on the ranch,
those which brought the most marvellous prices, were
his descendants.
"That horse had more sense than most people. He
only lacked the power to talk. He's the one that's
stuffed, near the door of the parlor. The girls wanted
him thrown out. . . . Just let them dare to touch him!
I'd chuck them out first!"
Then he would continue reading the history of a dy-
nasty of bulls with distinctive names and a succession
of Roman numbers, the same as kings — animals acquired
by the stubborn ranchman in the great cattle fairs of
England. He had never been there, but he had used the
cable in order to compete in pounds sterling with the
British owners who wished to keep such valuable stock
in their own country. Thanks to these blue-blooded
sires that had crossed the ocean with all the luxury of
millionaire passengers, he had been able to exhibit in
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 53
the concourses of Buenos Aires animals which were
veritable towers of meat, edible elephants with their
sides as fit and sleek as a table.
*'That book amounts to something! Don't you think
so, Frenchy? It is worth more than all those pictures
of moons, lakes, lovers and other gewgaws that my
Romantica puts on the w^alls to catch the dust.'*
And he would point out, in contrast, the precious di-
plomas which were adorning his desk, the metal vases
and other trophies won in the fairs by the descendants
of his blooded stock.
Luisa, the elder daughter, called Chicha, in the South
American fashion, was much more respected by her
father. "She is my poor China right over again," he
said, **the same good nature, and the same faculty for
work, but more of a lady." Desnoyers entirely agreed
with him, and yet the father's description seemed to him
weak and incomplete. He could not admit that the pale,
modest girl with the great black eyes and smile of child-
ish mischief bore the slightest resemblance to the re-
spectable matron who had brought her into existence.
The great fiesta for Chicha was the Sunday mass. It
represented a journey of three leagues to the nearest
village, a weekly contact with people unlike those of
the ranch. A carriage drawn by four horses took the
senora and the two seiioritas in the latest suits and hats
arrived, via Buenos Aires, from Europe. At the sug-
gestion of Chicha, Desnoyers accompanied them in the
capacity of driver.
The father remained at home, taking advantage of this
opportunity to survey his fields in their Sunday solitude,
thus keeping a closer oversight on the shiftlessness of
his hands. He was very religious — "Religion and good
manners, you know." But had he not given thousands
of dollars toward building the neighboring church? A
<54 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE |
man of his fortune should not be submitted to the same
obligations as ragamuffins!
During the Sunday lunch the young ladies were apt
to make comments upon the persons and merits of the
young men of the village and neighboring ranches,
who had lingered at the church door in order to chat with
them.
''Don't fool yourselves, girls!" observed the father
shrewdly. "You believe that they want you for your
elegance, don't you? . . . What those shameless fellows
really want are the dollars of old Madariaga, and once
they had them, they would probably give you a daily
beating."
For a while the ranch received numerous visitors
Some were young men of the neighborhood who arrived
on spirited steeds, performing all kinds of tricks of fancy
horsemanship. They wanted to see Don Julio on the
most absurd pretexts, and at the same time improved
the opportunity to chat with Chicha and Luisa. At other
times they were youths from Buenos Aires asking for
a lodging at the ranch, as they were just passing by.
Don Madariaga would growl
^'Another good-for-nothing scamp who comes in search
of the Spanish ranchman! If he doesn't move on soon
. . . I'll kick him out!"
But the suitor did not stand long on the order of his
going, intimidated by the ominous silence of the Pa-
tron. This silence, of late, had persisted in an alarming
manner, in spite of the fact that the ranch was no longer
receiving visitors. Madariaga appeared abstracted, and
all the family, including Desnoyers, respected and feared
this taciturnity. He ate, scowling, with lowered head.
Suddenly he would raise his eyes, looking at Chicha,
then at Desnoyers, finally fixing them upon his wife as
though asking her to give an account of things.
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR SB
His Romantica simply did not exist for him. The
only notice that he ever took of her was to give an
ironical snort when he happened to see her leaning at
sunset against the doorway, looking at the reddening
glow — one elbow on the door frame and her cheek in
her hand, in imitation of the posture of a certain white
lady that she had seen in a chromo, awaiting the knight
of her dreams.
Desnoyers had been five years in the house when one
day he entered his master's private -office with the
brusque air of a timid person who has suddenly reached
a decision.
"Don Julio, I am going to leave and I would like our
accounts settled."
Madariaga looked at him slyly. "Going to leave, eh?
, . . What for?" But in vain he repeated his questions^
The Frenchman was floundering through a series of in-
coherent explanations — "I'm going; I've got to go."
"Ah, you thief, yort false prophet !" shouted the ranch-
mai? in stentorian tones.
Bjt Desnoyers did not quail before the insults. He
had often heard his Patron use these same words when
holding somebody up to ridicule, or haggling with cer-
tain cattle drovers.
"Ah, you thief, you false prophet! Do you suppose
that I do not know why you are going? Do you sup-
pose old Madariaga has not seen your languishing looks
and those of my dead fly of a daughter, clasping each
others' hands in the presence of poor China who is blind-
ed in her judgment? . . . It's not such a bad stroke.
Frenchy. By it, you would be able to get possession of
half of the old Spaniard's dollars, and then say that
you had made it in America."
And while he was storming, or rather howling, all
this, he hdid grasped his lash and with the butt end kept
56 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSB
/)okmg his manager in the stomach with such insistence
that it might be construed in an affectionate or hostile
way.
"For this reason I have come to bid you good-bye/'
said Desnoyers haughtily. *'I know that my love h
absurd, and I wish to leave."
"The gentleman would go away," the ranchman con-
tinued spluttering. "The gentleman believes that here
one can do what one pleases ! No, siree ! Here no-
body commands but old Madariaga, and I order you
to stay. . . . Ah, these women! They only serve to an-
tagonize men. And yet we can't live without them !" . . .
He took several turns up and down the room, as
though his last words were making him think of some-
thing very different from what he had just been saying.
Desnoyers looked uneasily at the thong which was still
hanging from his wrist. Suppose he should attempt
to whip him as he did the peons? . . . He was still un-
decided v/hether to hold his own against a man who had
always treated him with benevolence or, while his back
was turned, to take refuge in discreet flight, when thw
ranchman planted himself before him.
"You really love her, really?" he asked. "Are you
sure that she loves you? Be careful what you say, for
love is blind and deceitful. I, too, when I married my
China was crazy about her. Do you love her, honestly
and truly? . . . Well then, take her, you devilish
Frenchy. Somebody has to take her, and may she not
turn out a weak cow like her mother! . . . Let us have
the ranch full of grandchildren!"
In voicing this stock-raiser's wish, again appeared the
great breeder of beasts and men. And as though he
considered it necessary to explain his concession, he
added — "I do all this because I like you ; and I like you
because you are serious."
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 57
Again the Frenchman was plunged in doubt, not know-
sng in just what this greatly appreciated seriousness con-
sisted.
At his wedding Desnoyers thought much of his mother.
If only the poor old woman could witness this extraor-
dinary stroke of good fortune! But she had died the
year before, believing her son enormously rich because
he had been sending her sixty dollars every month,
taken from the wages that he had earned on the ranch.
Desnoyers' entrance into the family made his father-
in-law pay less attention to business.
City life, with all its untried enchantments and snares,
now attracted Madariaga, and he began to speak with
contempt of country women, poorly groomed and inspir-
ing him with disgust. He had given up his cowboy
attire, and was displaying with childish satisfaction, the
new suits in which a tailor of the Capital was trying to
disguise him. When Elena wished to accompany him
to Buenos Aires, he would wriggle out of it, trumping
up some absorbing business. "No; you go with your
mother."
The fate of his fields and flocks gave him no uneasi-
ness. His fortune, managed by Desnoyers, was in good
hands.
*'He is very serious," again affirmed the old Spaniard
to his family assembled in the dining room — "as serious
as I am. . . . Nobody can make a fool of him!"
And finally the Frenchman concluded that when his
father-in-law spoke of seriousness he was referring to
his strength of character. According to the spontaneous
declaration of Madariaga, he had, from the very first
day that he had dealings with Desnoyers, perceived in
him a nature like his own, more hard and firm perhaps,
but without splurges of eccentricities. On this account
he had treated him with such extraordinary circumspec-
58 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
tion, foreseeing that a clash between the two could never
be adjusted. Their only disagreements were about the
expenses established by Madariaga during his regime.
Since the son-in-law was managing the ranches, the work
was costing less, and the people working more diligently;
— and that, too, without yells, and without strong words
and deeds, with only his presence and brief orders.
The old man was the only one defending the capri-
cious system of a blow followed by a gift. He revolted
against a minute and mechanical administration, always
the same, without any arbitrary extravagance or good-
natured tyranny. Very frequently some of the half-
breed peons whom a malicious public supposed to be
closely related to the ranchman, would present them-
selves before Desnoyers with, "Senor Manager, the old
Patron say that you are to give me five dollars." The
Senor Manager would refuse, and soon after Madariags^
would rush in in a furious temper, but measuring his
words, nevertheless, remembering that his son-in-law's
disposition was as serious as his own.
*T like you very much, my son, but here no one over-
rules me. . . . Ah, Frenchy, you are like all the rest
of your countrymen? Once you get your claws on a
penny, it goes into your stocking, and nevermore sees
the light of day, even though they crucify you . . . !
Did I say five dollars? Give him ten. I command it
and that is enough."
The Frenchman paid, shrugging his shoulders, whilst
his father-in-law, satisfied with his triumph, fled to Bue-
nos Aires. It was a good thing to have it well under-
stood that the ranch still belonged to Madariaga, the
Spaniard.
From one of these trips, he returned with a compan"
ion, a young German who, according to him, knew every*'
thing and could do everything. His son-in-law was
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 59
A^orking too hard. This Karl Hartrott would assist him
in the bookkeeping. Desnoyers accepted the situation,
and in a few days felt increasing esteem for the new
incumbent.
Although they belonged to two unfriendly nations, it
didn't matter. There are good people everywhere, and
this Karl was a subordinate worth considering. He kept
his distance from his equals, and was hard and inflexible
toward his inferiors. All his faculties seemed concen-
trated in service and admiration for those above him.
Scarcely would Madariaga open his lips before the Ger-
man's head began nodding in agreement, anticipating his
words. If he said anything funny, his clerk's laugh
would break forth in scandalous roars. With Desnoyers
he appeared more taciturn, working without stopping
for hours at a time. As soon as he saw the manager
entering the office he would leap from his seat, holding
himself erect with military precision. He was always
ready to do anything whatever. Unasked, he spied on
the workmen, reporting their carelessness and mistakes.
This last service did not especially please his superior
officer, but he appreciated it as a sign of interest in the
establishment.
The old man bragged triumphantly of the new acqui-
sition, urging his son-in-law also to rejoice.
"A very useful fellow, isn't he ? . . . These gringoes
from Germany work well, know a good many things
and cost little. Then, too, so disciplined! so servile?
... I am sorry to praise him so to you because you
are a Frenchy, and your nation has in them a very
powerful enemy. His people are a hard-shelled race."
Desnoyers replied with a shrug of indifference. His
country was far away, and so was Germany. Who knew
if fhey would ever return! . . . They were both Argeir-
6o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
tinians now, and ought to interest themselves in present
affairs and not bother about the past.
"And how Httle pride they have!" sneered Madariaga
in an ironical tone. "Every one of these gringoes when
he is a clerk at the Capital sweeps the shop, prepares
the meals, keeps the books, sells to the customers, works
the typewriter, translates four or five langxiages, and
dances attendance on the proprietor's lady friend, as
though she were a grand senora ... all for twenty-five
dollars a month. Who can compete with such people!
You, Frenchy, you are like me, very serious, and would
die of hunger before passing through certain things.
But, mark my words, on this very account they are go-
ing to become a terrible people!"
After brief reflection, the ranchman added:
"Perhaps they are not so good as they seem. Just see
how they treat those under them! It may be that they
affect this simplicity without having it, and when they
grin at receiving a kick, they are saying inside, "J^^t
wait till my turn comes, and I'll give you three !"
Then he suddenly seemed to repent of his suspicions,
"At any rate, this Karl is a poor fellow, a mealy*
jnouthed simpleton who the minute I say anything opens
his jaws like a fly-catcher. He insists that he comes of
a great family, but who knows anything about these
gringoesf . . . All of us, dead with hunger when we
reach America, claim to be sons of princes."
Madariaga had placed himself on a familiar footing
with his Teutonic treasure, not through gratitude as with
Desnoyers, but in order to make him feel his inferiority.
He had also introduced him on an equal footing in his
home, but only that he might give piano lessons to his
younger daughter. The Romantica was no longer fram-
ing herself in the doorway — in the gloaming watching
the sunset reflections. When Karl had finished his work
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 6l
m the office, he was now coming to the house and seat-
ing himself beside Elena, who was tinkling away with
a persistence worthy of a better fate. At the end of the
hour the German, accompanying himself on the piano,
would sing fragments from Wagner in such a way that
it put Madariaga to sleep in his armchair with his great
Paraguay cigar sticking out of his mouth.
Elena meanwhile was contemplating with increasing
interest the singing gringo. He was not the knight of
her dreams awaited by the fair lady. He was almost
a servant, a blond immigrant with reddish hair, fat,
heavy, and with bovine eyes that reflected an eternal fear
of disagreeing with his chiefs. But day by day, she was
finding in him something which rather modified these
impressions — his feminine fairness, except where he was
burned by the sun, the increasingly martial aspect of his
moustachios, the agility with which he mounted his horse,
his air of a troubadour, intoning with a rather weak
tenor voluptuous romances whose w^ords she did not un-
derstand.
One night, Just before supper, the impressionable girl
announced with a feverish excitement which she could
no longer repress that she had made a grand discovery,
*'Papa, Karl is of noble birth! He belongs to a great
family."
The plainsman made a gesture of indifference. Othei
things were vexing him in those days. But during the
evening, feeling the necessity of venting on somebody
the wrath which had been gnawing at his vitals since hi?
last trip to Buenos Aires, he interrupted the singer.
"See here, gringo, what is all this nonsense about no
bility which you have been telling my girl?"
Karl left the piano that he might draw himself up
to the approved military position before responding.
Under the influence of his recent song, his pose sug^
6p four horsemen OF THE APOCALYPSE
gested Lohengrin about to reveal the secret of his life.
His father had been General von Hartrott, one of the
commanders in the v^ar of '70. The Emperor had re-
M^arded his services by giving him a title. One of his
uncles v^as an intimate councillor of the King of Prus-
sia. His older brothers vi^ere conspicuous in the most
select regiments. He had carried a sword as a lieutenant.
Bored w^ith all this grandeur, Madariaga interrupted
him. "Lies . . . nonsense . . . hot air !" The very idea
of a gringo talking to him about nobility! . . . He had
left Eiirope v^^hen very young in order to cast in his lot
with the revolting democracies of America, and although
nobility nov^ seemed to him something out-of-date and
incomprehensible, still he stoutly maintained that the
only true nobility was that of his own country. He
would yield first place to the gringoes for the invention
of machinery and ships, and for breeding priceless ani-
mals, but all the Counts and Marquises of Gringo-land
appeared to Mm to be fictitious characters.
"All tomfoolery !" he blustered. "There isn't any no-
bility in your country, nor have you five dollars all told
to rub against each other. If you had, you wouldn't
come over here to play the gallant to women who are
. , . you know what they are as well as I do."
To the astonishment of Desnoyers, the German re-
ceived this onslaught with much humility, nodding his
head in agreement with the Patron's last words.
"If there's any truth in all this twaddle about titles,'*
continued Madariaga implacably, "swords and uniforms,
what did you come here for ? What in the devil did you
do in your own country that you had to leave it?"
Now Karl hung his head, confused and stuttering.
"Papa, papa," pleaded Elena. "The poor little fellow?
How can you humiliate him so just because he is poor?**
. And she felt a deep gratitude toward her brother-
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 63
in-law when he broke through his usual reserve in order
to come to the rescue of the German.
"Oh, yes, of course, he's a good-enough fellow," said
Madariaga, excusing himself. **But he comes from a
land that I detest."
When Desnoyers made a trip to Buenos Aires a few
days afterward, the cause of the old man's wrath was
explained. It appeared that for some months past Mada-
riaga had been the financial guarantor and devoted swain
of a German prima donna stranded in South America
with an Italian opera company. It was she who had
recommended Karl — an unfortunate countryman, who
after wandering through many parts of the continent^
was now living with her as a sort of gentlemanly singer.
Madariaga had joyously expended upon this courtesan
many thousands of dollars. A childish enthusiasm had
accompanied him in this novel existence midst urban dis-
sipations until he happened to discover that his Fraulein
was leading another life during his absence, laughing
at him with the parasites of her retinue* whereupon he
grose in his wrath and bade her farewell to the accom-
paniment of blows and broken furniture.
The last adventure of his life! . . . Desnoyers sus-
pected his abdication upon hearing him admit his age,
for the first time. He did not intend to return to the
capital. It was all false glitter. Existence in the coun-
try, surrounded by all his family and doing good to the
poor was the only sure thing. And the terrible centaur
expressed himself with the idyllic tenderness and firm
virtue of seventy-fi.ve years, already insensible to temp-
tation.
After his scene with Karl, he had increased the Ger-
man's salary, trying as usual, to counteract the effects of
his violent outbreaks with generosity. That which he
could not forget was his dependent's nobility, constantjy
64 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
making it the subject of new jests. That glorious boast
had brought to his mind the genealogical trees of the
illustrious ancestry of his prize cattle. The German was
a pedigreed fellow, and thenceforth he called him by
that nickname.
Seated on summer nights under the awning, he sur-
veyed his family around him with a sort of patriarchal
ecstasy. In the evening hush could be heard the buzzing
of insects and the croaking of the frogs. From the
distant ranches floated the songs of the peons as they
prepared their suppers. It was harvest time, and great
bands of immigrants were encamped in the fields for
the extra work.
Madariaga had known many of the hard old days of
wars and violence. Upon his arrival in South America,
he had witnessed the last years of the tyranny of Rosas.
He loved to enumerate the different provincial and na-
tional revolutions in which he had taken part. But all
this had disappeared and would never return. These
were the times of peace, work and abundance.
"Just think of it, Frenchy," he said, driving away the
mosquitoes with the puffs of his cigar. *'I am Spanish,
you French, Karl German, my daughters Argentinians,
the cook Russian, his assistant Greek, the stable boy Eng-
lish, the kitchen servants Chinas (natives), Galicians or
Italians, and among the peons there are many castes and
laws. . . . And yet we all live in peace. In Europe,
we would have probably been in a grand fight by this
time, but here we are all friends."
He took much pleasure in listening to the music o£
the laborers — laments from Italian songs to the accom'
paniment of the accordion, Spanish guitars and Creole
choruses, wild voicec chanting oi lv>ve and death.
"This is a regular Noah's ark," exulted the vainglo-
rious patriarch.
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 65
"He means the tower of Babel," thought Desnoyers to
himself, "but it's all the same thing to the old man/'
"I believe," he rambled on, "that we live thus because
in this part of the world there are no kings and a very
small army — and mankind is thinking only of enjoying
itself as much as possible, thanks to its work. But I
also believe that we live so peacefully because there is
such abundance that everyone gets his share. . . . How
quickly we would spring to arms if the rations were less
than the people !"
Again he fell into reflective silence, shortly after an-
nouncing the result of his meditations.
"Be that as it may be, we must recognize that here life,
is more tranquil than in the other world. Men are taken
for what they are worth, and mingle together without
thinking whether they came from one country or another.
Over here, fellows do not come in droves to kill othef
fellows whom they do not know and whose only crime
is that they were born in an unfriendly country. . . ,
Man is a bad beast everywhere, I know that ; but here he
eats, owns more land than he needs so that he can stretch
himself, and he is good with the goodness of a well-fed
dog. Over there, there are too many ; they live in heap*
getting in each other's way, and easily run amuck. Hur-
rah for Peace, Frenchy, and the simple life! Where
a man can live comfortably and runs no danger of be-
ing killed for things he doesn't understand — there is his
ifeal homeland !"
And as though an echo of the rustic's reflections, Karl
seated at the piano, began chanting in a low voice one
of Beethoven's hymns —
"^We sing the joy of life,
<!Ve sing of liberty,
Wa'll ne'ew betray our fellow-man.
Though great the guerdon be-*'
66 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Peace! ... A few days afterwards Desnoyers re-
called bitterly the old man's illusion, for war — domestic
war — broke loose in this idyllic stage-setting of ranch
life.
"Run, Senor Manager, the old Patron has unsheathed
his knife and is going to kill the German !" And Des-
noyers had hurried from his office, warned by the peon's
summons. Madariaga was chasing Karl, knife in hand,
stumbling over everything that blocked his way. Only
his son-in-law dared to stop him and disarm him.
"That shameless pedigreed fellow!" bellowed the livid
old man as he writhed in Desnoyers' firm clutch. "Hfctlf
famished, all he thinks he has to do is to come to my
house and take away my daughters and dollars. . . .
Let me go, I tell you! Let me loose that I may kill
him."
And in order to free himself from Desnoyers, he tried
further to explain the difficulty. He had accepted the
Frenchman as a husband for his daughter because he
was to his liking, modest, honest . . . and serious. But
this singing Pedigreed Fellow, with all his airs! . . .
He was a man that he had gotten from . . . well, he
didn't wish to say just where! And the Frenchman,
though knowing perfectly well what his introduction to
Karl had been, pretended not to understand him.
As the German had, by this time, made good his es-
cape, the ranchman consented to being pushed toward
his house, talking all the time about giving a beating to
the Romantica and another to the China for not having
informed him of the courtship. He had surprised his
daughter and the Gringo holding hands and exchanging
kisses in a grove near the house.
"He's after my dollars," howled the irate father. "He
wants America to enrich him quickly at the expense of
the old Spaniard, and that is the reason for so much
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 67
truckling, so much psalm-singing and so much nobility!
Impostor ! . . . Musician !"
And he repeated the word ''musician" with contempt,
as though it were the sum and substance of everything
vile.
Very firmly and with few words, Desnoyers brought
the wrangling to an end. While her brother-in-law pro-
tected her retreat, the Romantica, clinging to her
mother, had taken refuge in the top of the house, sob-
bing and moaning, "Oh, the poor little fellow! Every-
body against him !" Her sister meanwhile was exerting
all the powers of a discreet daughter with the rampa-
geous old man in the office, and Desnoyers had gone in
search of Karl. Finding that he had not yet recovered
from the shock of his terrible surprise, he gave him a
horse, advising him to betake himself as quickly as pos-
sible to the nearest railway station.
Although the German was soon far from the ranch,
he did not long remain alone. In a few days, the Roman"
tica followed him. . . . Iseult of the white hands went
in search of Tristan, the knight.
This event did not cause Madariaga's desperation to
break out as violently as his son-in-law had expected.
For the first time, he saw him weep. His gay and re-
bust old age had suddenly fallen from him, the news
having clapped ten years on to his four score. Like a
child, whimpering and tremulous, he threw his arms
around Desnoyers, moistening his neck with tears.
"He has taken her away! That son of a great flea
. . . has taken her away!"
This time he did not lay all the blame on his China,
He wept with her, and as if trying to console her by 2
public confession, kept saying over and over :
'Tt is my fault. ... It has all been because of m;
very, very great sins."
68 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Now began for Desnoyers a period of difficulties and
conflicts. The fugitives, on one of his visits to the Capi*
tal, threw themselves on his mercy, imploring his pro-
tection. The Romantica wept, declaring that only her
brother-in-law, *'the most knightly man in the world,"
could save her. Karl gazed at him like a faithful hound
trusting in his master. These trying interviews were
repeated on all his trips. Then, on returning to the
ranch, he would find the old man ill-humored, moody,
looking fixedly ahead of him as though seeing invisible
power and wailing, *Tt is my punishment — the punish-
ment for my sins."
The memory of the discreditable circumstances under
which he had made Karl's acquaintance, before bringing
him into his home, tormented the old centaur with re-
morse. Some afternoons, he would have a horse saddled,
going full gallop toward the neighboring village. But
he was no longer hunting hospitable ranches. He need-
ed to pass some time in the church, speaking alone with
the images that were there only for him — since he had
footed the bills for them. . . . 'Through my sin, through
my very great sin!"
But in spite of his self-reproach, Desnoyers had to
work very hard to get any kind of a settlement out of
the old penitent. Whenever he suggested legalizing the
situation and making the necessary arrangements for
their marriage, the old tyrant would not let him go on.
"Do what you think best, but don't say anything to me
about it."
Several months passed by. One day the Frenchman
approached him with a certain air of mystery. "Elena
has a son and has named him 'Julio' after you."
"And you, you great useless hulk," stormed the ranch-
man, "and that weak cow of a wife of yours, you dare
to live tranquilly on without giving me a grandson ! . . .
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 69
A% Frenchy, that is why the Germans will finally over-
whelm you. You see it, right here. That bandit has a
son, while you, after four years of marriage . . . noth-
ing. I want a grandson! — do you understand that?'*
And in order to console himself for this lack of little
ones around his own hearth, he betook himself to the
ranch of his overseer, Celedonio, where a band of little
half-breeds gathered tremblingly and hopefully about
him.
Suddenly China died. The poor Misia Petrona passed
away as discreetly as she had lived, trying even in her
last hours to avoid all annoyance for her husband, ask-
ing his pardon with an imploring look for any trouble
which her death might cause him. Elena came to the
ranch in order to see her mother's body for the last time,
and Desnoyers who for more than a year had been
supporting them behind his father-in-law's back, took
advantage of this occasion to overcome the old man's
resentment.
'Well, I'll forgive her," said the ranchman finally. "I'll
do it for the sake of my poor wife and for you. She
may remain on the ranch, and that shameless gringo
may come with her."
But he would have nothing to do with him. The Ger-
man was to be an employee under Desnoyers, and they
could live in the office building as though they did not
belong to the family. He would never say a word to
Karl.
But scarcely had the German returned before he began
giving him orders rudely as though he were a perfect
stranger. At other times he would pass by him as
though he did not know him. Upon finding Elena in
the house with his older daughter, he would go on with-
out speaking to her.
In vain his Romantica transfigured by maternity, im-
ffO FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
proved all opportunities for putting her child in his way,
calling him loudly by name : ''Julio . . . Julio !'*
"They want that brat of a singing gringo, that carrot
top with a face like a skinned kid to be my grandson?
... I prefer Celedonio's."
And by way of emphasizing his protest, he entered the
dwelling of his overseer, scattering among his dusky-
brood handfuls of dollars.
After seven years of marriage, the wife of Desnoyers
found that she, too, was going to become a mother. Her
sister already had three sons. But what were they worth
to Madariaga compared to the grandson that was going
to come? "It will be a boy," he announced positively,
"because I need one so. It shall be named Julio, and I
hope that it will look like my poor dead wife."
Since the death of his wife he no longer called her
the China, feeling something of a posthumous love for
the poor woman who in her lifetime had endured so
much, so timidly and silently. Now '*my poor dead
wife" cropped out every other instant in the conversation
of the remorseful ranchman.
His desires were fulfilled. Luisa gave birth to a boy
who bore the name of Julio, and although he did not
show in his somewhat sketchy features any striking re-
semblance to his grandmother, still he had the black hair
and eyes and olive skin of a brunette. Welcome! . . .
This was a grandson !
In the generosity of his joy, he even permitted the
German to enter the house for the baptismal ceremony.
When Julio Desnoyers was two years old, his grand-
father made the rounds of his estates, holding him on the
saddle in front of him. He went from ranch to ranch
in order to show him to the copper-colored populace,
like an ancient monarch presenting his heir. Later on,
when the child was able to say a few words, he enter-
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 71
*ained himself for hours at a time talking with the tot
iinder the shade of the eucalyptus tree. A certain mental
failing- was beginning to be noticed in the old man. Al-
though not exactly in his dotage, his aggressiveness w<is
becoming very childish. Even in his most affectionate
moments, he used to contradict everybody, and hun* up
ways of annoying his relatives,
''Come here, you false prophet," he would say to Julio.
**You are a Frenchy."
The grandchild protested as though he had been in-
sulted. His mother had taught him that he was an Ar-
gentinian, and his father had suggested that she c4so
add Spanish, in order to please the grandfather.
"Very well, then; if you are not a Frenchy, shout
'Down with Napoleon !' "
And he looked around him to see if D^ssnoyers might
be near, believing that this would displease him greatly.
But his son-in-law pursued the even tenor of his way,
shrugging his shoulders.
''Down with Napoleon!" repeated Julio.
And he instantly held out his hand while his grand-
father went through his pockets.
Karl's sons, now four in number, used to circle around
their grandparent like a humble chorus kept at a dis-
tance, and stare enviously at these gifts. In order to
win his favor, they one day when they saw him alone,
came boldly up to him, shouting in unison, "Down with
Napoleon !"
"You insolent gringo es!" ranted the old man. "That's
what that shameless father has taught you! If you say
that again, I'll chase you with a cat-o-nine tails. . . .
The very idea of insulting a great man in that way!"
While he tolerated this blond brood, he never would
permit the slightest intimacy. Desnoyers and his wife
often had to come to their rescue, accusing the grand-
']2 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
father of injustice. And in order to pour the vials of
his wrath out on someone, the old plainsman would hunt
up Celedonio, the best of his listeners, who invariably re-
plied, "Yes, Patron. That's so, Patron."
"They're not to blame," agreed the oM man, "but I
can't abide them! Besides, they are so like their father,
so fair, with hair like a shredded carrot, and the two
oldest wearing specs as if they were court clerks! . . .
They don't seem like folks with those glasses ; they look
like sharks."
Madariaga had never seen any sharks, but he imag-
ined them, without knowing why, with round, glassy
eyes, like the bottoms of bottles.
By the time he was eight years old, Julio was a fa-
mous little equestrian. "To horse, peoncito," his grand-
father would cry, and away they would race, streaking
like lightning across the fields, midst thousands and thoU"
sands of horned herds. The "peoncito," proud of his
title, obeyed the master in everything, and so learned to
whirl the lasso over the steers, leaving them bound and
conquered. Upon making his pony take a deep ditch
or creep along the edge of the cliffs, he sometimes fell
under his mount, but clambered up gamely.
"Ah, fine cowboy!" exclaimed the grandfather burst-
ing with pride in his exploits. "Here are five dollars
for you to give a handkerchief to some china!'
The old man, in his increasing mental confusion, did
not gauge his gifts exactly with the lad's years ; and the
infantile horseman, while keeping the money, was won-
dering what china was referred to, and why he should
make her a present.
Desnoyers finally had to drag his son away from the
baleful teachings of his grandfather. It was simply use-
less to have masters come to the house, or to send Julio
to the country school. Madariaga would always stea\
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 73
his grandson away, and then they would scour the plains
together. So when the boy was eleven years old, his
father placed him in a big school in the Capital.
The grandfather then turned his attention to Julio's
three-year-old sister, exhibiting her before him as he had
her brother, as he took her from ranch to ranch. Every-
body called Chicha's little girl Chichi, but the grand-
father bestowed On her the same nickname that he had
given her brother, the *'peoncito." And Chichi, who was
growing up wild, vigorous and wilful, breakfasting on
meat and talking in her sleep of roast beef, readily fell
in with the old man's tastes. She was dressed like a
boy, rode astride like a man, and in order to win her
grandfather's praises as "fine cowboy," carried a knife
in the back of her belt. The two raced the fields from
sun to sun, Madariaga following the flying pigtail of
the little Amazon as though it were a flag. When nine
years old she, too, could lasso the cattle with much dex-
terity.
What most irritated the ranchman was that his family
would remember his age. He received as insults his
son-in-law's counsels to remain quietly at home, becom-
ing more aggressive and reckless as he advanced in
years, exaggerating his activity, as if he wished to drive
Death away. He accepted no help except from his
harum-scarum "Peoncito." When Karl's children, great
hulking youngsters, hastened to his assistance and offered
to hold his stirrup, he would repel them with snorts of
indignation.
"So you think I am no longer able to help myself, eh !
. . . There's still enough life in me to make those who
are waiting for me to die, so as to grab my dollars, chew
their disappointment a long while yet!"
Since the German and his wife were kept pointedly
apart from the family life, they had to put up with these
74 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
allusions in silence. Karl, needing protection, constantly
shadowed the Frenchman, improving every opportunity
to overwhelm him with his eulogies. He never could
thank him enough for all that he had done for him.
He was his only champion. He longed for a chance to
prove his gratitude, to die for him if necessary. His
wife admired him with enthusiasm as "the most gifted
knight in the world." And Desnoyers received their de-
votion in gratified silence, accepting the German as an
excellent comrade. As he controlled absolutely the fam-
ily fortune, he aided Karl very generously without arous-
ing the resentment of the old man. He also took the
initiative in bringing about the realization of Karl's pet
ambition — a visit to the Fatherland. So many years in
America! . . . For the very reason that Desnoyers him-
self had no desire to return to Europe, he wished to
facilitate Karl's trip, and gave him the means to make
the journey with his entire family. The father-in-law
had no curiosity as to who paid the expenses. "Let them
go !" he said gleefully, "and may they never return !"
Their absence was not a very long one, for they
spent their year's allowance in three months. Karl, who
had apprised his parents of the great fortune which his
marriage had brought him, wished to make an impres-
sion as a millionaire, in full enjoyment of his riches.
Elena returned radiant, speaking with pride of her rela-
tives— of the baron. Colonel of Hussars, of the Captain
of the Guard, of the Councillor at Court — asserting that
all countries were most insignificant when compared
with her husband's. She even affected a certain con-
descension toward Desnoyers, praising him as "a very
worthy man, but without ancient lineage or distinguished
family — and French, besides."
Karl, on the other hand, showed the same devotion
as before, keeping himself submissively in the back-
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 75
ground when with his brother-in-law who had the keys
of the cash box and was his only defense against the
browbeating old Patron. . . . He had left his two oldet
sons in a school in Germany. Years afterwards they
reached an equal footing with the other grandchildren
of the Spaniard who always begrudged them their ex-
istence, "perfect frights, with carroty hair, and eyes like
a shark."
Suddenly the old man became very lonely, for they had
also carried off his second "Peoncito." The good Chicha
could not tolerate her daughter's growing up like a boy,
parading 'round on horseback all the time, and glibly
repeating her grandfather's vulgarities. So she was now
in a convent in the Capital, where the Sisters had to
battle valiantly in order to tame the mischievous rebel-
lion of their wild little pupil.
When Julio and Chichi returned to the ranch for their
vacations, the grandfather again concentrated his fond-
ness on the first, as though the girl had merely been a
substitute. Desnoyers was becoming indignant at his
son's dissipated life. He was no longer at college, and
his existence was that of a student in a rich family who
makes up for parental parsimony with all sorts of im-
prudent borrowings.
But Madariaga came to the defense of his grandson.
"Ah, the fine cowboy!" . . . Seeing him again on the
ranch, he admired the dash of the good looking youth,
testing his muscles in order to convince himself of their
strength, and making him to recount his nightly esca-
pades as ringleader of a band of toughs in the Capital.
He longed to go to Buenos Aires himself, just to see the
youngster in the midst of this gay, wild life. But alas!
he was not seventeen like his grandson; he had already
passed eighty.
"Come here, you false prophet! Tell me how many
76 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
children you have. . . . You must have a great many
children, you know!"
"Father!" protested Chicha who was always hanging
around, fearing her parent's bad teachings.
"Stop nagging at me!" yelled the irate old fellow in
a towering temper. "I know what I'm saying."
Paternity figured largely in all his amorous fancies.
He was almost blind, and the loss of his sight was ac-
companied by an increasing mental upset. His crazy
senility took on a lewd character, expressing itself in
language which scandalized or amused the community.
"Oh, you rascal, what a pretty fellow you are!" he
said, leering at Julio with eyes which could no longer'
distinguish things except in a shadowy way. "You are
the living image of my poor dead wife. . . . Have a
good time, for Grandpa is always here with his money!
If you could only count on what your father gives you,
you would live like a hermit. These Frenchies are a
close-fisted lot! But I am looking out for you. Peon-
cito ! Spend and enjoy yourself — that's what your
Granddaddy has piled up the silver for !"
When the Desnoyers children returned to the Capital
he spent his lonesome hours in going from ranch to
ranch. A young half-breed would set the water for his
shrub tea to boiling on the hearth, and the old man would
wonder confusedly if she were his daughter. Another,
fifteen years old, would offer him a gourd filled with the
bitter liquid and a silver pipe with which to sip it. . . .
A grandchild, perhaps — he wasn't sure. And so he
passed the afternoons, silent and sluggish, drinking
gourd after gourd of shrub tea, surrounded by families
who stared at him with admiration and fear.
Every time he mounted his horse for these excursions,
his older daughter would protest. "At eighty- four
^«ars ! Would it not be better for him to remain auietlv
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR y^
at home. . . . Some day something terrible would hap-
pen!" . . . And the terrible thing did happen. One eve-
ning the Patron's horse came slowly home without its
rider. The old man had fallen on the sloping highway,
and when they found him, he was dead. Thus died the
centaur as he had lived, with the lash hanging from
his wrist, with his legs bowed by the saddle.
A Spanish notary, almost as old as he, produced the
will. The family was somewhat alarmed at seeing what
a voluminous document it was. What terrible bequests
had Madariaga dictated? The reading of the first part
tranquilized Karl and Elena. The old father had left
considerably more to the wife of Desnoyers, but there
still remained an enormous share for the Romantica and
her children. *T do this," he said, "in memory of my
poor dead wife, and so that people won't talk."
After this, came eighty-six legacies. Eighty-five dark-
hued individuals (women and men), who had lived on
the ranch for many years as tenants and retainers, were
tu receive the last paternal munificence of the old pa-
triarch. At the head of these was Celedonio whom
Madariaga had greatly enriched in his lifetime for no
heavier work than listening to him and repeating, "That's
so. Patron, that's true!" More than a million dollars
were represented by these bequests in lands and herds.
The one who completed the list of beneficiaries was Julio
Desnoyers. The grandfather had made special men-
tion of this namesake, leaving him a plantation **to
meet his private expenses, making up for that which
his father would not give him."
**But that represents hundreds of thousands of dol-
lars!" protested Karl, who had been making himself al-
most obnoxious in his efforts to assure himself that his
wife had not been overlooked in the will.
The days followmg the j^ading of this will were very
78 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSI*
trying ones for the family. Elena and her children keji^
looking at the other group as though they had jusf
waked up, contemplating them in an entirely new light
They seemed to forget what they were going to receive
in their envy of the much larger share of their rela
tives.
Desnoyers, benevolent and conciliatory, had a plan.
An expert in administrative affairs, he realized that the
distribution among the heirs was going to double the
expenses without increasing the income. He was cal-
culating, besides, the complications and disbursements
necessary for a judicial division of nine immense ranches,
hundreds of thousands of cattle, deposits in the banks,
houses in the city, and debts to collect. Would it not
be better for them all to continue living as before? . . .
Had they not lived most peaceably as a united fam-
ily? . . .
The German received this suggestion by drawing him-
self up haughtily. No ; to each one should be given
what was his. Let each live in his own sphere. He
wished to establish himself in Europe, spending his
wealth freely there. It was necessary for him to return
to "his world."
As they looked squarely at each other, Desnoyers saw
an unknown Karl, a Karl whose existence he had never
suspected when he was under his protection, timid and
servile. The Frenchman, too, was beginning to see
things in a new light.
"Very well," he assented. "Let each take his own.
That seems fair to me."
CHAPTER III
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY
The "Madariagan succession," as it was called in the
language of the legal men interested in prolonging it in
order to augment their fees — was divided into two
groups, separated by the ocean. The Desnoyers moved
to Buenos Aires. The Hartrotts moved to Berlin as
soon as Karl could sell all the legacy, to re-invest it in
lands and industrial enterprises in his own country.
Desnoyers no longer cared to live in the country. For
twenty years, now, he had been the head of an enor-
mous agricultural and stock raising business, oversee-
ing hundreds of men in the various ranches. The par-
celling out of the old man's fortune among Elena and
the other legatees had considerably constricted the ra-
dius of his authority, and it angered him to see estab-
lished on the neighboring lands so many foreigners, al-
most all Germans, who had bought of Karl. Further-
more, he was getting old, his wife's inheritance amount-
ed to about twenty millions of dollars, and perhaps his
brother-in-law was showing the better judgment in re-
turning to Europe.
So he leased some of the plantations, handed over the
superintendence of others to those mentioned in the will
v/ho considered themselves left-handed members of the
family — of which Desnoyers as the Patron received their
submissive allegiance — and moved to Buenos Aires.
By this move, he was able to keep an eye on his son
who continued living a dissipated life without making
79
8o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
any headway in his engineering studies. Then, too, Chi-
chi was now almost a woman — her robust development
making her look older than she was — and it was not ex-
pedient to keep her on the estate to become a rustic
seiiorita like her mother.
Dona Luisa had also tired of ranch life, the social tri-
umphs of her sister making her a little restless. She was
incapable of feeling jealous, but material ambitions made
her anxious that her children should not bring up the
rear of the procession in which the other grandchildren
were cutting such a dashing figure.
During the year, most wonderful reports from Ger-
many were finding their way to the Desnoyers home
in the Capital. 'The aunt from Berlin," as the children
called her, kept sending long letters filled with accounts
of dances, dinners, hunting parties and titles — many
high-sounding and military titles; — "our brother, the
Colonel," "our cousin, the Baron," "our uncle, the Inti-
mate Councillor," "our great-uncle, the Truly Intimate,"
All the extravagances of the German social ladder, which
incessantly manufactures new titles in order to satisfy
the thirst for honors of a people divided into castes, were
enumerated with delight by the old Romantica. She
even mentioned her husband's secretary (a nobody) who,
through working in the public offices, had acquired the
title of Rechnungarath, Councillor of Calculations. She
also referred with much pride to the retired Oberpedell
which she had in her house, explaining that that meant
'"Superior Porter."
The news about her children was no less glorious. The
oldest was the wise one of the family. He was devoted
to philology and the historical sciences, but his sight
was growing w^eaker all the time beui^se of his om-
nivorous reading. Soon he would be a Doctor, and be-
fore he was thirty, a Herr Professor. The mother la-
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 8i
mented that he had not mihtary aspirations, considering
that his tastes had somewhat distorted the lofty destinies
of the family. Professorships, sciences and literature
were more properly the perquisites of the Jews, unable,
because of their race, to obtain preferment in the army:
but she was trying to console herself by keeping in mind
that a celebrated professor could, in time, acquire a so-
cial rank almost equal to that of a colonel.
Her other four sons would become officers. Their
father was preparing the ground so that they might em
ter the Guard or some aristocratic regiment without any
of the members being able to vote against their admis-
sion. The two daughters would sure'y marry, when
they had reached a suitable age with officers of the
Hussars whose names bore the magic "von" of petty no-
bility, haughty and charming gentlemen about whom
the daughter of Misia Petrona waxed most enthusias-
tic.
The establishment of the Hartrotts was in keeping
with these new relationships. In the home in Berlin,
the servants wore knee-breeches and white wigs on the
nights of great banquets. Karl had bought an old castle
with pointed towers, ghosts in the cellars, and various
legends of assassinations, assaults and abductions which
enlivened its history in an interesting way. An archi-
tect, decorated with many foreign orders, and bearing
the title of ''Councillor of Construction," was engaged
to modernize the mediaeval edifice without sacrificing its
terrifying aspect. The Romantica described in antici-
pation the receptions in the gloomy salon, the light dif-
fused by electricity, simulating torches, the crackling
bf the emblazoned hearth with its imitation logs bristling
with flames of gas, all the splendor of modem luxury
combined with the souvenirs of an epoch of omnipotent
nobility — the best, according to her, in history. And
82 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the hunting parties, the future hunting parties! ... in
an annex of sandy and loose soil with pine woods — in
no way comparable to the rich ground of their native
ranch, but which had the honor of being trodden cen-
turies ago by the Princes of Brandenburg, founders of
the reigning house of Prussia. And all this advance-
ment in a single year! . . .
They had, of course, to compete with other oversea
families who had amassed enormous fortunes in the
United States, Brazil or the Pacific coast ; but these were
Germans ''without lineage," coarse plebeians who were
struggling in vain to force themselves into the great
world by making donations to the imperial works. With
all their millions, the very most that they could ever
hope to attain would be to marry their daughters with
ordinary soldiers. Whilst Karl! . . . The relatives of
Karl ! . . . and the Romantica let her pen run on, glori-
fying a family in whose bosom she fancied she had been
bom.
From time to time were enclosed with Elena's effu-
sions brief, crisp notes directed to Desnoyers. The
brother-in-law continued giving an account of his oper-
ations the same as when Hving on the ranch under his
protection. But with this deference was now mixed a
badly concealed pride, an evident desire to retaliate for
his times of voluntary humiliation. Everything that hp
was doing wa£ ^J^-iSd and glorious. He had investe(i
his millions in the industrial enterprises of modem Ger-
many. He was stockholder of munition factories as big
as towns, and of navigation companies launching a ship
every half year. The Emperor was interesting himself
in these works, looking benevolently on all those who
wished to aid him. Besides this, Karl was buying land.
At first sight, it seemed foolish to have sold the fer-
tile fields of their inheritance in order to acquire sandy
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 83
Prussian wastes that yielded only to much artificial fer-
tilizing; but by becoming a land owner, he now belonged
to the "Agrarian Party," the aristocratic and conserva-
tive group par excellence^ and thus he was living in two
different but equally distinguished worlds — that of the
great industrial friends of the Emperor, and that of the
Junkers, knights of the countryside, guardians of the
old traditions and the supply-source of the officials of
the King of Prussia.
On hearing of these social strides, Desnoyers could not
but think of the pecuniary sacrifices which they must
represent. He knew Karl's past, for on the ranch, un-
der an impulse of gratitude, the German had one day
revealed to the Frenchman the cause of his coming to
America. He w^as a former officer in the German army,
but the desire of living ostentatiously without other re-
sources than his salary, had dragged him into commit-
ting such reprehensible acts as abstracting funds belong-
ing to the regiment, incurring debts of honor and paying
for them with forged signatures. These crimes had not
been officially prosecuted through consideration of his
father's memory, but the members of his division had
submitted him to a tribunal of honor. His brothers and
friends had advised him to shoot himself as the only
remedy ; but he loved Hfe and had fled to South America
where, in spite of humiliations, he had finally triumphed.
Wealth effaces the spots of the past even more rapidly
than TimCc The news of his fortune on the other side
of the ocean made his family give him a warm reception
on his first voyage home; introducing him again mto
their world. Nobody could remember shameful stories
about a few hundred marks concerning a man who was
talking about his father-in-law's lands, more extensive
than many German principalities. Now, upon installing
himself definitely in his country, all was forgotten. But,
84 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
oh, the contributions levied upon his vanity . . . Des-
noyers shrewdly guessed at the thousands of marks
poured with both hands into the charitable works of the
Empress, into the imperialistic propagandas, into the
societies of veterans, into the clubs of aggression and
expansion organized by German ambition.
The frugal Frenchman, thrifty in his expenditures and
free from social ambitions, smiled at the grandeurs of his
brother-in-law. He considered Karl an excellent com-
panion although of a childish pride. He recalled with
satisfaction the years that they had passed together in
the country. He could not forget the German who was
always hovering around him, affectionate and submissive
as a younger brother. When his family commented with
a somewhat envious vivacity upon the glories of their
Berlin relatives, Desnoyers would say smilingly, "Leave
them in peace; they are paying very dear for their
whistle."
But the enthusiasm which the letters from Germany
breathed finally created an atmosphere of disquietude and
rebellion. Chichi led the attack. Why were they not
going to Europe like other folks? all their friends had
been there. Even the Italian and Spanish shopkeepers
were making the voyage while she, the daughter of a
Frenchman, had never seen Paris! . . Oh, Paris. The
doctors in attendance on melancholy ladies were announc-
ing the existence of a new and terrible disease, "the
mania for Paris." Dona Luisa supported her daughter.
Why had she not gone to live in Europe like her sister,
since she was the richer of the two ? Even Julio gravely
declared that in the old world he could study to better
advantage. America is not the land of the learned.
Infected by the general unrest, the father finally began
to wonder why the idea of going to Europe had not
occurred to him long before. Thirty-four years without
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 85^-
going to that country which was not his ! ... It was high
time to start ! He was living too near to his business. In
vain the retired ranchman had tried to keep himself
mdifferent to the money market. Everybody was coin-
ing money around him. In the club, in the theatre,
wherever he went, the people were talking about pur-
chases of lands, of sales of stock, of quick negotiations
with a triple profit, of portentous balances. The amount
of money that he was keeping idle in the banks was
beginning to weigh upon him. He finally ended by
involving himself in some speculation; like a gambler
who cannot see the roulette wheel without putting his
hand in his pocket.
His family was right. ''To Paris !" For in the Desnoy-
ers' mind, to go to Europe meant, of course, to go to
Paris. Let the "aunt from Berlin" keep on chanting the
glories of her husband's country! 'Tt's sheer nonsense !''
exclaimed Julio, who had made grave geographical and
ethnic comparisons in his nightly forays. "There is no
place but Paris !'' Chichi saluted with an ironical smile
the slightest doubt of it — "Perhaps they make as elegant
fashions in Germany as in Paris! . = . Bah!" Dona
Luisa took up her children's cry, "Paris!" . . . Never
had it even occurred to her to go to a Lutheran land to
be protected by her sister.
"Let it be Paris, then !" said the Frenchman, as though
he were speaking of an unknown city.
He had accustomed himself to believe that he would
never return to it. During the first years of his life in
America, the trip would have been an impossibility be-
cause of the military service which he had evaded. Then
he had vague news of different amnesties. After the
time for conscription had long since passed, an inertness
of will had made him consider a return to his country as
somewhat absurd and useless. On the other side, noth'
86 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ing remained to attract him. He had even lost track of
those country relatives with whom his mother had lived.
In his heaviest hours he had tried to occupy his activity
by planning an enormous mausoleum, all of marble, in
La Recoleta, the cemetery of the rich, in order to move
thither the remains of Madariaga as founder of the
dynasty, following him with all his own when their hour
should come. He was beginning to feel the weight of
age. He was nearly seventy years old, and the rude life
of the country, the horseback rides in the rain, the rivers
forded upon his swimming horse, the nights passed in th^.
open air, had brought on a rheumatism that was tortur-
ing his best days.
His family, however, reawakened his enthusiasm. "To
Paris !" . . . He began to fancy that he was twenty again,
and forgetting his habitual parsimony, wished his house-
hold to travel like royalty, in the most luxurious state-
rooms, and with personal servants Two copper-hued
country girls, born on the ranch and elevated to the rank
of maids to the senora and her daughter, accompanied
them on the voyage, their oblique eyes betraying not the
slightest astonishment before the greatest novelties.
Once in Paris, Desnoyers found himself quite bewil-
dered. He confused the names of streets, proposed visits
to buildings which had long since disappeared, and all his
attempts to prove himself an expert authority on Paris
were attended with disappointment. His children, guided
by recent reading up, knew Paris better than he. He was
considered a foreigner in his own country. At first, he
even felt a certain strangeness in using his native tongue,
for he had remained on the ranch without speaking a
word of his language for years at a time. He was used
to thinking in Spanish, and translating his ideas into the
speech of his ancestors, spattered his French with all
kinds of Creole dialect.
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 87
"Where a man makes his fortune and raises his family,
there is hi-s true country," he said sententiously, remem*
bering Madariaga.
The image of that distant country dominated him with
insistent obsession as soon as the impressions of the
voyage had worn off. He had no French friends, and
upon going into the street, his feet instinctively took him
to the places where the Argentinians gathered together.
It was the same with them. They had left their country
only to feel, with increasing intensity, the desire to talk
about it all the time. There he read the papers, com-
menting on the rising prices in the fields, on the prospects
for the next harvests and on the sales of cattle. Return-
ing home, his thoughts were still in America, and he
chuckled with delight as he recalled the way in which the
two chinas had defied the professional dignity of the
French cook, preparing their native stews and other
dishes in Creole style.
He had settled the family in an ostentatious house in
the avenida Victor Hugo, for which he paid a rental of
twenty-eight thousand francs. Dofia Luisa had to go and
come many times before she could accustom herself
to the imposing aspect of the concierges — he, decorated
with gold trimmings on his black uniform and wearing
white whiskers like a notary in a comedy, she with a
chain of gold upon her exuberant bosom, and receiving
the tenants in a red and gold salon. In the rooms above
was ultra-modern luxury, gilded and glacial, with white
walls and glass doors with tiny panes which exasperated
Desnoyers, who longed for the complicated carvings and
rich furniture in vogue during his youth. He himself
directed the arrangement and furnishings of the various
rooms which always seemed empty.
Chichi protested against her father's avarice when she
saw him buying slowly and with much calculation and
88 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
hesitation. "Avarice, no !" he retorted, "it is because I
know the worth of things."
Nothing pleased him that he had not acquired at one-
third of its value. Beating down those who overcharged
but proved the superiority of the buyer. Paris offered
him one delightful spot which he could not find anywhere
else in the world — the Hotel Droiiot. He would go there
every afternoon that he did not find other important auc-
tions advertised in the papers. For many years, there
was no famous failure in Parisian life, with its conse-
quent liquidation, from which he did not carry something
away. The use and need of these prizes were matters of
secondary interest, the great thing was to get them for
ridiculous prices. So the trophies from the auction-
rooms now began to inundate the apartment which, at
the beginning, he had been furnishing with such desperate
slowness.
His daughter now complained that the home was ge^
ting overcrowded. The furnishings and ornaments weie
handsome, but too many . . . far too many ! The white
walls seemed to scowl at the magnificent sets of chairs
and the overflowing glass cabinets. Rich and velvety
carpets over which had passed many generations, cov-
ered all the compartments. Showy curtains, not finding
a vacant frame in the salons, adorned the doors leading
into the kitchen. The wall mouldings gradually dis-
appeared under an overlay of pictures, placed close
together like the scales of a cuirass. Who now could
accuse Desnoyers of avarice? . . . He was investing far
more than a fashionable contractor would have dreamed
of spending.
The underlying idea still was to acquire all this for a
fourth of its price — an exciting bait which lured the
economical man into continuous dissipation. He could
sleep well only when he had driven a good bargain during
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 89
the day. He bought at auction thousands of bottles of
wine consigned by bankrupt firms, and he who scarcely
ever drank, packed his wine cellars to overflowing, advis-
ing his family to use the champagne as freely as ordinary
wine. The failure of a furrier induced him to buy for
fourteen thousand francs pelts worth ninety thousand.
In consequence, the entire Desnoyers family seemed sud-
denly to be suffering as frightfully from cold as though
a polar iceberg had invaded the avenida Victor Hugo.
The father kept only one fur coat for himself but ordered
three for his son. Chichi and Dona Luisa appeared
arrayed in all kinds of silky and luxurious skins — one
day chinchilla, other days blue fox, marten or seal.
The enraptured buyer would permit no one but himself
to adorn the walls with his new acquisitions, using the
hammer from the top of a step-ladder in order to save
the expense of a professional picture hanger. He wished
to set his children the example of economy. In his idle
hours, he would change the position of the heaviest
pieces of furniture, trying every kind of combination.
This employment reminded him of those happy days
when he handled great sacks of wheat and bundles of
hides on the ranch. Whenever his son noticed that he
was looking thoughtfully at a monumental sideboard or
heavy piece, he prudently betook himself to other haunts.
Desnoyers stood a little in awe of the two house-men,
very solemn, correct creatures always in dress suit, who
could not hide their astonishment at seeing a man with
an income of more than a million francs engaged in such
work. Finally it was the two coppery maids who aided
their Patron, the three v/orking contentedly together like
companions in exile.
Four automobiles completed the luxuriousness of the
family. The children would have been more content with
one — small and dashing, in the very latest style. But
90 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE x^POCALYt^SE
Desnoyers was not the man to let a bargain slip past him,
so one after the other, he had picked up the four, tempted
by the price^ They were as enormous and majestic as
coaches of state. Their entrance into a street made the
passers-by turn and stare. The chauffeur needed two
assistants to help him keep this flock of mastodons in
order, but the proud owner thought only of the skill with
which he had gotten the best of the salesmen, anxious
to get such monuments out of their sight.
To his children he was always recommending simplicity
and economy, **We are not as rich as you suppose. We
own a good deal of property, but it produces a scanty
income."
And then, after refusing a domestic expenditure of two
hundred francs, he would put five thousand into an un-
necessary purchase just because it would mean a great
loss to the seller. Julio and his sister kept protesting to
their mother. Dona Luisa — Chichi even going so far as to
announce that she would never marry a man like het
father,
"Hush, hush !" exclaimed the scandalized Creole. "He
has his little peculiarities, but he is very good. Never has
he given me any cause for complaint. I only hope that
you may be lucky enough to find his equal."
Her husband's quarrelsomeness, his irritable character
and his masterful will all sank into insignificance when
she thought of his unvarying fidelity. In so many years
of married life . . . nothing! His faithfulness had been
unexceptional even in the country where many, sur-
rounded by beasts, and intent on increasing their flocks^
had seemed to become contaminated by the general ani-
malism. She remembered her father only too well ! . . .
Even her sister was obliged to live in apparent calmness
with the vainglorious Karl, quite capable of disloyalty
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 91
not because of any special lust, but just to imitate the
doings of his superiors,
Desnoyers and his wife were plodding through life in a
routine affection, reminding Dona Luisa, in her limited
imagination, of the yokes of oxen on the ranch who re-
fused to budge whenever another animal was substituted
for the regular companion. Her husband certainly was
quick tempered, holding her responsible for all the whims
with which he exasperated his children, yet he could
never bear to have her out of his sight. The afternoons
at the hotel Droiiot would be most insipid for him unless
she was at his side, the confidante of his plans and wrath-
ful outbursts.
"To-day there is to be a sale of jewels; shall we go?'*
He would make this proposition in such a gentle and
coaxing voice — the voice that Doiia Luisa remembered in
their first talks around the old home. And so they would
go together, but by different routes; — she in one of the
monumental vehicles because, accustomed to the leisurely
carriage rides of the ranch she no longer cared to walk;
and Desnoyers — although owner of the four automobiles^
heartily abominating them because he was conservative
and uneasy with the complications of new machinery^
on foot under the pretext that, through lack of work, his
body needed the exercise. When they met in the crowded
salesrooms, they proceeded to examine the jewels to-
gether, fixing beforehand the price they would offer.
But he, quick to become exasperated by opposition,
always went further, hurling numbers at his competitors
as though they were blows. After such excursions, the
senora would appear as majestic and dazzling as a basilica
of Byzantium — ears and neck decorated with great
pearls, her bosom a constellation of brilliants, her hands
radiating points of light of all colors of the rainbow.
"Too much, mama," Chichi would protest. "They will
92 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
take you for a pawnbroker's lady!" But the Creole,
satisfied with her splendor, the crowning glory of a
humble life, attributed her daughter's faultfinding to
envy. Chichi was only a girl now, but later on she would
thank her for having collected all these gems for her.
Already the home was unable to accommodate so many
purchases. In the cellars were piled up enough paint-
ings, furniture, statues, and draperies to equip several
other dwellings. Don Marcelo began to complain of the
cramped space in an apartment costing twenty-eight
thousand francs a year — in reality large enough for a
family four times the size of his. He was beginning to
deplore being obliged to renounce some very tempting
furniture bargains when a real estate agent smelled out
the foreigner and relieved him of his embarrassment.
Why not buy a castle ? . . .
The entire family was delighted with the idea. An his-
toric castle, the most historic that could be found, would
supplement their luxurious establishment. Chichi paled
with pride. Some of her friends had castles. Others, of
old colonial family, who were accustomed to look down
upon her for her country bringing up, would now cry
with envy upon learning of this acquisition which was
almost a patent of nobility. The mother smiled in the
hope of months in the country which would recall the
simple and happy life of her youth. Julio was less
enthusiastic. The "old man" would expect him to spend
much time away from Paris, but he consoled himself
by reflecting that the suburban place would provide ex-
cuse for frequent automobile trips.
Desnoyers thought of the relatives in Berlin. Why
should he not have his castle like the others? . . . The
bargains were alluring. Historic mansions by the dozen
were offered him. Their owners, exhausted by the ex-
pense of maintaining them, were more than anxious to
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 93
sell. So he bought the castle of Villeblanche-sur-Mame,
built in the time of the religious wars — a mixture of
palace and fortress with an Italian Renaissance fagade,
gloomy towers with pointed hoods, and moats in which
swans were swimming.
Ke could now live with some tracts of land over which
to exercise his authority, struggling again with the resist-
ance of men and things. Besides, the vast proportions
of the rooms of the castle were very tempting and bare
of furniture. This opportunity for placing the overflow
from his cellars plunged him again into buying. With
this atmosphere of lordly gloom, the antiques would
harmonize beautifully, without that cry of protest which
they always seemed to make when placed in contact with
the glaring white walls of modern habitations. The his-
toric residence required an endless outlay; on that
account it had changed owners so many times.
But he and the land understod each other beautifully.
... So at the same time that he was filling the salons, he
was going to begin farming and stock-raising in the
extensive parks — a reproduction in miniature of his
enterprises in South America. The property ought to be
made self-supporting. Not that he had any fear of thoi
expenses, but he did not intend to lose money on th^
proposition.
The acquisition of the castle brought Desnoyers a true
friendship — the chief advantage in the transaction. He
became acquainted with a neighbor, Senator Lacour, wha
twice had been Minister of State, and was now vegetat-
ing in the senate, silent during its sessions, but restless
and voluble in the corridors in order to maintain his
influence. He was a prominent figure of the republican
nobility, an aristocrat of the new regime that had sprung
from the agitations of the Revolution, just as the titled
nobility had won their spurs in the Crusades. His great-
94 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
grandfather had belonged to the Convention. His father
had figured in the Republic of 1848. He, as the son of
an exile who had died in banishment, had when very
young marched behind the grandiloquent figure of Gam-
betta, and always spoke in glowing terms of the Master,
in the hope that some of his rays might be reflected on
his disciple. His son, Rene, a pupil of the Ecole Cen-
trale, regarded his father as "a rare old sport," laughing
a little at his romantic and humanitarian republicanism.
He, nevertheless, was counting much on that same official
protection treasured by four generations of Lacours,
dedicated to the service of the Republic, to assist him
when he became an engineer.
Don Marcelo, who used to look uneasily upon any new
friendship, fearing a demand for a loan, gave himself up
with enthusiasm to intimacy with this "grand man." The
personage admired riches and recognized, besides, a cer-
tain genius in this millionaire from the other side of the
sea accustomed to speaking of limitless pastures and
immense herds. Their intercourse was more than the
mere friendliness of a country neighborhood, and con-
tinued on after their return to Paris. Finally Rene
visited the home on the avenida Victor Hugo as though
it were his own.
The only disappointments in Desnoyers' new life came
from his children. Chichi irritated him because of the
independence of her tastes. She did not like antiques,
no matter how substantial and magnificent they might be,
much preferring the frivolities of the latest fashion. She
accepted all her father's gifts with great indifference.
Before an exquisite blo:ide piece of lace, centuries old,
picked up at auction, she made a wry face, saying, *T
would much rather have had a new dress costing three
hundred francs." She and her brother were soldi^v
opposed to everything old.
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 95
Now that his daughter was already a woman, he had
confided her absolutely to the care of Dona Luisa. But
the former "Peoncito" was not showing much respect
for the advice and commands of the good natured Creole.
She had taken up roller-skating with enthusiasm, regard-
ing it as the most elegant of diversions. She would go
every afternoon to the Ice Palace, Dona Luisa chaperon-
ing her, although to do this she was obliged to give up
accompanying her husband to his sales. Oh, the hours
of deadly weariness before that frozen oval ring, watch-
ing the white circle of balancing human monkeys gliding
by on runners to the sound of an organ ! . . . Her daughter
would pass and repass before her tired eyes, rosy from
the exercise, spirals of hair escaped from her hat,
streaming out behind, the folds of her skirt swinging
above her skates — handsome, athletic and Amazonian,
with the rude health of a child who, according to her
father, 'liad been weaned on beefsteaks."
Finally Dona Luisa rebelled against this troublesome
vigilance, preferring to accompany her husband on his
hunt for underpriced riches. Chichi went to the skating
rink with one of the dark-skinned maids, passing the
afternoons with her sporty friends of the new world.
Together they ventilated thei* ideas xndti l^ie glare o!
the easy life of Paris, ireed from the scruples and con-
ventions of their native land. They all thought them-
selves older than they were, delighting to discover in
each other unsuspected charms. The change from the
other hemisphere had altered their sense of values.
Some were even writing verses in French. And Des-
noyers became alarmed, giving free rein to his bad
humor, when Chichi, of evenings, would bring forth as
aphorisms that which she and her friends had been
discussing, as a summary of their readings and observa-
tions.— "Life is life, and one must live! ... I will
96 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
marry the man I love, no matter who he may be. . . .**
But the daughter's independence was as nothing com-
pared to the worry which the other child gave the Des-
noyers. Ay, that other one ! . . . Julio, upon arriving in
Paris, had changed the bent of his aspirations. He no
longer thought of becoming an engineer; he wished to
become an artist. Don Marcelo objected in great con-
sternation, but finally yielded. Let it be painting! The
important thing was to have some regular profession.
The father, while he considered property and wealth as
sacred rights, felt that no one should enjoy them who
had not worked to acquire them.
Recalling his apprenticeship as a wood carver, he be-
gan to hope that the artistic instincts which poverty had
extinguished in him were, perhaps, reappearing in his
son. What if this lazy boy, this lively genius, hesitating
before taking up his walk in life, should turn out to be
a famous painter, after all! ... So he agreed to all of
Julio's caprices, the budding artist insisting that for his
first efforts in drawing and coloring he needed a separate
apartment where he could work with more freedom.
His father, therefore, established him near his home, in
the rue de la Pompe in the former studio of a well-known
foreign painter. The work-room and its annexes were
far too large for an amateur, but the owner had died, and
Desnoyers improved the opportunity offered by the heirs,
and bought at a remarkable bargain the entire plant,
pictures and furnishings.
Doiia Luisa at first visited the studio daily like a good
mother, caring for the well-being of her son that he may
work to better advantage. Taking off her gloves, she
emptied the brass trays filled with cigar stubs and dusted
the furniture powdered with the ashes fallen from the
pipes. Julio's visitors, long-haired young men who spoke
£)f things that she could not understand, seemed to her
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 97
rather careless in their manners. . . . Later on she also
met there women, very lightly clad, and was received
with scowls by her son. Wasn't his mother ever going
to let him work in peace? ... So the poor lady, starting
out in the morning toward the rue de la Pompe, stopped
midway and went instead to the church of Saint Honore
d'Eylau.
The father displayed more prudence. A man of his
years could not expect to mingle with the chums of a
young artist. In a few months' time, Julio passed entire
weeks without going to sleep under the paternal roof.
Finally he installed himself permanently in his studio,
occasionally making a flying trip home that his family
might know that he was still in existence. . . . Some
mornings, Desnoyers would arrive at the rue de la Pompe
in order to ask a few questions of the concierge. It was
ten o'clock; the artist was sleeping. Upon returning at
midday, he learned that the heavy sleep still continued.
Soon after lunch, another visit to get better news. It
was two o'clock, the young gentleman was just arising.
So the father would retire, muttering stormily — "But
when does this painter ever paint ?" . . .
At first Julio had tried to win renown with his brush,
believing that it would prove an easy task. In true artist
fashion, he collected his friends around him. South
American boys with nothing to do but enjoy life, scat-
tering money ostentatiously so that everybody might
know of their generosity. With serene audacity, the
young canvas-dauber undertook to paint portraits. He
loved good painting, ^^distinctive" painting, with the cloy-
ing sweetness of a romance, that copied only the forms
of women. He had money, a good studio, his father was
standing behind him ready to help — why shouldn't he
accomplish as much as many others who lacked his
opr^rtunities ? . . .
y6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
So he began his work by coloring a canvas entitled,
"The Dance of the Hours," a mere pretext for copying
pretty girls and selecting buxom models. These he would
sketch at a mad speed, filling in the outlines with blobs
of multi-colored paint, and up to this point all went well.
Then he would begin to vacillate, remaining idle before
the picture only to put it in the corner in hope of later
inspiration. It was the same way with his various studies
of feminine heads. Finding that he was never able to
finish anything, he soon became resigned, like one who
pants with fatigue before an obstacle waiting for a Drovi-
dential interposition to save him. The important thing was
to be a painter . . . even though he might not paint any-
thing. This afforded him the opportunity, on the plea of
lofty aestheticism, of sending out cards of invitation and
asking light women to his studio. He lived during the
night. Don Marcelo, upon investigating the artist's work,
could not contain his indignation. Every morning the
two Desnoyers were accustomed to greet the first hours
of dawn — the father leaping from his bed, the son, on
his way home to his studio to throw himself upon his
couch not to wake till midday-
The credulous Dona Luisa would invent the most
absurd explanations to defend her son. Who could tell ?
Perhaps he had the habit of painting during the night,
utilizing it for original work. Men resort to so many
devilish things! . . .
Desnoyers knew very well what these nocturnal gusts
of genius were amounting to — scandals in the restaurants
of Montmartre, and scrimmages, many scrimmages. He
and his gang, who believed that at seven a full dress or
Tuxedo was indispensable, were like a band of Indians,
bringing to Paris the wild customs of the plains. Cham-
pagne always made them quarrelsome. So they broke
and paid, but their generosities were almost invariably
THE DESNOYERS FAMIITY 99
followed by a scuffle. No one could surpass Julio in the
quick slap and the ready card. His father heard with a
heavy heart the news brought him by some friends think-
ing to flatter his vanity — his son was always victorious in
these gentlemanly encounters; he it was who always
scratched the enemy's skin. The painter knew more
about fencing than art. He was a champion with various
weapons ; he could box, and was even skilled in the
favorite blow- of the prize fighters of the slums. "Use-
less as a drone, and as dangerous, i^' 00," fretted his father.
And yet in the back of his troubled mind fluttered an
irresistible satisfaction — an animal pride in the thought
that this hare-brained terror was his own.
For a while, he thought that he had hit upon a way of
withdrawing his son from such an existence. The rela-
tives in Berlin had visited the Desnoyers in their castle
of Villeblanche. With good-natured superiority, Karl
von Hartrott had appreciated the rich and rather absurd
accumulations of his brother-in-law. They were not bad;
he admitted that they gave a certain cachet to the home
in Paris and to the castle. They smacked of the posses-
sions of titled nobility. But Germany ! . . . The comforts
and luxuries in his country! . . . He just wished his
brother-in-law to admire the way be lived and the noble
friendships that embellished his opulence. And so he
insisted in his letters that the Desnoyers family should
return their visit. This change of environment might
tone Julio down a little. Perhaps his ambition might
waken on seeing the diligence of his cousins, each with a
career. The Frenchman had, besides, an underlying
belief in the more corrupt influence of Paris as compared
with the purity of the customs in Patriarchal Germany.
They were there four months. In a little while Des~
noyers felt ready to retreat. Each to his own kind; he
would never be able to understand such people. Exceed-
loo FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ingly amiable, with an abject amiability and evident
desire to please, but constantly blundering through a tact-
less desire to make their grandeur felt. The high-toned
friends of Hartrott emphasized their love for France, but
it was the pious love that a weak and mischievous child
inspires, needing protection. And they would accompany
their affability with all manner of inopportune memories
of the wars in which France had been conquered. Every-
thing in Germany — a monument, a railroad station, a
simple dining-room device, instantly gave rise to glorious
comparisons. "In France, you do not have this,'' *'0f
course, you never saw anything like this in America.'*
Don Marcelo came away fatigued by so much con-
descension, and his wife and daughter refused to be
convinced that the elegance of Berlin could be superior
to Paris. Chichi, with audacious sacrilege, scandalized
her cousins by declaring that she could not abide the
corseted officers with immovable monocle, who bowed to
the women with such automatic rigidity, blending their
gallantries with an air of superiority.
Julio, guided by his cousins, was saturated in the vir-
tuous atmosphere of Berlin. With the oldest, 'The Sage,"
he had nothing to do. He was a poor creature devoted to
his books who patronized all the family with a protecting
air. It was the others, the sub-lieutenants or military stu-
dents, who proudly showed him the rounds of German joy.
Julio was accordingly introduced to all the night restau-
rants— imitations of those in Paris, but on a much larger
scale. The women who in Paris might be counted by the
dozens appeared here in hundreds. The scandalous
drunkenness here never came by chance, but always by
design as an indispensable part of the gaiety. All was
grandiose, glittering, colossal. The libertines diverted
themselves in platoons, the public got drunk in com-
panies, the harlots presented themselves in regiments.
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY lOI
He felt a sensation of disgust before these timid and
servile females, accustomed to blows, who were so eagerly
trying to reimburse themselves for the losses and expos-
ures of their business. For him, it was impossible to
celebrate with hoarse ha-has, like his cousins, the dis-
romfiture of these women when they realized that they
had wasted so many hours without accomplishing more
than abundant drinking. The gross obscenity, so public
and noisy, like a parade of riches, was loathsome to Julio.
^*There is nothing like this in Paris," his cousins repeat-
edly exulted as they admired the stupendous salons, the
hundreds of m.en and women in pairs, the thousands of
tipplers. *'No, there certainly was nothing like that in
Paris." He was sick of such boundless pretension. He
seemed to be attending a fiesta of hungry mariners
anxious at one swoop to make amends for all former
privations. Like his father, he longed to get away. It
offended his aesthetic sense.
Don Marcelo returned from this visit with melancholy
resignation. Those people had undoubtedly made great
strides. He was not such a blind patriot that he
could not admit what was so evident. Within a few
years they had transformed their countr}% and their
industry was astonishing . . . but, well ... it was simply
impossible to have anything to do with them. Each to
his own, but may they never take a notion to envy their
neighbor! . . . Then he immediately repelled this last
suspicion with the optimism of a business man.
"They are going to be very rich," he thought. "Their
affairs are prospering, and he that is rich does not hunt
quarrels. That war of which some crazy fools are
always dreaming would be an impossible thing."
Young Desnoyers renewed his Parisian existence, liv-
ing entirely in the studio and going less and less to hi?
father's home. Doiia Luisa began to sneal^ -T a certair
102 f^OUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSF
Argensola, a very learned young Spaniard, believing that
his counsels might prove most helpful to Julio. She did
not know exactly whether this new companion was
friend, master or servant. The studio habitues also had
their doubts. The literary ones always spoke of Argen-
sola as a painter. The painters recognized only his
ability as a man of letters. He was among those who
used to come up to the studio of winter afternoons,
attracted by the ruddy glow of the stove and the wines
secretly provided by the mother, holding forth authorita-
tively before the often-renewed bottle and the box of
cigars lying open on the table. One night, he slept on
the divan, as he had no regular quarters. After that first
night, he lived entirely in the studio.
Julio soon discovered in him an admirable reflex of
his own personality. He knew that Argensola had come
third-class from Madrid with twenty francs in his pocket,
in order to **capture glory," to use his own words. Upon
observing that the Spaniard was painting with as much
difficulty as himself, with the same wooden and childish
strokes, which are so characteristic of the make-believe
artists and pot-boilers, the routme workers concerned
themselves with color and other rank fads. Argensola
was a psychological artist, a painter of souls. And his
disciple felt astonished and almost displeased on learning
what a comparatively simple thing it was to paint a soul.
Upon a bloodless countenance, with a chin as sharp as a
dagger, the gifted Spaniard would trace a pair of nearly
round eyes, and at the centre of each pupil he would aim
a white brush stroke, a point of light . . . the soul. Then,
planting himself before the canvas, he would proceed to
classify this soul with his inexhaustible imagination,
attributing to it almost every kind of stress and extrem-
ity. So great was the sway of his rapture that Julio, too,
was able to see all that the artist flattered himself intc>
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 103
believing that he had put into the owHsh eyes. He, also,
would paint souls . . . souls of women.
In spite of the ease with which he developed his
psychological creations, Argensola preferred to talk,
stretched on a divan, or to read, hugging the fire while
his friend and protector was outside. Another advantage
this fondness for reading gave young Desnoyers was
that he was no longer obliged to open a volume, scanning
the index and last pages "just to get the idea." Formerly
when frequenting society functions, he had been guilty
of coolly asking an author which was his best book — his
smile of a clever man — giving the writer to understand
that he merely enquired so as not to waste time on the
other volumes. Now it was no longer necessary to do
this; Argensola would read for him. As soon as Julio
would see him absorbed in a book, he would demand an
immediate share : "Tell me the story." So the "secre-
tary,'' not only gave him the plots of comedies and novels,
but also detailed the argument of Schopenhauer or of
Nietzsche . . . Dona Luisa almost wept on hearing her
visitors — with that benevolence which wealth always
inspires — speak of her son as "a rather gay young man,
but wonderfully well read!"
In exchange for his lessons, Argensola received much
the same treatment as did the Greek slaves who taught
rhetoric to the young patricians of decadent Rome. In
the midst of a dissertation, his lord and friend would
interrupt him with — "Get my dress suit ready. I am
Invited out this evening."
At other times, when the instructor was luxuriating in
bodily comfort, with a book in one hand near the roaring
jtove, seeing through the windows the gray and rainy
'afternoon, his disciple would suddenly appear saying,
**Quick, get out! . . . There's a woman coming!"
And Argensola, like a dog who gets up and shakes
104 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
himself, would disappear to continue his reading in some
miserable little coffee house in the neighborhood.
In his official capacity, this widely gifted man often
descended from the peaks of intellectuality to the vul-
garities of everyday life. He was the steward of the
lord of the manor, the intermediary betw^een the pocket-
book and those who appeared bill in hand. "Money!" he
would say laconically at the end of the month, and
Desnoyers would break out into complaints and curses.
Where on earth was he to get it, he would like to know.
His father was as regular as a machine, and would never
allow the slightest advance upon the following month.
He had to submit to a rule of misery. Three thousand
francs a month ! — what could any decent person do with
that ? . . . He was even trying to cut that down, to tighten
the band, interfering in the running of his house, so that
Doiia Luisa could not make presents to her son. In vain
he had appealed to the various usurers of Paris, telling
them of his property beyond the ocean. These gentle-
men had the youth of their own country in the hollow of
their hand and were not obliged to risk their capital in
other lands. The same hard luck pursued him when,
with sudden demonstrations of affection, he had tried to
convince Don Marcelo that three thousand francs a
month was but a niggardly trifle.
The millionaire fairly snorted with indignation. "Three
thousand francs a trifle !" And the debts besides, that
he often had to pay for his son! . . .
"Why, when I was your age," ... he would begin say-
ing— but Julio would suddenly bring the dialogue to a
dose. He had heard his father's story too many times.
Ah, the stingy old miser ! What he had been giving him
all these months was no more than the interest on his
grandfather's legacy. . . . And by the advice of Argen-
sola he ventured to get control of the field. He was
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 105
planning to hand over the management of his land to
Celedonio, the old overseer, who was now such a grandee
in his country that Julio ironically called him ''my uncle."
Desnoyers accepted this rebellion coldly. "It appears
just to me. You are now of age!" Then he promptly
reduced to extremes his oversight of his home, forbid-
ding Dona Luisa to handle any money. Henceforth he
regarded his son as an adversary, treating him during
his lightning apparitions at the avenue Victor Hugo with
glacial courtesy as though he were a stranger.
For a while a transitory opulence enlivened the studio.
Julio had increased his expenses, considering himself
rich. But the letters from his uncle in America soon
dissipated these illusions. At first the remittances ex-
ceeded very slightly the monthly allowance that his father
had made him. Then it began to diminish in an alarm-
ing manner. According to Celedonio, all the calamities
on earth seemed to be falling upon his plantation. The
pasture land was yielding scantily, sometimes for lack of
rain, sometimes because of floods, and the herds were
perishing by hundreds. Julio required more income, and
the crstfty half-breed sent him what he asked for, but
simply as a loan, reserving the return until they should
adjust their accounts.
In spite of such aid, young Desnoyers was suffering
great want. He was gambling now in an elegant circle,
thinking thus to compensate for his periodical scrimp-
ings; but this resort was only making the remittances
from America disappear with greater rapidity. . . . That
such a man as he was should be tormented so for the
lack of a few thousand francs! What else was a mil-
lionaire father for?
If the creditors began threatening, the poor youth had
t(» bring the secretary into play, ordering him to see the
tr/other immediately; he himself wished to avoid her
lo6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
tears and reproaches. So Argensola would slip like a
pickpocket up the service stairway of the great house on
the avenue Victor Hugo. The place in which he trans-
acted his ambassadorial business was the kitchen, with
great danger that the terrible Desnoyers might happen
in there, on one of his perambulations as a laboring man,
and surprise the intruder.
Dona Luisa would weep, touched by the heartrending
tales of the messenger. What could she do ! She was as
poor as her maids; she had jewels, many jewels, but not
a franc. Then Argensola came to the rescue with a
solution worthy of his experience. He would smooth the
way for the good mother, leaving some of her jewels at
the Mont-de-Piete. He knew the way to raise money on
them. So the lady accepted his advice, giving him,
however, only jewels of medium value as she suspected
that she might never see them again. Later scruples
made her at times refuse flatly. Suppose Don Marcelo
should ever find it out, what a scene ! , . , But the Span^
iard deemed it unseemly to return empty-handed, and
always bore away a basket of bottles from the well-
stocked wine-cellar of the Desnoyers.
Every morning Dona Luisa went to Saint-Honore-
d^Eylau to pray for her son. She felt that this was her
own church. It was a hospitable and familiar island in
the unexplored ocean of Paris. Here she could exchange
discreet salutations with her neighbors from the different
republics of the new world. She felt nearer to God and
the saints when she could hear in the vestibule conversa-
tions in her language.
It was, moreover, a sort of salon in which took place
the great events of the South American colony. One day
it was a wedding with flowers, orchestra and chanting
chorals. With Chichi beside her, she greeted those sh<*
knew, congratulating the bride and groom \nother d%v
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 107
ft was the funeral of an ex-president of some republic^
or some other foreign dignitary ending in Paris his tur-
bulent existence. Poor President! Poor General! . . .
Doiia Luisa remembered the dead man. She had seen
him many times in that church devoutly attending mass
and she was indignant at the evil tongues which, under
the cover of a funeral oration, recalled the shootings and
bank failures in his country. Such a good and religious
gentleman ! May God receive his soul in glory ! . . .
And upon going oui into the square, she would look with
tender eyes upon the young men and women on horse-
back going to the Bois de Boulogne, the luxurious auto-
mobiles, the morning radiant in the sunshine, all tne
primeval freshness of the early hours — realizing what a
beautiful thing it is to live.
Her devout expression of gratitude for mere existence
usually included the monument in the centre of the
square, all bristling with wings as if about to fly away
from the ground. Victor Hugo ! ... It was enough for
her to have heard this name on the lips of her son to
make her contemplate the statue with a family interest.
The only thing that she knew about the poet was that he
had died. Of this she was almost sure, and she imagined
that in Hfe, he was a great friend of Julio's because she
had so often heard her son repeat his name.
Ay, her son! . . . All her thoughts, her conjectures,
her desires, converged on him and her strong-willed
husband. She longed for the men to come to an under-
standing and put an end to a struggle in which she was
the principal victim. Would not God work this miracle?
. . . Like an invalid who goes from one sanitarium to
another in pursuit of health, she gave up the church on
her street to attend the Spanish chapel on the avenue
Friedland. Here she considered herself even more
among her own.
io8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
In the midst of the fine and elegant South American
ladies who looked as if they had just escaped from a
fashion sheet, her eyes sought other women, not so well
dressed, fat, with theatrical ermine and antique jewelry.
When these high-born dames met each other in the vesti-
bule, they spoke with heavy voices and expressive ges-
tures, emphasizing their words energetically. The
daughter of the ranch ventured to salute them because
she had subscribed to all their pet charities, and upon
seeing her greeting returned, she felt a satisfaction which
made her momentarily forget her woes. They belonged
to those families which her father had so greatly admired
without knowing why. They came from the ''mother
country," and to the good Chicha were all Excelentisimas
or Altistmas, related to kings. She did not know whether
to give them her hand or bend the knee, as she had
vaguely heard was the custom at court. But soon she
recalled her preoccupation and went forward to wrestle in
prayer with God. Ay, that he would mercifully remem-
ber her! That he would not long forget her son! . . .
It was Glory that remembered Julio, stretching out to
him her arms of light, so that he suddenly awoke to find
himself surrounded by all the honors and advantages of
celebrity. Fame cunningly surprises mankind on the
most crooked and unexpected of roads. Neither the
painting of souls nor a fitful existence full ot extrava-
gant love affairs and complicated duels had brought
Desnoyers this renown. It was Glory that put him on
his feet.
A new pleasure for the delight of humanity had come
from the other side of the seas. People were asking one
another in the mysterious tones of the initiated who wish
to recognize a familiar spirit, ''Do you know how to
tango? . . .*' The tango had taken possession of the
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY log
world. It was the heroic hymn of a humanity that was
suddenly concentrating its aspirations on the harmonious
rhythm of the thigh joints, measuring its intelligence by
the agility of its feet. An incoherent and monotonous
music of African inspiration was satisfying the artistic
ideals of a society that required nothing better. The
world was dancing . . . dancing . . . dancing.
A negro dance from Cuba introduced into South
America by mariners who shipped jerked beef to the
Antilles, conquered the entire earth in a few months,
completely encircling it, bounding victoriously from na-
tion to nation . . . like the Marseillaise. It was even
penetrating into the most ceremonious courts, overturning
all traditions of conservation and etiquette like a song
of the Revolution — the revolution of frivolity. The Pope
even had to become a master of the dance, recommending
the "Furlana" instead of the *'Tango," since all the
Christian world, regardless of sects, was united in the
common desire to agitate its feet with the tireless frenzy
of the '^possessed" of the Middle Ages.
Julio Desnoyers, upon meeting this dance of his child-
hood in full swing in Paris, devoted himself to it with
the confidence that an old love inspires. Who could have
foretold that when, as a student, he was frequenting the
lowest dance halls in Buenos Aires, watched by the
police, that he was really serving an apprenticeship to
Glory? . . .
From five to seven, in the salons of the Champs
d'Elysees where it cost five francs for a cup of tea and
the privilege of joining in the sacred dance, hundreds of
eyes followed him with admiration. "He has the key,"
said the women, appraising his slender elegance, medium
stature, and muscular springs. And he, in abbreviated
jacket and expansive shirt bosom, with his small, girlish
feet encased in high-heeled patent leathers with white
'no FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
tops, danced gravely, thoughtfully, silently, like a mathe-
matician working out a problem, under the lights that
shed bluish tones upon his plastered, glossy locks.
Ladies asked to be presented to him in the sweet hope
that their friends might envy them when they beheld
them in the arms of the master. Invitations simply
rained upon Julio. The most exclusive salons were
thrown open to him so that every afternoon he made a
dozen new acquaintances. The fashion had brought over
professors from the other side of the sea, compatriots
from the slums of Buenos Aires, haughty and confused
at being applauded like famous lecturers or tenors; but
Julio triumphed over these vulgarians who danced for
money, and the incidents of his former life were con-
sidered by the women as deeds of romantic gallantry.
"You are killing yourself," Argensola would say.
"You are dancing too much."
The glory of his friend and master was only making
more trouble for him. His placid readings before the
fire were now subject to daily interruptions. It was
impossible to read more than a chapter. The celebrated
man was continually ordering him to betake himself to
the street. "A new lesson," sighed the parasite. And
when he was alone in the studio numerous callers — all
women, some inquisitive and aggressive, others sad, with
a deserted air — were constantly interrupting his thought-
ful pursuits.
One of them terrified the occupants of the studio with
her insistence. She was a North American of uncertain
age, somewhere between thirty-two and fifty-nine, with
short skirts that whenever she sat down seemed to fly up
as if moved by a spring. Various dances with Desnoyers
and a visit to the rue le la Pompe she seemed to consider
as her sacred rights, and she pursued the master with the
desperation of an abandoned zealot. Julio had made goe<'
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY III
his escape upon learning that this beauty of youthful
elegance — when seen from the back — had two grandchil-
dren. "Master Desnoyers has gone out," Argensola
would invariably say upon receiving her. And, thereupon
she would burst into tears and threats, longing to kill
herself then and there that her corpse might frighten
away those other women who would come to rob her of
what she considered her special privilege. Now it was
Argensola who sped his companion to the street when
he vv^ished to be alone. He had only to remark casually^
"I believe that Yankee is coming," and the great man
would beat a hasty retreat, oftentimes in his desperate
flight availing himself of the back stairs.
At this time began to develop the most important event
in Julio's existence. The Desnoyers family was to be
united with that of Senator Lacour. Rene, his only son,
had succeeded in awakening in Chichi a certain interest
that was almost love. The dignitary enjoyed thinking of
his son allied to the boundless plains and immense herds
whose description always affected him like a marvellous
taJe. He was a widower, but he enjoyed giving at his
home famous banquets and parties. Every new celebrity
immediately suggested to him the idea of giving a dinner.
No illustrious person passing through Paris, polar ex-
plorer or famous singer, could escape being exhibited
in the dining room of Lacour. The son of Desnoyers — -
at whom he had scarcely glanced before — now inspired
him w4th sudden interest. The senator was a thoroughly
up-to-date man who did not classify glory nor distinguish
reputations. It was enough for him that a name should
be on everybody's lips for him to accept it with
enthusiasm. When Julio responded to his invitation, he
presented him with pride to his friends, and came very
near to calling him "dear master." The tango was
monopolizing all conversation nowadays. Even in the
112 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Academy they were taking it up in order to demonstrate
that the youth of ancient Athens had diverted itself in a
somewhat similar way. . . . And Lacour had dreamed all
his life of an Athenian republic.
At these reunions, Desnoyers became acquainted with
the Lauriers. He was an engineer who owned a motor-
factory for automobiles in the outskirts of Paris — 3. man
about thirty-five, tall, rather heavy and silent, with a
deliberate air as though he wished to see deeply into men
and things. She was of a light, frivolous character,
loving life for the satisfactions and pleasures which it
brought her, appearing to accept with smiling conformity
the silent and grave adoration of her husband. She could
not well do less with a man of his merits. Besides, she
had brought to the marriage a dowry of three hundred
thousand francs, a capital which had enabled the engineer
to enlarge his business. The senator had been instru-
mental in arrangmg this marriage. He was interested in
Laurier because he was the son of an old friend.
Upon Marguerite Laurier the presence of Julio flashed
like a ray of sunlight in the tiresome salon of Lacour.
She was dancing the fad of the hour and frequenting the
tango teas where reigned the adored Desnoyers. And to
think that she was being entertained with this celebrated
and interesting man that the other women were raving
about! ... In order that he might not take her for a
mere middle-class woman like the other guests at the
senator's party, she spoke of her modistes, all from the
rue de la Paix, declaring gravely that no woman who
had any self-respect could possibly walk through the
streets wearing a gown costing less than eight hundred
francs, and that the hat of a thousand francs — but a few
years ago, an astonishing novelty — was nowadays a very
ordinary affair.
This acquaintanceship made the "little Laurier," as
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 113
her friends called her notwithstanding her tallness, much
sought by the master of the dance, in spite of the looks
of wrath and envy hurled at her by the others. What a
triumph for the wife of a simple engineer who was used
to going everywhere in her mother's automobile! . . .
Julio at first had supposed her like all the others who
were languishing in his arms, following the rhythmic
complications of the dance, but he soon found that she
was very different. Her coquetry after the first confi-
dential words, but increased his admiration. He really
had never before been thrown with a woman of her
class. Those of his first social period were the habitues
of the night restaurants paid for their witchery. Now
Glory was tos'^ing into his arms ladies of high position
but with an unconfessable past, anxious for novelties
although exceedingly mature. This middle class woman,
who would advance so confidently toward him and then
retreat with such capricious outbursts of modesty, was a
new type for him.
The tango salons soon began to suffer a great loss.
Desnoyers was permitting himself to be seen there with
less frequency, handing Glory over to the professionals.
Sometimes entire weeks slipped by without the five-to-
seven devotees being able to admire his black locks and
his tiny patent leathers twinkling under the lights in time
with his graceful movements.
Marguerite was also avoiding these places. The meet-
ings of the two were taking place in accordance with
what she had read in the love stories of Paris. She was
going in search of Julio, fearing to be recognized, tremu-
lous with emotion, selecting her most inconspicuous suit,
and covering her face with a close veil — ''the veil of
adultery," as her friends called it. They had their trysts
in the least-frequented squares of the district, frequently
changing *-he places, like timid birds that at the slightest
U4 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
disturbance fly to perch a little further away. Sometimes
they would meet in the Buttes Chaiimont, at others they
preferred the gardens on the left bank of the Seine, the
Luxembourg, and even the distant Pare de Montsouris.
She was always in tremors of terror lest her husband
might surprise them, although she well knew that the
industrious engineer was in his factory a great distance
away. Her agitated aspect, her excessive precautions in
order to slip by unseen, only served to attract the atten-
tion of the passers-by. Although Julio was waxing
impatient with the annoyance of this wandering love
affair which only amounted to a few fugitive kisses, he
finally held his peace, dominated by Marguerite's plead-
ings.
She did not wish merely to be one in the procession of
his sweethearts ; it was necessary to convince herself first
that this love was going to last forever. It was her first
slip and she wanted it to be the last. Ay, her former
spotless reputation ! . . . What would people say ! . . . The
two returned to their adolescent period, loving each other
as they had never loved before, with the confident and
childish passion of fifteen-year-olds.
Julio had leaped from childhood to libertinism, taking
his initiation into life at a single bound. She had desired
marriage in order to acquire the respect and liberty of a
married woman, but feeling towards her husband only a
vague gratitude. "We end where others begin," she had
said to Desnoyers.
Their passion took the form of an intense, reciprocal
and vulgar love. They felt a romantic sentimentality in
clasping hands or exchanging kisses on a garden bench
in the twilight. He was treasuring a ringlet of Mar-
guerite's— although he doubted its genuineness, with a
vague suspicion that it might be one of the latest wisps
of fashion. She would cuddle down with her head on
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 115
his shoulder, as though imploring his protection, although
always in the open air. If Julio ever attempted greater
intimacy in a carriage, madame would repel him most
vigorously. A contradictory duality appeared to inspire
her actions. Every morning, on awaking, she would
decide to yield, but then when near him, her middle-class
respectability, jealous of its reputation, kept her faithful
to her mother's teachings.
One day she agreed to visit his studio with the interest
that the haunts of the loved one always inspires. "Prom-
ise that you will not take advantage of me." He readily
promised, swearing that everything should be as Mar-
guerite wished. . . . But from that day they were no
longer seen in the gardens, nor wandering around perse-
cuted by the winter winds. They preferred the studio,
and Argensola had to rearrange his existence, seeking
the stove of another artist friend, in order to continue
his reading.
This state of things lasted two months. They never
knew what secret force suddenly disturbed their tran-
quility. Perhaps one of her friends, guessing at the
truth, had told the husband anonymously. Perhaps it
was she herself unconsciously, with her inexpressible
happiness, her tardy returns home when dinner was
already served, and the sudden aversion which she
showed toward the engineer in their hours alone, trying
to keep her heart faithful to her lover. To divide her
interest between her legal companion and the man she
loved was a torment that her simple and vehement
enthusiasm could not tolerate.
While she was hurrying one night through the rue de
la Pompe, looking at her watch and trembling with
impatience at not finding an automobile or even a cab, a
man stood in front of her. . . . Etienne Laurier! She
always shuddered with fear on recalling that hour. For
Ii6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
a moment she believed that he was going to kill her.
Serious men, quiet and diffident, are most terrible in
their explosions of wrath. Her husband knew every-
thing. With the same patience that he employed in solv-
ing his industrial problems, he had been studying her day
by day, without her ever suspecting the watchfulness
behind that impassive countenance. Then he had fol-
lowed her in order to complete the evidence of his
misfortune.
Marguerite had never supposed that he could be so
common and noisy in his anger. She had expected that
he would accept the facts coldly with that slight tinge of
philosophical irony usually shown by distinguished men,
as the husbands of her friends had done. But the poor
engineer who, outside of his work, saw only his wife,
loving her as a woman, and adoring her as a dainty and
superior being, a model of grace and elegance, could not
endure the thought of her downfall, and cried and
threatened without reserve, so that the scandal became
known throughout their entire circle of friends. The
senator felt greatly annoyed in remembering that it was
in his exclusive home that the guilty ones had become
acquainted; but his displeasure was visited upon the
husband. What lack of good taste ! . . . Women will be
women, and everything is capable of adjustment. But
before the imprudent outbursts of this frantic devil no
elegant solution was possible, and there was now nothing
to do but to begin divorce proceedings.
Desnoyers, senior, was very indignant upon learning
of this last escapade of his son. He had always had a
great liking for Laurier. That instinctive bond which
exists between men of industry, patient and silent, had
made them very congenial. At the senator's receptions
he had always talked with the engineer about the progress
of his business, interesting himself in the development
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 117
of that factory of which he always spoke with the affec-
tion of a father. The millionaire, in spite of his reputa-
tion for miserliness, had even volunteered his disinter-
ested support if at any time it should become necessary
to enlarge the plant. And it was this good man's happi-
ness that his son, a frivolous and useless dancer, was
going to steal ! . . .
At first Laurier spoke of a duel. His wrath was that
of a work horse who breaks the tight reins of his labor-
ing outfit, tosses his mane, neighs wildly and bites. The
father was greatly distressed at the possibility of such an
outcome. . . . One scandal more ! Julio had dedicated
the greater part of his existence to the handling of arms.
*'He will kill the poor man !" he said to the senator. "I
am sure that he will kill him. It is the logic of life; the
good-for-nothing always kill those who amount to any-
thing."
But there was no killing. The Father of the Republic
knew how to handle the clashing parties, with the same
skill that he always employed in the corridors of the
Senate during a ministerial crisis. The scandal was
hushed up. Marguerite went to live with her mother
and took the first steps for a divorce.
Some evenings, when the studio clock was striking
seven, she would yawn and say sadly: "I must go. . . .
I have to go, although this is my true home. . . . Ah,
what a pity that we are not married!"
And he, feeling a whole garden of bourgeois virtues,
hitherto ignored, bursting into bloom, repeated in a tone
of conviction:
'That's so ; why are we not married !"
Their wishes could be realized. The husband was
facilitating the step by his unexpected intervention. So
young Desnoyers set forth for South America in order
to raise the money and marry Marguerite.
CHAPTER IV
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN
The studio of Julio Desnoyers was on the top floor,
both the stairway and the elevator stopping before his
door. The two tiny apartments at the back were lighted
by an interior court, their only means of communication
being the service stairvv^ay which went on up to the
garrets.
While his comrade was away, Argensola had made the
acquaintance of those in the neighboring lodgings. The
largest of the apartments was empty during the day, its
occupants not returning till after they had taken their
evening meal in a restaurant. As both husband and wife
were employed outside, they could not remain at home
except on holidays. The man, vigorous and of a mxartial
aspect, was superintendent in a big department store, . . .
He had been a soldier in Africa, wore a military decora-
tion, and had the rank of sub-lieutenant in the Reserves.
She was a blonde, heavy and rather anaemic, with bright
eyes and a sentimental expression. On holidays she spent
long hours at the piano, playing musical reveries, always
the same. At other times Argensola saw her through
the interior window working in the kitchen aided by her
companion, the two laughing over their clumsiness and
inexperience in preparing the Sunday dinner.
The concierge thought that this woman was a German,
but she herself said that she was Swiss. She was a
cashier in a shop — not the one in which her husband was
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 119
employed. In the mornings they left home together,
separating in the Place d'Etoile. At seven in the evening
they met here, greeting each other with a kiss, like lovers
who meet for the first time ; and then after supper, they
returned to their nest in the rue de la Pompe. All Argen-
sola's attempts at friendliness with these neighbors were
repulsed because of their self-centredness. They re-
sponded with freezing courtesy; they lived only for
themselves.
The other apartment of two rooms was occupied by a
single man. He was a Russian or Pole who almost always
returned with a package of books, and passed many hours
writing near the patio window. From the very first the
Spania»'d took him to be a mysterious man, probably a
very distinguished one — a true hero of a novel. The
foreign appearance of this Tchernoff made a great im-
pression upon him — his dishevelled beard, and oily locks,
his spectacles u^^on a large nose that seemed deformed by
a dagger-thrust. There emanated from him, like an in-
visible nimbus, an odor of cheap wine and soiled clothing.
When Argensola caught a glimpse of him through the
service door he would say to himself, "Ah, Friend Tcher-
noff is returning," and thereupon he would saunter out
to the stairway in order to have a chat with his neighbor.
For a long time the stranger discouraged all approach to
his quarters, which fact led the Spaniard to infer that he
devoted himself to alchemy and kindred mysteries. When
he finally was allowed to enter he saw only books, many
books, books everywhere — scattered on the floor, heaped
upon benches, piled in corners, overflowing on to broken-
down chairs, old tables, and a bed that was only made up
now and then when the owner, alarmed by the increasing
invasion of dust and cobwebs, was obliged to call in the
aid of his friend, the concierge.
Argensola finally realized, not without a certain disen-
I20 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
chantment, that there was nothing mysterious in the life
of the man. What he was writing near the window
were merely translations, some of them ordered, others
volunteer work for the socialist periodicals. The only
marvellous thing about him was the quantity of languages
that he knew.
"He knows them all," said the Spaniard, when describ-
ing their neighbor to Desnoyers. "He has only to hear
of a new one to master it. He holds the key, the secret
of all languages, living or dead. He speaks Castilian
as well as we do, and yet he has never been in a Spanish-
speaking coun^,ry."
Argensola again felt a thrill of mystery upon reading
the titles of many of the volumes. The majority were
old books, many of them in languages that he was not
able to decipher, picked up for a song at second-hand
shops or on the book stands installed upon the parapets
of the Seine. Only a man holding the key of tongues
could get together such volumes. An atmosphere of
mysticism, of superhuman insight, of secrets intact for
many centuries appeared to emanate from these heaps
of dusty volumes with worm-eaten leaves. And mixed
with these ancient tomes were others red and con-
spicuous, pamphlets of socialistic propaganda, leaflets in
all the languages of Europe and periodicals — many peri-
odicals, with revolutionary titles.
Tchernoff did not appear to enjoy visits and conversa-
tion. He would smile enigmatically into his black beard,
and was very sparing with his words so as to shorten the
interview. But Argensola possessed the means of win-
ning over this sullen personage. It was only necessary
for him to wink one eye with the expressive invitation,
"Do we go?" and the two would soon be settled on a
bench in the kitchen of Desnoyers' studio, opposite a
bottle which had come from the avenue Victor Huao.
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 121
The cosily wines of Don Marcelo made the Russian
more communicative, although, in spite of this aid, the
Spaniard learned little of his neighbor's real existence.
Sometimes he would mention Jaures and other socialistic
orators. His surest means of existence was the trans-
lation of periodicals or party papers. On various occa-
sions the name of Siberia escaped from his lips, and he
admitted that he had been there a long time ; but he did
not care to talk about a country visited against his will.
He would merely smile modestly, showing plainly that
he did not wish to make any further revelations.
The morning after the return of Julio Desnoyers, while
Argensola was talking on the stairway with Tchernoff,
the bell rang. How annoying! The Russian, who was
well up in advanced politics, was just explaining the plans
advanced by Jaures. There were still many who hoped
that war might be averted. He had his motives for
doubting it. . . . He, Tchernoff, was commenting on
these illusions with the smile of a flat-nosed sphinx when
the bell rang for a second time, so that Argensola was
obliged to break away from his interesting friend, and
run to open the main door.
A gentleman wished to see Julio. He spoke very cor-
rect French, though his accent was a revelation for
Argensola. Upon going into the bedroom in search of
his master, who was just arising, he said confidently,
**It's the cousin from Berlin who has come to say good-
bye. It could not be anyone else."
When the three came together in the studio, Desnoyers
presented his comrade, in order that the visitor might not
make any mistake in regard to his social status.
"1 have heard him spoken of. The gentleman is Ar-
gensola, a very deserving youth."
Doctor Julius von Hartrott said this with the self*
sufficiency of a man who knows everything and wishes Ul
122 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSh
be agreeable to an inferior, conceding him the alms of
his attention.
The two cousins confronted each other with a curiosity
not altogether free from distrust. Although closely re-
lated, they knew each other very slightly, tacitly admit-
ting complete divergence in opinions and tastes.
After slowly examining the Sage, Argensola came to
the conclusion that he looked like an officer dressed as a
civilian. He noticed in his person an effort to imitate the
soldierly when occasionally discarding uniform — the am-
bition of every German burgher wishing to be taken for
the superior class. His trousers were narrow, as though
intended to be tucked into cavalry boots. His coat with
two rows of buttons had the contracted waist with very
full skirt and upstanding lapels, suggesting vaguely a
military great coat. The reddish moustachios, strong
jaw and shaved head completed his would-be martial
appearance ; but his eyes, large, dark-circled and near-
sighted, were the eyes of a student taking refuge behind
great thick glasses which gave him the aspect of a man of
peace.
Desnoyers knew that he was an assistant professor of
the University, that he had published a few volumes, fat
and heavy as bricks, and that he was a member of an
academic society collaborating in documentary research
directed by a famous historian. In his lapel he was wear-
ing the badge of a foreign order.
Julio's respect for the learned member of the family
tvas not unmixed with contempt. He and his sister Chichi
had from childhood felt an instinctive hostility toward the
cousins from Berlin. It annoyed him, too, to have his
family everlastingly holding up as a model this pedant
who only knew life as it is in books, and passed his exist-
ence investigating what men had done in other epochs, in
order to draw conclusions in harmony with Germany's
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 123
views. While young Desnoyers had great facility for
admiration, and reverenced all those whose "arguments"
Argensola had doled out to him, he drew the line at ac-
cepting the intellectual grandeur of this illustrious rela-
tive.
During his stay in Berlin, a German word of vulgar
invention had enabled him to classify this prig. Heavy
books of minute investigation were every month being
published by the dozens in the Fatherland. There was
not a professor who could resist the temptation of con-
structing from the simplest detail an enormous volume
written in a dull, involved style. The people, therefore,
appreciating that these near-sighted authors were in-
capable of any genial vision of comradeship, called them
SitzHeisch hahen, because of the very long sittings which
iheir works represented. That was what this cousin was
for him, a mere SitzHeisch hahen.
Doctor von Hartrott, on explaining his visit, spoke in
Spanish. He availed himself of this language used by
the family during his childhood, as a precaution, looking
around repeatedly as if he feared to be heard. He had
come to bid his cousin farewell. His mother had told him
of his return, and he had not wished to leave Paris with-
out seeing him. He was leaving in a few hours, since
matters were growing more strained.
"But do you really believe that there will be war?"
asked Desnoyers.
"War will be declared to-morrow or the day after.
Nothing can prevent it now. It is necessary for the wel-
fare of humanity."
Silence followed this speech, Julio and Argensola look-
ing with astonishment at this peaceable-looking man
who had just spoken with such martial arrogance. The
two suspected that the professor was making this visit
in order to give vent to his opinions and enthusiasms. A*
124 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the same time, perhaps, he was trying to find out what
they might think and know, as one of the many view-
points of the people in Paris.
"You are not French," he added looking at his cousin.
"You were born in Argentina, so before you I may speak
the truth."
"And were you not born there?" asked JuHo smiling.
The Doctor made a gesture of protest, as though he
had just heard something insulting. ''No, I am a German.
No matter where a German may be born, he always be-
longs to his mother country." Then turning to Argensola
" — "This gentleman, too, is a foreigner. He comes from
noble Spain which owes to us the best that it has — the
worship of honor, the knightly spirit."
The Spaniard wished to remonstrate, but the Sage
would not permit, adding in an oracular tone:
"You were miserable Celts, sunk in the vileness of an
inferior and mongrel race whose domination by Rome but
made your situation worse. Fortunately you were con-
quered by the Goths and others of our race who im^
planted in you a sense of personal dignity. Do not for-
get, young man, that the Vandals were the ancestors of
the Prussians of to-day."
Again Argensola tried to speak, but his friend signed
to him not to interrupt the professor who appeared to
have forgotten hh former reserve and was working up to
an enthusiastic pitch with his own words.
"We are going to witness great events," he continued.
"Fortunate are those born in this epoch, the most inter'
esting in history! At this very moment, humanity is
changing its course. Now the true civilization begins."
The war, according to him, was going to be of a brevity
hitherto unseen. Germany had been preparing herself to
bring about this event without any long, economic world'
disturbance. A single month would be enough to crush
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 125
France, the most to be feared of their adversaries. Then
they would march against Russia, who with her slow,
clumsy movements could not oppose an immediate de-
fense. Finally they would attack haughty England, so
isolated in its archipelago that it could not obstruct the
sweep of German progress. This would make a series
of rapid blows and overwhelming victories, requiring
only a summer in which to play this magnificent role.
The fall of the leaves in the following autumn would
greet the definite triumph of Germany.
With the assurance of a professor who does not expect
his dictum to be refuted by his hearers, he explained the
superiority of the German race. All mankind was
divided into two groups — dolicephalous and the brachi-
cephalous, according to the shape of the skull. Another
scientific classification divided men into the light-haired
and dark-haired. The dolicephalous (arched heads) rep-
resented purity of race and superior mentality. The
brachicephalous (flat heads) were mongrels with all
the stigma of degeneration. The German, dolicephalous
par excellence, was the only descendant of the primitive
Aryans. All the other nations, especially those of the
south of Europe called "latins," belonged to a degenerate
humanity.
The Spaniard could not contain himself any longer.
"But no person with any intelligence believes any more
in those antique theories of race ! What if there no
longer existed a people of absolutely pure blood, owing
to thousands of admixtures due to historical conquest!"
. . . Many Germans bore the identical ethnic marks
which the professor was attributing to the inferior races.
"There is something in that," admitted Hartrott, "but
although the German race may not be perfectly pure, it
is the least impure of all races and, therefore, should
have dominion over the world."
126 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
His voice took on an ironic and cutting edge when
speaking of the CeUs, inhabitants of the lands of the
South. They had retarded the progress of Humanity,
deflecting it in the wrong direction. The Celt is indi-
vidualistic and consequently an ungovernable revolution-
ary who tends to socialism. Furthermore, he is a humani-
tarian and makes a virtue of mercy, defending the ex-
istence of the weak who do not amount to anything.
The illustrious German places above everything else,
Method and Power. Elected by Nature to command the
impotent races, he possesses all the qualifications that dis-
tinguish the superior leader. The French Revolution
was merely a clash between Teutons and Celts. The
nobility of France were descended from Germanic war-
riors established in the country after the so-called in-
vasion of the barbarians. The middle and lower classes
were the Gallic-Celtic element. The inferior race had
conquered the superior, disorganizing the country and
perturbing the world. Celtism was the inventor of
Democracy, of the doctrines of Socialism and Anarchy.
Now the hour of Germanic retaliation was about to strike,
and the Northern race would re-establish order, since
God had favored it by demonstrating its indisputable
superiority.
*'A nation," he added, *'can aspire to great destinies
only when it is fundamentally Teutonic. The less Ger-
man it is, the less its civilization amounts to. We rep-
resent *the aristocracy of humanity,* 'the salt of the
earth,' as our William said."
Argensola was listening with astonishment to this out-
pouring of conceit. All the great nations had passed
through the fever of Imperialism. The Greeks aspired
to world-rule because they were the most civilized and
believed themselves the most fit to give civilization to
the rest of mankind. The Romans, upon conquering
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 127
countries, implanted law and the rule of justice. The
French of the Revolution and the Empire justified their
invasions on the plea that they wished to liberate man-
kind and spread abroad new ideas. Even the Spaniards
of the sixteenth century, when battling with half of
Europe for religious unity and the extermination of
heresy, were working toward their ideals obscure and
perhaps erroneous, but disinterested.
All the nations of history had been struggling for some-
thing which they had considered generous and above
their own interests. Germany alone, according to this
professor, was trying to impose itself upon the world
in the name of racial superiority — a superiority that no-
body had recognized, that she was arrogating to herself,
coating her affirmations with a varnish of false science.
"Until now wars have been carried on by the soldiery,"
continued Hartrott. "That which is now going to begin
will be waged by a combination of soldiers and profes-
sors. In its preparation the University has taken as much
part as the military staff. German science, leader of all
Sciences, is united forever with what the Latin revolu-
donists disdainfully term militarism. Force, mistress of
the world, is what creates right, that which our trul}!
unique civilization imposes. Our armies are the rep-
resentatives of our culture, and in a few weeks we shall
free the world from its decadence, completely rejuve-
nating it."
The vision of the immense future of his race was
leading him on to expose himself with lyrical enthusiasm.
William I, Bismarck, all the heroes of past victories, in-
spired his veneration, but he spoke of them as dying
gods whose hour had passed. They were glorious an-
cestors of modest pretensions who had confined their
activities to enlarging the frontiers, and to establishing
the unity of the Empire, afterwards opposing themselves
128 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
with the prudence of valetudinarians to the daring of the
new generation. Their ambitions went no further than
a continental hegemony . . . but now William H had
leaped into the arena, the complex hero that the country
required.
''Lamprecht, my master, has pictured his greatness.
It is tradition and the future, method and audacity. Like
his grandfather, the Emperor holds the conviction of
what monarchy by the grace of God represents, but his
vivid and modern intelligence recognizes and accepts
modern conditions. At the same time that he is romantic,
feudal and a supporter of the agrarian conservatives, he
is also an up-to-date man who seeks practical solutions
and shows a utilitarian spirit. In him are correctly bal-
anced instinct and reason."
Germany, guided by this hero, had, according to Hart-
rott, been concentrating its strength, and recognizing its
true path. The Universities supported him even more
unanimously than the army. Why store up so much
power and maintain it without employment? . . . The
empire of the world belongs to the German people. The
historians and philosophers, disciples of Treitschke, were
taking it upon themselves to frame the rights that would
justify this universal domination. And Lamprecht, the
psychological historian, like the other professors, was
launching the belief in the absolute superiority of the
Germanic race. It was just that it should rule the world,
since it only had the power to do so. This ''telurian ger-
manization" was to be of immense benefit to mankind.
The earth was going to be happy under the dictatorship
of a people born for mastery. The German state, "ten-
tacular potency," would eclipse with its glory the most
imposing empire of the past and present. Gott mit uns!
"Who will be able to deny, as my master says, that
there exists a Christian, German God the 'Great Ally,*
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 129
who is showing himself to our enemies, the foreigners,
as a strong and jealous divinity?" . . .
Desnoyers was listening to his cousin with astonish-
ment and at the same time looking at Argensola who, with
a flutter of his eyes, seemed to be saying to him, "He is
mad! These Germans are simply mad with pride."
Meanwhile, the professor, unable to curb his enthusi-
asm, continued expounding the grandeur of his race.
From his viewpoint, the providential Kaiser had shown
inexplicable weakenings. He was too good and too kind.
"Deliciae generis humani" as had said Professor Lasson,
another of Hartrott's masters. Able to overthrow every-
thing with his annihilating power, the Emperor was
limiting himself merely to maintaining peace. But the
nation did not wish to stop there, and was pushing its
leader until it had him started. It was useless now to
put on the brakes. "He who does not advance recedes" ;
— that was the cry of Pan-Germanism to the Emperor.
He must press on in order to conquer the entire world.
"And now war comes," continued the pedant. "We
need the colonies of the others, even though Bismarck,
through an error of his stubborn old age, exacted nothing
at the time of universal distribution, letting England and
France get possession of the best lands. We must con-
trol all countries that have Germanic blood and have been
civilized by our forbears."
Hartrott enumerated these countries. Holland and
Belgium were German. France, through the Franks,
was one-third Teutonic blood. Italy. . . . Here the
professor hesitated, recalling the fact that this nation was
still an ally, certainly a little insecure, but still united by
diplomatic bonds. He mentioned, nevertheless, the
Longobards and other races coming from the North.
Spain and Portugal had been populated by the ruddy
130 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Goth and also belonged to the dominant race. And since
the majority of the nations of America were of Spanish
and Portuguese origin, they should also be included in
this recovery.
"It is a little premature to think of these last nations
just yet," added the Doctor modestly, "but some day the
hour of justice will sound. After our continental
triumph, we shall have time to think of their fate. . . .
North America also should receive our civilizing in-
fluence, for there are living millions of Germans who have
created its greatness."
He was talking of the future conquests as though they
were marks of distinction with which his country was
going to favor other countries. These were to continue
living politically the ^ame as before with their individual
governments, but subject to the Teutons, like minors re-
quiring the strong hand of a master. They would form
the Universal United States, with an hereditary and all-
powerful president — the Emperor of Germany — receiv-
ing all the benefits of Germanic culture, working dis-
ciplined under his industrial direction. . . . But the
world is ungrateful, and human badness always opposes
itself to progress.
"We have no illusions," sighed the professor, with
lofty sadness. "We have no friends. All look upon us
with jealousy, as dangerous beings, because we are the
most intelligent, the most active, and have proved our-
sef'^es superior to all others. . . . But since they no
longer love us, let them fear us ! As my friend Mann
says, although Kultur is the spiritual organization of th^
world, it does not exclude bloody savagery when that be-
comes necessary. Kultur sanctifies the demon within us,
and is above morality, reason and science. We are going
tD impose Kultur by force of the cannon."
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 131
Argensola continued, saying with his eyes, "They are
crazy, crazy with pride! . . . What can the world
expect of such people !"
Desnoyers here intervened in order to brighten this
gloomy monologue with a little optimism. War had not
yet been positively declared. The diplomats were still
trying to arrange matters. Perhaps it might all turn out
peaceably at the last minute, as had so often happened
before. His cousin was seeing things entirely distorted
by an aggressive enthusiasm.
Oh, the ironical, ferocious and cutting smile of the Doc-
tor! Argensola had never known old Madariaga, but it,
nevertheless, occurred to him that in this fashion sharks
must smile, although he, too, had never seen a shark.
*Tt is war," boomed Hartrott. *'When I left Germany,
fifteen days ago, I knew that war was inevitable."
The certainty with which he said this dissipated all
Julio's hope. Moreover, this man's trip, on the pretext
of seeing his mother, disquieted him. . . . On what
mission had Doctor Julius von Hartrott come to
Paris? . . .
"Well, then," asked Desnoyers, "why so many dip-
lomatic interviews? Why does the German government
intervene at all — although in such a lukewarm way— •
in the struggle between Austria and Servia. . . .
Would it not be better to declare war right out?"
The professor replied with simplicity: "Our govern-
ment undoubtedly wishes that the others should declare
the war. The role of outraged dignity is always the most
pleasing one and justifies all ulterior resolutions, how-
ever extreme they may seem. There are some of our
people who are living comfortably and do not desire war.
It is expedient to make them believe that those who
impose it upon us are our enemies so that they may fed
132 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the necessity of defending themselves. Only superior
minds reach the conviction of the great advancement
that can be accomplished by the sword alone, and that
war, as our grand Treitschke says, is the highest form of
progress.'*
Again he smiled with a ferocious expression. Mor-
ality, from his point of view, should exist among indi-
viduals only to make them more obedient and disciplined,
for morality per se impedes governments and should be
suppressed as a useless obstacle. For the State there
exists neither truth nor falsehood; it only recognizes
the utility of things. The glorious Bismarck, in order
to consummate the war with France, the base of German
grandeur, had not hesitated to falsify a telegraphic des-
patch.
"And remember, that he is the most glorious hero of
our time ! History looks leniently upon his heroic feat.
Who would accuse the one who triumphs? . . . Pro-
fessor Hans Delbruck has written with reason, 'Blessed
be the hand that falsified the telegram of Ems !' "
It was convenient to have the war break out imme-
diately, in order that events might result favorably for
Germany, whose enemies are totally unprepared. Pre-
ventive war was recommended by General Bernhardi and
other illustrious patriots. It would be dangerous indeed
to defer the declaration of war until the enemies had
fortified themselves so that they should be the ones to
make war. Besides, to the Germans what kind of
deterrents could law and other fictions invented by weak
nations possibly be? . . . No; they had the Power,
and Power creates new laws. If they proved to be the
victors. History would not investigate too closely the
means by which they had conquered. It was Germany
that was going to win, and the priests of all cults would
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 133
finally sanctify with their chants the blessed war— if it
led to triumph.
"We are not making war in order to punish the Servian
regicides, nor to free the Poles, nor the others oppressed
by Russia, stopping there in admiration of our disinter-
ested magnanimity. We wish to wage it because we are
the first people of the earth and should extend our
activity over the entire planet. Germany's hour has
sounded. We are going to take our place as the powerful
Mistress of the World, the place which Spain occupier*,
in former centuries, afterwards France, and England to-
day. What those people accomplished in a struggle of
many years we are going to bring about in four months.
The storm-flag of the Empire is now going to wave over
nations and oceans ; the sun is going to shine on a great
slaughter. . . .
"Old Rome, sick unto death, called 'barbarians' the
Germans who opened the grave. The world to-day also
smells death and will surely call us barbarians. . . .
So be it! When Tangiers and Toulouse, Amberes and
Calais have become submissive to German barbarism
. . . then we will speak further of this matter. We
have the power, and who has that needs neither to hesi-
tate nor to argue. . . . Power ! . . . That is the beauti-
ful word — the only word that rings true and clear. . . .
Power ! One sure stab and all argument is answered
forever !"
"But are you so sure of victory?" asked Desmoyers.
"Sometimes Destiny gives us great surprises. There are
hidden forces that we must take into consideration or
they may overturn the best-laid plans."
The smile of the Doctor became increasingly scornful
and arrogant. Everything had been foreseen and studied
out long ago with the most minute Germanic method.
134 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"What had they to fear? . . . The enemy most to be
reckoned with was France, incapable of resisting the ener-
vating moral influences, the sufferings, the strain and
the privations of war; — a nation physically debilitated
and so poisoned by revolutionary spirit that it had laid
aside the use of arms through an exaggerated love of
comfort.
"Our generals," he announced, "are going to leave her
in such a state that she will never again cross our path."
There was Russia, too, to consider, but her amorphous
masses were slow to assemble and unwieldy to move. The
Executive Staff of Berlin had timed everything by meas-
ure for crushing France in four weeks, and would then
lead its enormous forces against the Russian empire
before it could begin action.
"We shall finish with the bear after killing the cock,"
affirmed the professor triumphantly.
But guessing at some objection from his cousin, he has-
tened on — 'T know what you are going to tell me. There
remains another enemy, one that has not yet leaped into
the lists but which all the Germans are waiting for. That
one inspires more hatred than all the others put together,
because it is of our blood, because it is a traitor to the
race. . . . Ah, how we loathe it!"
And in the tone in which these words were uttered
throbbed an expression of hatred and a thirst for ven-
geance which astonished both listeners.
"Even though England attack us," continued Hartrott,
"we shall conquer, notwithstanding. This adversary is
not more terrible than the others. For the past century
she has ruled the world. Upon the fall of Napoleon she
seized the continental hegemony, and will fight to keep it.
But what does her energy amount to? . . . As our
Bernhardi says, the English people are merely a nation
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN nS
of renters and sportsmen. Their army is formed from
the dregs of the nation. The country lacks military spirit.
We are a people of warriors, and it will be an easy
thing for us to conquer the English, debilitated by a false
conception of Hfe."
The Doctor paused and then added : ''We are counting
on the internal corruption of our enemies, on their lack of
unity. God will aid us by sowing confusion among these
detested people. In a few days you will see His hand.
Revolution is going to break out in France at the same
time as war. The people of Paris will build barricades
in the streets and the scenes of the Commune will repeat
themselves. Tunis, Algiers and all their other possessions
are about to rise against the metropolis."
Argensola seized the opportunity to smile with an
aggressive incredulity.
*T repeat it," insisted Hartrott, "that this country is
going to have internal revolution and colonial insurrec-
tion, I know perfectly well what I am talking about.
. . . Russia also will break out into revolution with
a red flag that will force the Czar to beg for mercy on
his knees. You have only to read in the papers of the
recent strikes in Saint Petersburg, and the manifestations
of the strikers with the pretext of President Poincare's
visit. . . . England will see her appeals to her colo-
nies completely ignored. India is going to rise against
her, and Egypt, too, will seize this opportunity for her
emancipation."
Julio was beginning to be impressed by these affirma-
tions enunciated with such oracular certainty, and he felt
almost irritated at the incredulous Argensola, who con-
tinued looking insolently at the seer, repeating with his
winking eyes, **He is insane — insane with pride." The
man certainly must have strong reasons for making such
awful proohecies. His presence in Paris just at this time
136 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
was difficult for Desnoyers to understand, and gave to his
words a mysterious authority.
"But the nations will defend themselves," he protested
to his cousin. ''Victory will not be such a very simple
thing as you imagine.''
"Yes, they will defend themselves, and the struggle
will be fiercely contested. It appears that, of late years,
France has been paying some attention to her army. We
shall undoubtedly encounter some resistance; triumph
may be somewhat difficult, but we are going to prevail.
. . . You have no idea to what extent the offensive
power of Germany has attained. Nobody knows with
certainty beyond the frontiers. If our foes should com-
prehend it in all its immensity, they would fall on their
knees beforehand to beg for mercy, thus obviating the
necessity for useless sacrifices."
There was a long silence. Julius von Hartrott ap^
peared lost in reverie. The very thought of the accumu-
lated strength of his race submerged him in a species of
mystic adoration.
"The preliminary victory," he suddenly exclaimed?
**we gained some time ago. Our enemies, therefore, hate
us, and yet they imitate us. All that bears the stamp of
Germany is in demand throughout the world. The very
countries that are trying to resist our arms copy our
methods in their universities and admire our theories,
even those which do not attain success in Germany.
Oftentimes we laugh among ourselves, like the Roman
augurs, upon seeing the servility with which they follow
us ! . . . And yet they will not admit our superiority !"
For the first time, Argensola's eyes and general ex-
pression approved the words of Hartrott. What he had
just said was only too true — the world was a victim of
"the German superstition." An intellectual cowardice,
the fear of Force had made it admire en masse and ii)-
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 137
discriminately, everything of Teutonic origin, just be-
cause of the intensity of its ghtter — gold mixed with
talcum. The so-called Latins, dazed with admiration,
were, with unreasonable pessimism, becoming doubtful of
their ability, and thus were the first to decree their own
death. And the conceited Germans merely had to repeat
the words of these pessimists in order to strengthen their
belief in their own superiority.
With that Southern temperament, which leaps rapidly
from one extreme to another, many Latins had pro-
claimed that in the world of the future, there would be
no place for the Latin peoples, now in their death-agony
■ — adding that Germany alone preserved the latent forces
of civilization. The French who declaimed among them-
selves, with the greatest exaggeration, unconscious that
folks were listening the other side of the door, had pro-
claimed repeatedly for many years past that France was
degenerating rapidly and would soon vanish from the
earth. Then why should they resent the scorn of their
enemies. . . . Why shouldn't the Germans share in
their beliefs? . . .
The professor, misinterpreting the silent agreement of
the Spaniard who until then had been listening with such
a hostile smile, added :
*'Now is the time to try out in France the German
culture, implanting it there as conquerors."
Here Argensola interrupted, ''And what if there is no
such thing as German culture, as a celebrated Teuton
says ?" It had become necessary to contradict this pedant
who had become insufferable with his egotism. Hart-
rott almost jumped from his chair on hearing such a
doubt.
"What German is that?*'
''Nietzsche."
The professor looked at him pUyingly. Nietzsche had
138 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
said to mankind, "Be harsh !" affirming that "a righteous
war sanctifies every cause." He had exalted Bismarck;
he had taken part in the war of '70; he was glorifying
Germany when he spoke of "the smiling lion," ana "the
blond beast." But Argensola listened with the tranquil-
lity of one sure of his ground. Oh, hours of placid read-
ing near the studio chimney, listening to the rain beating
against the pane ! . . .
"The philosopher did say that," he admitted, "and he
said many other very different things, like all great
thinkers. His doctrine is one of pride, but of individual
pride, not that of a nation or race. He always spoke
against *the insidious fallacy of race.' "
Argensola recalled his philosophy word for word
Culture, according to Nietzsche, was "unity of style in all
the manifestations of life." Science did not necessarily
include culture. Great knowledge might be accompanied
with great barbarity, by the absence of style or by the
chaotic confusion of all styles. Germany, according to
the philosopher, had no genuine culture owing to its lack
of style. "The French," he had said, "were at the head
of an authentic and fruitful culture, whatever their valor
might be, and until now everybody had drawn upon it."
Their hatreds were concentrated within their own coun-
try. "I cannot endure Germany. The spirit of servility
and pettiness penetrates everywhere. ... I believe
only in French culture, and what the rest of Europe calls
culture appears to me to be a mistake. The few individ-
ual cases of lofty culture that I met in Germany were of
French origin."
"You know," continued Argensola, "that in quarrelliuj^:
with Wagner about the excess of Germanism in his art,
Nietzsche proclaimed the necessity of mediterraneanising
music. His ideal was a culture for all Europe, but witV
a Latin base."
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 139
Julius von Hartrott replied most disdainfully to this,
repeating the Spaniard's very words. Men who thought
much said many things. Besides, Nietzsche was a poet,
completely demented at his death, and was no authority
among the University sages. His fame had only been
recognized in foreign lands. . . . And he paid no further
attention to the youth, ignoring him as though he had
evaporated into thin air after his presumption. All the
professor's attention was now concentrated on Desnoyers.
"This country," he resumed, "is dying from within.
How can you doubt that revolution will break out the
minute war is declared? . . , Have you not noticed
the agitation of the boulevard on account of the Caillaux
trial ? Reactionaries and revolutionists have been assault-
ing each other for the past three days. I have seen them
challenging one another with shouts and songs as if they
were going to come to blows right in the middle of the
street. This division of opinion will become accentuated
when our troops cross the frontier. It will then be civil
war. The anti-militarists are clamoring mournfully, be-
lieving that it is in the power of the government to pre-
vent the clash. ... A country degenerated by democracy
and by the inferiority of the triumphant Celt, greedy
for full liberty ! . . . We are the only free people on
earth because we know how to obey."
This paradox made Julio smile. Germany the only
free people! . . .
"It is so," persisted Hartrott energetically. "We have
the liberty best suited to a great people — economical and
intellectual liberty."
"And political liberty?"
The professor received this question with a scornful
shrug.
"Political liberty! . . . Only decadent and ungov-
etnable oeoole. inferior races anxious for eouality and
140 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
democratic confusion, talk about political liberty. We
Germans do not need it. We are a nation of masters who
recognize the sacredness of government, and we wish to
be commanded by those of superior birth. We possess
the genius of organization."
That, according to the Doctor, was the grand German
secret, and the Teutonic race upon taking possession ci
the world, would share its discovery with all. The
nations would then be so organized that each individual
would give the maximum of service to society. Human-
ity, banded in regiments for every class of production,
obeying a superior officer, like machines contributing the
greatest possible output of labor — there you have the
perfect state ! Liberty was a purely negative idea if not
accompanied with a positive concept which would make
it useful.
The two friends listened with astonishment to this de-
scription of the future which Teutonic superiority was
oifering to the world. Every individual submitted to in-
tensive production, the same as a bit of land from which
its owner wishes to get the greatest number of vegetables.
. . . Mankind reduced to mechanics. . . . No use-
less operations that would not produce immediate results.
. , . And the people who heralded this awful idea were
the very philosophers and idealists who had once given
contemplation and reflection the first place in their ex-
istence ! . . .
Hartrott again harked back to the inferiority of their
racial enemies. In order to combat successfully, it re-
quired self-assurance, an unquenchable confidence in the
superiority of their own powers.
"At this very hour in Berlin, everyone is accepting war,
everyone is believing that victory is sure, while Jieref
. . . I do not say that the French are afraid ; they have
z brave past that galvanizes them at certain times — but
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 141
they are so depressed that it is easy to guess that they will
make almost any sacrifices in order to evade what is
coming upon them. The people first will shout with en-
thusiasm, as it always cheers that which carries it to per-
dition. The upper classes have no faith in the future;
they are keeping quiet, but the presentiment of disaster
may easily be conjectured. Yesterday I was talking with
your father. He is French, and he is rich. He was
indignant against the government of his country for in-
volving the nation in the European conflict in order to
defend a distant and uninteresting people. He complains
of the exalted patriots who have opened the abyss be-
tween Germany and France, preventing a reconciliation.
He says that Alsace and Lorraine are not worth what
a war would cost in men and money. . . . He recog*
nizes our greatness and is convinced that we have pro-
gressed so rapidly that the other countries cannot come
up to us. . . . And as your father thinks, so do many
others — all those who are wrapped in creature comfort,
and fear to lose it. Believe me, a country that hesitates
and fears war is conquered before the first battle."
Julio evinced a certain disquietude, as though he would
like to cut short the conversation.
"Just leave my father out of it ! He speaks that way
to-day because war is not yet an accomplished fact, and
he has to contradict and vent his indignation on whoever
comes near him. To-morrow he will say just the oppo-
site. . . . My father is a Latin."
The professor looked at his watch. He must go ; there
were still many things which he had to do before going
to the station. The Germans living in Paris had fled in
great bands as though a secret order had been circulating
among them. That afternoon the last of those who had
been living ostensibly in the Capital would depart.
"I have come to see you because of our family interest^
142 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
because It was my duty to give you fair warning. You
are a foreigner, and nothing holds you here. If you are
desirous of witnessing a great historic event, remain — •
but it will be better for you to go. The war is going to
be ruthless, very ruthless, and if Paris attempts re-
sistance, as formerly, we shall see terrible things. Modes
of offense have greatly changed."
Desnoyers made a gesture of indifference.
"The same as your father," observed the professor.
"Last night he and all your family responded in the same
way. Even my mother prefers to remain with her sister,
saying that the Germans are very good, very civilized
and there is nothing to apprehend in their triumph."
This good opinion seemed to be troubling the Doctor.
"They don't understand what modern warfare means.
They ignore the fact that our generals have studied the
art of overcoming the enem^y and they will apply it merci-
lessly. Ruthlessness is the only means, since it perturbs
the intelligence of the enemy, paralyzes his action and
pulverizes his resistance. The more ferocious the war,
the more quickly it is concluded. To punish with cruelty
is to proceed humanely. Therefore, Germany is going to
be cruel with a cruelty hitherto unseen, in order that the
conflict may not be prolonged."
He had risen and was standing, cane and straw hat in
hand. Argensola was looking at him with frank hos-
tility. The professor, obliged to pass near him, did so
with a stiff and disdainful nod.
Then he started toward the door, accompanied by his
cousin. The farewell was brief.
"I repeat my counsel. If you do not like danger, go !
It may be that I am mistaken, and that this nation, con-
vinced of the uselessness of defense, may give itself up
voluntarily. ... At any rate, we shall soon see. I
shall take great pleasure in returning to Paris when the
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 145^
flag of the Empire is floating over the Eiffel Tower, a
mere matter of three or four weeks, certainly by the be-
ginning of September."
France was going to disappear from the map. To the
Doctor, her death was a foregone conclusion.
*Taris will remain," he admitted benevolently, "the
French will remain, because a nation is not easily sup-
pressed ; but they will not retain their former place. We
shall govern the world; they will continue to occupy
themselves in inventing fashions, in making life agree-
able for visiting foreigners ; and in the intellectual world,
we shall encourage them to educate good actresses, to
produce entertaining novels and to write witty comedies.
. . . Nothing more."
Desnoyers laughed as he shook his cousin's hand, pre-
tending to take his words as a paradox.
"I mean it," insisted Hartrott. "The last hour of the
French Republic as an important nation has sounded. I
have studied it at close range, and it deserves no better
fate. License and lack of confidence above — sterile en-
thusiasm below."
Upon turning his head, he again caught Argensola's
malicious smile.
"We know all about that kind of study," he added
aggressively. "We are accustomed to examine the nations
of the past, to dissect them fibre by fibre, so that we
recognize at a glance the psychology of the living."
The Bohemian fancied that he sav/ a surgeon talking
self-sufiiciently about the mysteries of the will before a
corpse. What did this pedantic interpreter of dead docu-
ments know about life ? . . .
When the door closed, he approached his friend who
was returning somewhat dismayed. Argensola no longer
considered Doctor Julius von Hartrott crazy.
"What a brute !" he exclaimed, throwincr up his hands.
144 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSJS
"And to think that they are at large, these originators of
gloomy errors ! . . . Who would ever believe that
they belong to the same land that produced Kant, the
pacifist, the serene Goethe and Beethoven! . . . To
think that for so many years, v^e have believed that
they were forming a nation of dreamers and philosophers
occupied in working disinterestedly for all mankind!'
The sentence of a German geographer recurred tc
him: "The German is bicephalous; with one head he
dreams and poetizes while with the other he thinks and
executes."
Desnoyers was now beginning to feel depressed at the
certainty of war. This professor seemed to him even
worse than the Herr Counsellor and the other Germans
that he had met on the steamer. His distress was not
only because of his selfish thought as to how the catas-
trophe was going to affect his plans with Marguerite.
He was suddenly discovering that in this hour of uncer-
tainty he loved France. He recognized it as his father's
native land and the scene of the great Revolution. . . .
Although he had never mixed in political campaigns, he
was a republican at heart, and had often ridiculed certain
of his friends who adored kings and emperors, thinking
it a great sign of distinction.
Argensola tried to cheer him up.
"Who knows? . . . This is a country of surprises.
One must see the Frenchman when he tries to remedy
his want of foresight. Let that barbarian of a cousin of
yours say what he will — there is order, there is enthusi-
asm. . , . Worse off than we were those who lived in
the days before Valmy. Entirely disorganized, their only
defense battalions of laborers and countrymen handling
a gun for the first time. . . . But, nevertheless, the
Europe of the old monarchies could not for twenty years
^^ee themselves from these improvised warriors !"
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH APPEAR THE FOUR HORSEMEN
The two friends now lived a feverish life, considerably
accelerated by the rapidity with which events succeeded
each other. Every hour brought forth an astonishing bit
of news — generally false — which changed opinions very
suddenly. As soon as the danger of war seemed ar-
rested, the report would spread that mobilization was
going to be ordered within a few minutes.
Within each twenty-four hours were compressed the
disquietude, anxiety and nervous waste of a normal year.
And that which was aggravating the situation still more
was the uncertainty, the expectation of the event, feared
but still invisible, the distress on account of a danger
continually threatening but never arriving.
History in the making was like a stream overflowing
its banks, events overlapping each other like the waves of
an inundation. Austria was declaring war with Servia
while the diplomats of the great powers were continuing
their efforts to stem the tide. The electric web girdling
the planet was vibrating incessantly in the depths of the
ocean and on the peaks of the continents, transmitting
alternate hopes and fears.
Russia was mobilizing a part of its army. Germany,
with its troops in readiness under the pretext of manoeu-
vres, was decreeing the state of ''threatened war.'' The
Austrians, regardless of the efforts of diplomacy, were
beginning the bombardment of Belgrade. William H,
.U5
146 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
fearing that the intervention of the Powers might settle
the differences between the Czar and the Emperor of
Austria, was forcing the course of events by declaring
war upon Russia. Then Germany began isolating herself,
cutting off railroad and telegraphic communications in
order to shroud in mystery her invading forces.
France was watching this avalanche of events, temper-
ate in its words and enthusiasm. A cool and grave
resolution was noticeable everywhere. Two generations
had come into the world, informed as soon as they
reached a reasonable age, that some day there would un-
doubtedly be war. Nobody wanted it ; the adversary im-
posed it. . . . But all were accepting it with the firm
intention of fulfilling their duty.
During the daytime Paris was very quiet, concentrating
the mind on the work in hand. Only a few groups of ex-
alted patriots, following the tricolored flag, were passing
through the place de la Concorde, in order to salute the
statue of Strasbourg. The people were accosting each
other in a friendly way in the streets. Everybody seemed
to know everybody else, although they might not have met
before. Eye attracted eye, and smiles appeared to
broaden mutually with the sympathy of a common inter-
est. The women were sad but speaking cheerily in order
to hide their emotions. In the long summer twilight, the
boulevards were filling with crowds. Those from the
outlying districts were converging toward the centre of
the city, as in the remote revolutionary days, banding to-
gether in groups, forming an endless multitude from
which came shouts and songs. These manifestations
were passing through the centre under the electric lights
that were just being turned on, the processions generally
lasting until midnight, with the national banner floating
above the walking crowds, escorted by the flags of other
nations.
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 147
It was on one of these nights of sincere enthusiasm
that the two friends heard an unexpected, astonishing
piece of news. "They have killed Jaures !" The groups
were repeating it from one to another with an amaze-
ment which seemed to overpower their grief. "Jaures
assassinated! And what for?" The best popular ele-
ment, which instinctively seeks an explanation of every
proceeding, remained in suspense, not knowing which
way to turn. The tribune dead, at the very moment that
his word as welder of the people was most needed ! . . .
Argensola thought immediately of Tchernoff. "What
will our neighbors say? . . . The quiet, orderly
people of Paris were fearing a revolution, and for a few
moments Desnoyers believed that his cousin's auguries
were about to be fulfilled. This assassination, with its
retaliations, might be the signal for civil war. But the
masses of the people, worn out with grief at the death of
their hero, were waiting in tragic silence. All were see-
ing, beyond his dead body, the image of the country.
By the following morning, the danger had vanished.
The laboring classes were talking of generals and war,
showing each other their little military memorandums,
announcing the date of their departure as soon as the
order of mobilization should be published. "I go the sec-
ond day." "I the first." Those of the standing army
who were on leave were recalled individually to the bar-
racks. All these events were tending in the same direc-
tion— war.
The Germans were invading Luxembourg; the Ger-
mans were ordering their armies to invade the French
frontier when their ambassador was still in Paris making
promises of peace. On the day after the death of Jaures,
the first of August, the people were crowding around
some pieces of paper, written by hand and in evident
haste. These papers were copies of other larger printed
148 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
sheets, headed by two crossed flags. "It has come ; it is
now a fact!" ... It was the order for general mobili-
zation. All France was about to take up arms, and chests
seemed to expand with a sigh of relief. Eyes were spark-
ling with excitement. The nightmare was at last over{
. . . Cruel reality was preferable to the uncertainty
of days and days, each as long as a week.
In vain President Poincare, animated by a last hope,
was explaining to the French that "mobilization is not
necessarily war, that a call to arms may be simply a pre-
ventive measure." 'Tt is war, inevitable war," said the
populace with a fatalistic expression. And those who
were going to start that very night or the following day
were the most eager and enthusiastic — "Now those who
seek us are going to find us! Vive la France T The
Chant du Depart, the martial hymn of the volunteers of
the first Republic, had been exhumed by the instinct of
a people which seek the voice of Art in its most critical
moments. The stanzas of the conservative Chenier,
adapted to a music of warlike solemnity, were resounding
through the streets, at the same time as the Marseillaise:
La Republique nous appelle.
Sachons vaincre ou sachons perir;
Un frangais doit vivre pour elle.
Pour elle un frangais doit mourir.
TRe mobilization began at midnight to the minute. At
dusk, groups of men began moving through the streets
towards the stations. Their families were walking beside
them, carrying the valise or bundle of clothes. They were
escorted by the friends of their district, the tricolored flag
borne aloft at the head of these platoons. The Reserves
were donning their old uniforms which presented all the
difficulties of suits long ago forgotten. With new leather
belts and their revolvers at their sides, they were be-
taking themselves to the railway which was to carry them
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 149
to the point of concentration. One of their children was
carrying the old sword in its cloth sheath. The wife was
hanging on his arm, sad and proud at the same time, giv-
ing her last counsels in a loving whisper.
Street cars, automobiles and cabs rolled by with crazy
velocity. Nobody had ever seen so many vehicles in the
Paris streets, yet if anybody needed one, he called in
vain to the conductors, for none wished to serve mere
civilians. All means of transportation were for military
men, all roads ended at the railroad stations. The heavy
trucks of the administration, filled with sacks, were
saluted with general enthusiasm. "Hurrah for the army !"
The soldiers in mechanic's garb, on top of the swaying
pyramid, replied to the cheers, waving their arms and
uttering shouts that nobody pretended to understand.
Fraternity had created a tolerance hitherto unknown.
The crowds were pressing forward, but in their en-
counters, invariably preserved good order. Vehicles
were running into each other, and when the conductors
resorted to the customary threats, the crowds would in-
tervene and make them shake hands. "Three cheers for
France !" The pedestrians escaping between the wheels
of the automobiles were laughing and good-naturedly
reproaching the chauffeur with "Would you kill a
Frenchman on his way to his regiment?" and the con-
ductor would reply, 'T, too, am going in a few hours.
This is my last trip." As night approached, cars and cabs
were running with increasing irregularity, many of the
employees having abandoned their posts to take leave of
their families and make the train. All the life of Paris
was concentrating itself in a half-dozen human rivers
emptying in the stations.
Desnoyers and Argensola met in a boulevard cafe
toward midnight. Both were exhausted by the day's emo-
tions and under that nervous depression which follows
150 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
noisy and violent spectacles. They needed to rest. War
was a fact, and now that it was a certainty, they felt no
anxiety to get further news. Remaining in the cafe
proved impossible. In the hot and smoky atmosphere,
the occupants were singing and shouting and waving tiny
flags. All the battle hymns of the past and present were
here intoned in chorus, to an accompaniment of glasses
and plates. The rather cosmopolitan clientele was re-
viewing the European nations. All, absolutely all, were
going to enroll themselves on the side of France. "Hur-
rah! . . .Hurrah!" . . . An old man and his wife
were seated at a table near the two friends. They were
tenants, of an orderly, humdrum walk in life, who per-
haps in all their existence had never been awake at such
an hour. In the general enthusiasm they had come to
the boulevards "in order to see war a little closer." The
foreign tongue used by his neighbors gave the husband
a lofty idea of their importance.
"Do you believe that England is going to join us?" . . ,
Argensola knew as much about it as he, but he replied
authoritatively, "Of course she will. That's a sure
thing !" The old man rose to his feet : "Hurrah for
England !" and he began chanting a forgotten patriotic
song, marking time with his arms in a spirited way, to
the great admiration of his old wife, and urging all to
join in the chorus that very few were able to follow.
The two friends had to take themselves home on foot.
They could not find a vehicle that would stop for them;
all were hurrying in the opposite direction toward the
stations. They were both in a bad humor, but Argensola
couldn't keep his to himself.
"Ah, these women !" Desnoyers knew all about his
relations (so far honorable) with a midinette from the
rue Taitbout. Sunday strolls in the suburbs of Paris,
various trips to the moving picture shows, comments upon
IN WHICPI APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 151
the fine points of the latest novel published in the sheets
of a popular paper, kisses of farewell when she took the
night train from Bois Colombes in order to sleep at home
• — that was all. But Argensola was wickedly counting on
Father Time to mellow the sharpest virtues. That eve-
ning they had taken some refreshment with a French
friend who was going the next morning to join his
regiment. The girl had sometimes seen him with Argen-
sola without noticing him particularly, but now she sud-
denly began admiring him as though he were another
person. She had given up the idea of returning home
that night; she want^.d to see how a war begins. The
three had dined together, and all her interest had centred
upon the one who was going away. She even took of-
fense, with sudden modesty, when Argensola tried as he
had often done before, to squeeze her hand under the
table. Meanwhile she was almost leaning her head on
the shoulder of the future hero, enveloping him with ad-
miring gaze.
"And they have gone. . . . They have gone away
together!" said the Spaniard bitterly. *T had to leave
them in order not to make my hard luck any worse. To
have worked so long . . . for another!"
He was silent for a few minutes, then changing the
trend of his ideas, he added : 'T recognize, nevertheless,
that her behavior is beautiful. The generosity of these
women when they believe that the moment for sacrifice
has come ! She is terribly afraid of her father, and yet
she stays away from home all night with a person whom
she hardly knows, and whom she was not even thinking
of in the middle of the afternoon ! . . . The entire
nation feels gratitude toward those who are going to
imperil their lives, and she, poor child, wishing to do
something, too, for those destined for death, to give
them a little pleasure in their last hour. ... is giving
152 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the best she has, that which she can never recover. I
have sketched her role poorly, perhaps. . . . Laugh
at me if you want to, but admit that it is beautiful."
Desnoyers laughed heartily at his friend's discomfiture,
in spite of the fact that he, too, was suffering a good
deal of secret annoyance. He had seen Marguerite but
once since the day of his return. The only news of her
that he had received was by letter. . . . This cursed
war! What an upset for happy people! Marguerite's
mother was ill. She was brooding over the departure of
her son, an officer, on the first day of the mobilization.
Marguerite, too, was uneasy about her brother and did
not think it expedient to come to the studio while her
mother was grieving at home. When was this situation
ever to end ? . . .
That check for four hundred thousand francs which
he had brought from America was also worrying him.
The day before, the bank had declined to pay it for lack
of the customary official advice. Afterward they said
that they had received the advice, but did not give him
the money. That very afternoon, when the trust com-
panies had closed their doors, the government had already
declared a moratorium, in order to prevent a general
bankruptcy due to the general panic. When would they
pay him? . . . Perhaps when the war which had not
yet begun was ended — perhaps never. He had no other
money available except the two thousand francs left over
from his travelling expenses. All of his friends were in
the same distressing situation, unable to draw on the
sums which they had in the banks. Those who had any
money were obliged to go from shop to shop, or form
in line at the bank doors, in order to get a bill changfed.
Oh, this war ! This stupid war !
In the Champs Elysees, they saw a man with a broad-
brimmed hat who was walking slowly ahead of them and
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 153
talking to himself. Argensola recognized him as he
passed near the street lamp, "Friend Tchernoff." Upon
returning their greeting, the Russian betrayed a slight
odor of wine. Uninvited, he had adjusted his steps to
theirs, accompanying them toward the Arc de Triomphe.
Julio had merely exchanged silent nods with Argen-
sola's new acquaintance when encountering him in the
vestibule; but sadness softens the heart and makes us
seek the friendship of the humble as a refreshing shelter.
Tchernoff, on the contrary, looked at Desnoyers as
though he had known him all his life.
The man had interrupted his monologue, heard only
by the black masses of vegetation, the blue shadows per-
forated by the reddish tremors of the street lights, the
summer night with its cupola of warm breezes and twink-
ling stars. He took a few steps without saying any-
thing, as a mark of consideration to his companions, and
then renewed his arguments, taking them up where he
had broken off, without offering any explanation, as
though he were still talking to himself. . . .
"And at this very minute, they are shouting with
enthusiasm the same as they are doing here, honestly
believing that they are going to defend their outraged
country, wishing to die for their families and firesides
that nobody has threatened."
"Who are 'they,' Tchernoff?" asked Argensola.
The Russian stared at him as though surprised at such
a question.
"They," he said laconically.
The two understood. . . . They! It could not be
anyone else.
"I have lived ten years in Germany," he continued,
-'^nnecting np his words, now that he found himself
listened to. 'T was daily correspondent for a paper in
Berlin and I know these people. Passing along these
154 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
thronged boulevards, I have been seeing In my imagina-
tion what must be happening there at this hour. They,
too, are singing and shouting with enthusiasm as they
wave their flags. On the outside, they seem just ahke —
but oh, what a difference within ! . . . Last night
the people beset a few babblers in the boulevard who
were yelling, 'To Berlin !' — a slogan of bad memories
and worse taste. France does not wish conquests ; her
only desire is to be respected, to live in peace without
humiliations or disturbances. To-night two of the mobi-
lized men said on leaving, 'When we enter Germany we
are going to make it a republic !' . . . A republic is
not a perfect thing, but it is better than living under an
irresponsible monarchy by the grace of God. It at least
presupposes tranquiUity and absence of the personal am-
bitions that disturb life. I was impressed by the generous
thought of these laboring men who, instead of wishing
to exterminate their enemies, were planning to give them
something better."
Tchernoff remained silent a few minutes, smiling iron-
ically at the picture which his imagination was calling
forth.
"In Berlin, the masses are expressing their enthusiasm
in the lofty phraseology befitting a superior people. Those
in the lowest classes, accustomed to console themselves
for humiliations with a gross materialism, are now cry-
ing 'Nach Paris! We are going to drink champagne
gratis!' The pietistic burgher, ready to do anything to
attain a new honor, and the aristocracy which has given
the world the greatest scandals of recent years, are also
shouting, 'Nach Paris!' To them Paris is the Babylon of
the deadly sin, the city of the Moulin Rouge and the res-
taurants of Montmartre, the only places that they know.
. . . And my comrades of the Social-Democracy, they
are also cheering, but to another tune. — 'To-morrow ! Tc
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 155
St. Petersburg! Russian ascendency, the menace of
civilization, must be obliterated !' The Kaiser waving the
tyranny of another country as a scarecrow to his people !
. . . What a joke !"
And the loud laugh of the Russian sounded through the
night like the noise of wooden clappers.
"We are more civilized than the Germans," he said, re-
gaining his self-control.
Desnoyers, who had been listening with great Interest,
now gave a start of surprise, saying to himself, ''This
Tchernoff has been drinking."
"Civilization," continued the Socialist, "does not con-
sist merely in great Industry, In many ships, armies and
numerous universities that only teach science. That Is
material civilization. There Is another, a superior one,
that elevates the soul and does not permit human
dignity to suffer without protesting against continual
humiliations. A Swiss living in his wooden chalet and
considering himself the equal of the other men of his
country, Is more civilized than the Herr Professor who
gives precedence to a lieutenant, or to a Hamburg million-
aire who, in turn, bends his neck like a lackey before
those whose names are prefixed by a von/'
Here the Spaniard assented as though he could guess
what Tchernoff was going to say.
"We Russians endure great tyranny. I know some-
thing about that. I know the hunger and cold of Siberia.
. . . But opposed to our tyranny has always ex-
isted a revolutionary protest. Part of the nation is half-
barbarian, but the rest has a superior mentality, a lofty
moral spirit which faces danger and sacrifice because of
liberty and truth. . . . And Germany? Who there
has ever raised a protest In order to defend human rights?
What revolutions have ever broken out in Prussia, the
land of the great despots?
156 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Frederick William, the founder of militarism, whea
he was tired of beating his wife and spitting in his chil-
dren's plates, used to sally forth, thong in hand, in order
to cowhide those subjects who did not get out of his
way in time. His son, Frederick the Great, declared
that he died, bored to death with governing a nation of
slaves. In two centuries of Prussian history, one single
revolution — the barricades of 1848 — a bad Berlinish copy
of the Paris revolution, and without any result. Bis-
marck corrected with a heavy hand so as to crush com-
pletely the last attempts at protest — if such ever really
existed. And when his friends were threatening him with
revolution, the ferocious Junker, merely put his hands on
his hips and roared with the most insolent of horse
laughs. A revolution in Prussia 1 . . . Nothing at all, as he
knew his people !"
Tchernoff was not a patriot. Many a time Argensola
had heard him railing against his country, but now he
was indignant in view of the contempt with which Teu-
tonic haughtiness was treating the Russian nation.
Where, in the last forty years of imperial grandeur, wai.
that universal supremacy of which the Germans were
everlastingly boasting? . . .
Excellent workers in science; tenacious and short-
sighted academicians, each wrapped in his specialty! —
Benedictines of the laboratory who experimented pains-
takingly and occasionally hit upon something, in spite
of enormous blunders given out as truths, because they
were their own . . . that was all! And side by side
with such patient laboriosity, really worthy of respect —
what charlatanism! What great names exploited as a
shop sample ! How many sages turned into proprietors
of sanatoriums ! . . . A Herr Professor discovers the
cure of tuberculosis, and the tubercular keep on dying as
before. Another labels with a number the invincible
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 157'
remedy for the most unconfessable of diseases, and the
genital scourge continues afflicting the world. And all
these errors were representing great fortunes, each saving
panacea bringing into existence an industrial corporation
selling its products at high prices — as though suffering
were a privilege of the rich. How different from the
bluff Pasteur and other clever men of the inferior races
who have given their discoveries to the world without
stooping to form monopolies !
"German science," continued Tchernoff, "has given
much to humanity, I admit that; but the science of other
nations has done as much. Only a nation puffed up with
conceit could imagine that it has done everything for
civilization, and the others nothing. . . . Apart from
their learned specialists, what genius has been produced
in our day by this Germany which believes itself so
transcendent? Wagner, the last of the romanticists,
closes an epoch and belongs to the past. Nietzsche took
pains to proclaim his Polish origin and abominated Ger-
many, a country, according to him, of middle-class ped-
ants. His Slavism was so pronounced that he even
prophesied the overthrow of the Prussians by the Slavs.
. . . And there are others. We, although a savage
people, have given the world of modern times an ad-
mirable moral grandeur. Tolstoi and Dostoievsky are
world-geniuses. What names can the Germany of Wil-
liam n put ahead of these ? . . . His country was the
country of music, but the Russian musicians of to-day are
more original than the mere followers of Wagner, the
copyists who take refuge in orchestral exasperations in
order to hide their mediocrity. ... In its time of
stress the German nation had men of genius, before Pan-
Germanism had been born, when the Empire did not
exist. Goethe, Schiller, Beethoven were subjects of
little principalities. They received influence from other
158 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
countries and contributed their share to the universal
civilization Hke citizens of the world, without insisting
that the world should, therefore, become Germanized."
Czarism had committed atrocities. Tchernoff knew
that by experience, and did not need the Germans to
assure him of it. But all the illustrious classes of Rus-
sia were enemies of that tyranny and were protesting
against it. Where in Germany were the intellectual ene-
mies of Prussian Czarism? They were either holding
their peace, or breaking forth into adulation of the anoint-
ed of the Lord — a musician and comedian like Nero,
of a sharp and superficial intelligence, who believed that
by merely skimming through anything he knew it all.
Eager to strike a spectacular pose in history, he had
finally afflicted the world with the greatest of calamities.
"Why must the tyranny that weighs upon my country
necessarily be Russian? The worst Czars were imitators
of Prussia. Every time that the Russian people of our
day have attempted to revindicate their rights, the re-
actionaries have used the Kaiser as a threat, proclaiming
that he would come to their aid. One-half of the Rus-
sian aristocracy is German ; the functionaries who advise
and support despotism are Germans; German, too, are
the generals who have distinguished themselves by mas-
sacring the people; German are the officials who under-
take to punish the laborers' strikes and the rebellion of
their allies. The reactionary Slav is brutal, but he has the
fine sensibility of a race in which many princes have be-
come Nihilists. He raises the lash with facility, but
then he repents and oftentimes weeps. I have seen
Russian officials kill themselves rather than march
against the people, or through remorse for slaughter
committed. The German in the service of the Czar feels
no scruples, nor laments his conduct. He kills coldly,
with the minuteness and exactitude with which he does
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 159
everything. The Russian is a barbarian who strikes and
regrets; German civilization shoots without hesitation.
Our Slav Czar, in a humanitarian dream, favored the
Utopian idea of universal peace, organizing the Con-
ference of The Hague. The Kaiser of culture, mean-
while, has been working years and years in the erection
and establishment of a destructive organ of an immensity
heretofore unknown, in order to crush all Europe. The
Russian is a humble Christian, socialistic, democratic,
thirsting for justice; the German prides himself upon
his Christianity, but is an idolator like the German of
other centuries. His religion loves blood and maintains
castes ; his true worship is that of Odin ; — only that
nowadays, the god of slaughter has changed his name and
calls himself, 'The State' !"
Tchernoff paused an instant — perhaps in order to in-
crease the wonder of his companions — and then said
with simplicity:
"I am a Christian."
Argensola, who already knew the ideas and history of
the Russian, started with astonishment, and Julio per-
sisted in his suspicion, "Surely Tchernoff is drunk."
'Tt is true," declared the Russian earnestly, "that I do
not worry about God, nor do I believe in dogmas, but my
soul is Christian as is that of all revolutionists. The
philosophy of modern democracy is lay Christianity. We
Socialists love the humble, the needy, the weak. We de-
fend their right to life and well-being, as did the great-
est lights of the religious world who saw a brother in
every unfortunate. We exact respect for the poor in the
name of justice; the others ask for it in the name of
charity. That only separates us. But we strive that man-
kind may, by common consent, lead a better life, that the
strong may sacrifice for the weak, the lofty for the lowly.
i6o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
and the world be ruled by brotherliness, seeking the great-
est equality possible."
The Slav reviewed the history of human aspirations*
Greek thought had brought comfort, a serhse of well-
being on the earth — but only for the few, for the citizens
of the little democracies, for the free men, leaving the
slaves and barbarians who constituted the majority, in
their misery. Christianity, the religion of the lowly, had
recognized the right of happiness for all mankind, but
this happiness was placed in heaven, far from this world,
this "vale of tears." The Revolution and its heirs, the
Socialists, were trying to place happiness in the immedi-
ate realities of earth, like the ancients, but making all
humanity participants in it like the Christians.
"Where is the Christianity of modern Germany? . . ,
There is far more genuine Christian spirit in the frater-
nal laity of the French Republic, defender of the weak,
than in the religiosity of the conservative Junkers. Ger-
many has made a god in her own image, beheving that
she adores it, but in reality adoring her own image.
The German God is a reflex of the German state which
considers war as the first activity of a nation and the
noblest of occupations. Other Christian peoples, when
they have to go to war, feel the contradiction that exists
between their conduct and the teachings of the Gospel,
and excuse themselves by showing the cruel necessity
which impels them. Germany declares that war is ac-
ceptable to God. I have heard German sermons prov-
ing that Jesus was in favor of Militarism.
"Teutonic pride, the conviction that its race is provi-
dentially destined to dominate the world, brings into
working unity their Protestants, Catholics and Jews.
"Far above their lifferences of dogma is that God of
the State which is German — the Warrior God to whom
William is probably referring as *my worthy Ally.' Re-
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN i6i
ligions always tend toward universality. Their aim is to
place humanity in relationship with God, and to sustain
these relations among mankind. Prussia has retrograded
to barbarism, creating for its personal use a second Je-
hovah, a divinity hostile to the greater part of the human
race who makes his own the grudges and ambitions of
the German people."
Tchernoff then explained in his own way the creation
of this Teutonic God, ambitious, cruel and vengeful.
The Germans were comparatively recent Christians.
Their Christianity was not more than six centuries old.
When the Crusades were drawing to a close, the Prus-
sians were still living in paganism. Pride of race, im-
pelling them to war, had revived these dead divinities.
The God of the Gospel was now adorned by the Ger-
mans with lance and shield like the old Teutonic god
who was a military chief.
''Christianity in Berlin wears helmet and riding boots.
God at this moment is seeing Himself mobilized the same
as Otto, Fritz and Franz, in order to punish the enemies
of His chosen people. That the Lord has commanded,
*Thou shalt not kill/ and His Son has said to the world,
*Blessed are the peacemakers,' no longer matters. Chris-
tianity, according to its German priests of all creeds, can
Only influence the individual betterment of mankind, and
should not mix itself in affairs of state. The Prussian
God of the State is 'the old German God,' the lineal
descendant of the ferocious Germanic mythology, a mix-
ture of divinities hungry for war.
In the silence of the avenue, the Russian evoked the
ruddy figures of the implacable gods, that were goih^
to awake that night upon hearing the hum of arms and
smelling the acrid odor of blood. Thor, the brutal god
with the little head, was stretching his biceps and clutch-
ing the hammer that crushed cities. Wotan was sharp-
I62 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ening his lance which had the lightning for its handle,
the thunder for its blade. Odin, the one-eyed, was gap-
ing with gluttony on the mountain-tops, awaiting the
dead warriors that would crowd around his throne. The
dishevelled Valkyries, fat and perspiring, were beginning
to gallop from cloud to cloud, hallooing to humanity
that they might carry off the corpses doubled hke saddle
bags, over the haunches of their flying nags.
^'German religiosity," continued the Russian, "is the
disavowal of Christianity. In its eyes, men are no longer
equal before God. Their God is interested only in the
strong, and favors them with his support so that they
may dare anything. Those born weak must either sub-
mit or disappear. Neither are nations equal, but are
divided into leaders and inferior races whose destiny
is to be sifted out and absorbed by their superiors. Since
God has thus ordained, it is unnecessary to state that
the grand world-leader is Germany."
Argensola here interrupted to observe that German
pride believed itself championed not only by God but
by science, too.
*T know that," interposed the Russian without letting
him finish — "generaHzation, inequality, selection, the
struggle for life, and all that. . . . The Germans, so
conceited about their special worth, erect upon distant
ground their intellectual monuments, borrowing of the
foreigner their foundation material whenever they un-
dertake a new line of work. A Frenchman and an Eng-
lishman, Gobineau and Chamberlain, have given them thei
arguments with which to defend the superiority of theif
race. With the rubbish left over from Darwin and
Spencer, their old Haeckel has built up his doctrine of
*Monism" which, applied to politics, scientifically conse-
crates Prussian pride and recognizes its right to rule the
world by force."
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 16:5
"No, a thousand times no \" he exclaimed after a
brief silence. "The struggle for existence with its pro-
cession of cruelties may be true among the lower spe-
cies, but it should not be true among human creatures.
We are rational beings and ought to free ourselves from
the fatality of environment, moulding it to our conven-
ience. The animal does not know law, justice or compas-
sion; he lives enslaved in the obscurity of his instincts.
We think, and thought signifies liberty. Force does not
necessarily have to be cruel; it is strongest when it does
not take advantage of its power, and is kindly. All
have a right to the Hfe into which they are born, and
since among individuals there exist the haughty and
the humble, the mighty and the weak, so should exist
nations, large and small, old and young. The end of our
existence is not comibat nor killing in order that others
may afterwards kill us, and, perhaps, be killed them-
selves. Civilized peoples ought unanimously to adopt
the idea of southern Europe, striving for the most peace-
ful and sweetest form of Hfe possible."
A cruel smile played over the Russian's beard.
"But there exists that Kultiir, diametrically opposed
to civilization, which the Germans wish to palm off upon
us. Civilization is refinement of spirit, respect of one's
neighbor, tolerance of foreign opinion, courtesy of man-
ner. Kultur is the action of a State that organizes and
assimilates individuals and communities in order to util-
ize them for its own ends ; and these ends consist mainly
in placing The State' above other states, overwhelming
them with their grandeur — or what is the same thing —
with their haughty and violent pride."
By this timC; the three had reached the place de I'Etoile.
The dark outline of the Arc de Triomphe stood forth
clearly in the starry expanse. The avenues extended in
all directions, a double file of lights. Those around the
164 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSii!
monument illuminated its gigantic bases and the feet of
the sculptured groups. Further up, the vaulted spaces
were so locked in shadow that they had the black den-
sity of ebony.
Upon passing under the Arch, which greatly inten-
sified the echo of their footsteps, they came to a stand-
still. The night breeze had a wintry chill as it whistled
past, and the curved masses seemed melting into the dif-
fused blue of space. Instinctively the three turned to
glance back at the Champs Elysees. They saw only a
river of shadow on which were floating rosaries of red
stars among the two long, black scarfs formed by the
buildings. But they were so well acquainted with this
panorama that in imagination they mentally saw th^
majestic sweep of the avenue, the double row of palaces,
the place de la Concorde in the background with the
Egyptian obelisk, and the trees of the Tuileries.
"How beautiful it is !" exclaimed Tchernoff who was
seeing something beyond the shadows. *'An entire civil-
ization, loving peace and pleasure, has passed through
here."
A memory greatly affected the Russian. Many an
afternoon, after lunch, he had met in this very spot a
robust man, stocky, with reddish beard and kindly eyes
- — a man who loked like a giant who had just stopped
growing. He was always accompanied by a dog. It was
Jaures, his friend Jaures, who before going to the senate
was accustomed to taking a walk toward the Arch from
his home in Passy.
"He liked to come just where we are now ! He loved
to look at the avenues, the distant gardens, all of Paris
which can be seen from this height; and filled with ad-
miration, he would often say to me, 'This is magnificent
— one of the most beautiful perspectives that can be
found in the entire world.' . . . Poor Jaures !"
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 165
Through association of ideas, the Russian evoked the
image of his compatriot, Michael Bakounine, another
revolutionist, the father of anarchy, weeping v^ith emo-
tion at a concert after hearing the symphony with Bee-
thoven chorals directed by a young friend of his, named
Richard Wagner. "When our revolution comes," he
cried, clasping the hand of the master, "whatever else
may perish, this must be saved at any cost !"
Tchernoif roused himself from his reveries to look
around him and say with sadness:
"They have passed through here !'*
Every time that he walked through the Arch, the
same vision would spring up in his mind. They were
thousands of helmets glistening in the sun, thousands
of heavy boots lifted with mechanical rigidity at the
same time; horns, fifes, drums large and small, clash-
ing against the majestic silence of these stones — the war-
like march from Lohengrin sounding in the deserte6
avenues before the closed houses.
He, who was a foreigner, always felt attracted by
the spell exerted by venerable buildings guarding the
glory of a bygone day. He did not wish to know who
had erected it. As soon as its pride is flattered, man-
kind tries immediately to solidify it. Then Humanity
intervenes with a broader vision that changes the original
significance of the work, enlarges it and strips it of its
first egotistical import. The Greek statues, models of
the highest beauty, had been originally mere images
of the temple, donated by the piety of the devotees of
those times. Upon evoking Roman grandeur, everybody
sees in imagination the enormous Coliseum, circle of
butcheries, or the arches erected to the glory of the
inept Caesars. The representative works of nations have
two significations — the interior or immediate one which
their creators gave them, and the exterior or universal
i66 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
interest, the symbolic value which the centuries have
given them.
"This Arch," continued Tchernoff, ''is French within,
with its names of battles and generals open to criticism.
On the outside, it is the monument of the people who
carried through the greatest revolution for liberty ever
known. The glorification of man is there below in the
column of the place Vendome. Here there is nothing
individual. Its builders erected it to the memory of la
Grande Armee and that Grand Army was the people
in arms who spread revolution throughout Europe. The
artists, great inventors, foresaw the true significance
of this work. The warriors of Rude who are chanting
the Marseillaise in the group at the left are not profes-
sional soldiers, they are armed citizens, marching to
work out their sublime and violent mission. Their
nudity makes them appear to me like sansculottes in Gre-
cian helmets. . . . Here there is more than the glory
and egoism of a great nation. All Europe is awake to
new life, thanks to these Crusaders of Liberty. . . . The
nations call to mind certain images. If I think of Greece,
I see the columns of the Parthenon ; Rome, Mistress of
the World, is the Coliseum and the Arch of Trajan;
and revolutionary France is the Arc de Trlomphe."
The Arch was even more, according to the Russian.
It represented a great historical retaliation; the nations
of the South, called the Latin races, replying, after
many centuries, to the invasion which had destroyed the
Roman jurisdiction — the Mediterranean peoples spread-
ing themselves as conquerors through the lands of the
ancient barbarians. Retreating immediately, they had
swept away the past like a tidal wave — the great surf
depositing all that it contained. Like ths waters of cer-
tain rivers which fructify by overtlowing, this recession
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR. HORSEMEN 167
Z)f the human tide had left the soil enriched with new
and generous ideas.
*'If they should return !" added Tchernoff with a look
of uneasiness. "If they again should tread these stones !
. . . Before, they were simple-minded folk, stunned by
their rapid good-fortune, who passed through here like
a farmer through a salon. They were content with
money for the pocket and two provinces which should
perpetuate the memory of their victory. . . . But now
they will not be the soldiers only who march against
Paris. At the tail of the armies come the maddened
canteen-keepers, the Herr Professors, carrying at the
side the little keg of wine with the powder which crazes
the barbarian, the wine of Kultur. And in the vans
come also an enormous load of scientific savagery, a
new philosophy which glorifies Force as a principle
and sanctifier of everything, denies liberty, suppresses
the weak and places the entire world under the charge
of a minority chosen by God, just because it possesses
the surest and most rapid methods of slaughter. Hu-
*nanity may well tremble for the future if again re-
sounds under this archway the tramp of boots follow-
ing a march of Wagner or any other Kapellmeister."
They left the Arch, following the avenue Victor Hugo.
Tchernoff walking along in dogged silence as though the
vision of this imaginary procession had overwhelmed
hima. Suddenly he continued aloud the course of his re-
flections.
"And if they should enter, what does it matter? . . .
On that account, the couse of Right will not die. It
suffers eclipses, but is born again; it may be ignored
and trampled under foot, but it does not, therefore, cease
to exist, and all good souls recognize it as the only rule
of life. A nation of madmen wishes to place Might upon
the pedestal that others have raised to Right. Useless
I68 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
endeavor ! The eternal hope of mankind will ever be the
increasing power of more liberty, more brotherliness,
more justice."
The Russian appeared to calm himself with this state-
ment. He and his friends spoke of the spectacle which
Paris was presenting in its preparation for war. Tcher-
noff bemoaned the great suffering produced by the
catastrophe, the thousands and thousands of domestic
tragedies that were unrolling at that moment. Appai-
ently nothing had changed. In the centre of the city
and around the stations, there was unusual agitation,
but the rest of the immense city did not appear affected by
the great overthrow of its existence. The solitary streef
was presenting its usual aspect, the breeze was gentl)i
moving the leaves. A solemn peace seemed to be spread-
ing itself through space. The houses appeared wrapped
in slumber, but behind the closed windows might be
surmised the insomnia of the reddened eyes, the sighs
from hearts anguished by the threatened danger, the
tremulous agility of the hands preparing the war outfit,
perhaps the last loving greetings exchanged without
pleasure, with kisses ending in sobs.
Tchernoff thought of his neighbors, the husband and
wife who occupied the other interior apartment behind
the studio. She was no longer playing the piano. The
Russian had overheard disputes, the banging of doors
locked with violence, and the footsteps of a man in the
middle of the night, fleeing from a woman's cries. There
had begun to develop on the other side of the wall a
regulation drama — a repetition of hundreds of others, all
taking place at the same time.
"She is a German," volunteered the Russian. "Our
concierge has ferreted out her nationality. He must have
gone by this time to join his regiment. Last night I could
hardly sleep. I heard the lamentations through the thin
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR PIORSEMEN 169
wall partition, the steady, desperate weeping of an aban-
doned child, and the voice of a man who was vainly
trying to quiet her ! . . . Ah, what a rain of sorrows is
now falling upon the world !"
That same evening, on leaving the house, he had met
her by her door. She appeared like another woman, with
an old look as though in these agonizing hours she had
been suffering for fifteen years. In vain the kindly
Tchernoff had tried to cheer her up, urging her to ac-
cept quietly her husband's absence so as not to harm
the little one who was coming.
*'For the unhappy creature is going to be a mother,"
he said sadly. *'She hides her condition with a certain
modesty, but from my window, I have often seen aer
making the dainty layette."
The woman had listened to him as though she did not
understand. Words were useless before her despera-
tion. She could only sob as though talking to herself,
"I am a German. . . . He has gone ; he has to go
away. . . . Alone ! . . . Alone forever !" . . .
"She is thinking all the time of her nationality which
is separating her from her husband; she is thinking of
the concentration camp to which they will take her with
her compatriots. She is fearful of being abandoned in the
enemy's country obliged to defend itself against the attack
of her own country. . . . And all this when she is about
to become a mother. What miseries! What agonies!"
The three reached the rue de la Pompe and on enter-
ing the house, Tchernoff began to take leave of his com-
panions in order to climb the service stairs ; but Des-
noyers wished to prolong the conversation. He dreaded
being alone with his friend, still chagrined over the eve-
ning's events. The conversation with the Russian inter-
ested him, so they all went up in the elevator together.
Argensola suggested that this would be a good oppor-
170 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
tunity to uncork one of the many bottles which he
was keeping in the kitchen. Tchernoff could go home
through the studio door that opened on the stairway.
The great window had its glass doors wide open; the
transoms on the patio side were also open ; a breeze kept
the curtains swaying, moving, too, the old lanterns,
moth-eaten flags and other adornments of the romantic
studio. They seated themselves around the table, near
a window some distance from the light which was illu-
minating the other end of the big room. They were in
the shadow, with their backs to the interior court. Oppo-
site them were tiled roofs and an enormous rectangle
of blue shadow, perforated by the sharp-pointed stars.
The city lights were coloring the shadowy space with
a bloody reflection.
Tchernoff drank two glasses, testifying to the excel-
lence of the liquid by smacking his lips. The three were
silent with the wondering and thoughtful silence which
the grande jr of the night imposes. Their eyes were
glancing from star to star, grouping them in fanciful
lines, forming them into triangles or squares of vary-
ing irregularity. At times, the twinkling radiance of a
heavenly body appeared to broaden the rays of light, al-
most hypnotizing them.
The Russian, without coming out of his revery, availed
himself of another glass. Then he smiled with cruel
irony, his bearded face taking on the semblance of a
tragic mask peeping between the curtains of the night.
*T wonder what those men up there are thinking!" he
muttered. 'T wonder if any star knows that Bismarck
ever existed ! . . . I wonder if the planets are aware of
the divine mission of the German nation !"
And he continued laughing.
Some far-away and uncertain noise disturbed the still-
ness of the night, slipping through some of the chinks
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 171
ithat cut the immense plain of roofs. The three turned
their heads so as to hear better. . . . The sound of voices
cut through the thick silence of night — a masculine
chorus chanting a hymn, simple, monotonous and solemn.
They guessed at what it must be, although they could
not hear very well. Various single notes floating with
greater intensity on the night wind, enabled Argensola
to piece together the short song, ending in a melodious,
triumphant yell — a true war song:
C'est I'Alsace et la Lorraine,
C'est TAlsace qu'il nous faut,
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
A new band of men was going away through the streets
below, toward the railway station, the gateway of the
war. They must be from the outlying districts, per-
haps from the country, and passing through silence-
wrapped Paris, they felt like singing of the great na-
tional hope, that those who were watching behind the
dark fagades might feel comforted, knowing that they
were not alone.
"Just as it is in the opera," said Julio Hstening to the
last notes of the invisible chorus dying away into the
night.
Tchernoff continued drinking, but with a distracted air,
his eyes fixed on the red cloud that floated over the
roofs.
The two friends conjectured his mental labor from
his concentrated look, and the low exclamations which
were escaping him like the echoes of an interior mono-
logue. Suddenly he leaped from thought to word with-
out any forewarning, continuing aloud the course of his
reasoning.
. . ."And when the sun arises in a few hours, the
ivorld will see coursing through its fields the four horse-
172 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
men, enemies of mankind. . . . Already their wild steeds
are pawing the ground with impatience; already the
ill-omened riders have come together and are exchang-
ing the last words before leaping into the saddle."
"What horseman are these?" asked Argensola.
"Those which go before the Beast."
The two friends thought this reply as unintelligible as
the preceding words. Desnoyers again said mentally,
"He is drunk," but his curiosity forced him to ask,
"What beast is that ?"
"That of the Apocalypse."
There was a brief silence, but the Russian's terseness
of speech did not last long. He felt the necessity of
expressing his enthusiasm for the dreamer on the island
rock of Patmos. The poet of great and mystic vision
was exerting, across two thousand years, his influence
over this mysterious revolutionary, tucked away on the
top floor of a house in Paris. John had foreseen it all.
His visions, unintelligible to the masses, nevertheless held
within them the mystery of great human events.
Tchernoff described the Apocalyptic beast rising from
the depths of the sea. He was like a leopard, his feet
like those of a bear, his mouth like the snout of a Fion.
He had seven heads and ten horns. And upon the
horns were ten crowns, and upon each of his heads the
name of a blasphemy. The evangelist did not say just
what these blasphemies were, perhaps they differed ac-
cording to the epochs, modified every thousand years
when the beast made a new apparition. The Russian
seemed to be reading those that were flaming on the
heads of the monster — blasphemies against humanity,
against justice, against all that makes life sweet and
bearable. "Might is superior to Right !" . . . "The weak
should not exist." . . . "Be harsh in order to be great."
. , . And the Beast in all its hideousness was attempting
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 173
to govern the world and make mankind render him hom-
age!
"But the four horsemen ?" persisted Desnoyers.
The four horsemen were preceding the appearance of
the monster in John's vision.
The seven seals of the book of mystery were broken
by the Lamb in the presence of the great throne where
was seated one who shone like jasper. The rainbow
round about the throne was in sight like unto an emer-
ald. Twenty- four thrones were in a semicircle around
the great throne, and upon them twenty-four elders with
white robes and crowns of gold. Four enormous ani-
mals, covered with eyes and each having six wings,
seemed to be guarding the throne. The sounding of
trumpets was greeting the breaking of the first seal.
"Come and see," cried one of the beasts in a sten-
torian tone to the vision-seeing poet. . . . And the first
horseman appeared on a white horse. In his hand he
carried a bow, and a crown was given unto him. He
was Conquest, according to some, the Plague accord-
ing to others. He might be both things at the same time.
He wore a crown, and that was enough for Tchernoff.
"Come forth," shouted the second animal, removing
his thousand eyes. And from the broken seal leaped
a flame-colored steed. His rider brandished over his
head an enormous sword. He was War. Peace fled
from the world before his furious gallop ; humanity was
going to be exterminated.
And when the third seal was broken, another of the
winged animals bellowed like a thunder clap, "Come
and see!" And John saw a black horse. He who
mounted it held in his hand a scale in order to weigh
the maintenance of mankind. He was Famine.
The fourth animal saluted the breaking of the fourth
seal with a great roaring — "Come and see \" And there
174 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
appeared a pale-colored horse. His rider was called
Death, and power was given him to destroy with the
sword and with hunger and with death, and with the
beasts of the earth.
The four horsemen were beginning their mad, deso-
lating course over the heads of terrified humanity.
Tchernoff was describing the four scourges of the
earth exactly as though he were seing them. The horse-
man on the white horse was clad in a showy and barbar-
ous attire. His Oriental countenance was contracted
with hatred as if smelling out his victims. While his
horse continued galloping, he was bending his bow in
order to spread pestilence abroad. At his back swung
the brass quiver filled with poisoned arrows, containing
the germs of all diseases — those of private life as well
as those which envenom the wounded soldier on the bat-
tlefield.
The second horseman on the red steed was waving
the enormous, two-edged sword over his hair bristling
with the swiftness of his course. He was young, but
the fierce scowl and the scornful mouth gave him a
look of implacable ferocity. His garments, blown open
by the motion of his wild race, disclosed the form of a
muscular athlete.
Bald, old and horribly skinny was the third horse-
man bouncing up and down on the rawboned back of
his black steed. His shrunken legs clanked against the
thin flanks of the lean beast. In one withered hand he
was holding the scales, symbol of the scarcity of food
that was going to become as valuable as gold.
The knees of the fourth horseman, sharp as spurs,
were pricking the ribs of the pale horse. His parchment-
like skin betrayed the lines and hollows of his skeleton.
The front of his skull-like face was twisted with the
sardonic laugh of destruction. His cane-like arms were
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 175
whirling aloft a gigantic sickle. From his angular
shoulders was hanging a ragged, filthy shroud.
And the furious cavalcade was passing like a hurri-
cane over the immense assemblage of human beings. The
heavens showed above their heads, a livid, dark-edged
cloud from the west. Horrible monsters and deformi-
ties were swarming in spirals above the furious horde,
like a repulsive escort. Poor Humanity, crazed with
fear, was fleeing in all directions on hearing the thun-
dering pace of the Plague, War, Hunger and Death.
Men and women, young and old, were knocking each
other down and falling to the ground overwhelmed by
terror, astonishment and desperation. And the white
horse, the red, the black and the pale, were crushing all
with their relentless, iron tread — the athletic man was
hearing the crashing of his broken ribs, the nursing babe
was writhing at its mother's breast, and the aged and
feeble were closing their eyes forever with a childlike
sob.
"God is asleep, forgetting the world," continued the
Russian. "It will be a long time before he awakes,
and while he sleeps the four feudal horsemen of the
Beast will course through the land as its only lords."
Tchernoff was overpowered by the intensity of his
dramatic vision. Springing from his seat, he paced up
and down with great strides ; but his picture of the four-
fold catastrophe revealed by the gloomy poet's trance
seemed to him very weak indeed. A great painter had
given corporeal form to these terrible dreams.
"I have a book," he murmured, "a rare book.** , , .
And suddenly he left the studio and went to his own
quarters. He wanted to bring the book to show to his
friends. Argensola accompanied him, and they returned
in a few minutes with the volume, leaving the doors open
behind them, so as to make a stronger current of air
176 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
among the hollows of the fagades and the interior patio.
Tchernoff placed his precious book under the light. It
was a volume printed in 151 1, with Latin text and en-
gravings. Desnoyers read the title, "The Apocalypse
Illustrated." The engravings were by Albert Diirer, a
youthful effort, when the master was only twenty-seven
years old. The three were fascinated by the picture
portraying the wild career of the Apocalyptic horsemen.
The quadruple scourge, on fantastic mounts, seemed to
be precipitating itself with a realistic sweep, crushing
panic-stricken humanity.
Suddenly something happened which startled the three
meni from their contemplative admiration — something
unusual, indefinable, a dreadful sound which seemed to
enter directly into their brains without passing through
their ears — a clutch at the heart. Instinctively they knew
that something very grave had just happened.
They stared at each other silently for a few intermin-
able seconds.
Through the open door, a cry of alarm came up front
the patio.
With a common impulse, the three ran to the interior
window, but before reaching them, the Russian had a
presentiment.
"My neighbor ! ... It must be my neighbor. Perhaps
she has killed herself!"
Looking down, they could see lights below, people
moving around a form stretched out on the tiled floor.
The alarm had instantly filled all the court windows, for
it was a sleepless night — a night of nervous apprehension
when everyone was keeping a sad vigil.
"She has killed herself," said a voice which seemed
to come up from a well. "The German woman has
committed suicide."
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 177
The explanation of the concierge leaped from window
to window up to the top floor.
The Russian was shaking his head with a fatalistic
expression. The unhappy woman had not taken the
death-leap of her own accord. Someone had intensified
her desperation, someone had pushed her. . . . The
horsemen ! The four horsemen of the Apocalypse ! . . .
Already they were in the saddle ! Already they were be-
ginning their merciless gallop of destruction !
The blind forces of evil were about to be let loose
throughout the world.
The agony of humanity, under the brutal sweep of
^lie four horsemen, was already begun!
Part n
CHAPTER I
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED
Upon being convinced that war really was inevitable,
the elder Desnoyers was filled with amazement. Hu«
manity had gone crazy. Was it possible that war could
happen in these days of so many railroads, so many
merchant marines, so many inventions, so much activ-
ity developed above and below the earth? . . . The na-
tions would ruin themselves forever. They were now
accustomed to luxuries and necessities unknown a cen-
tury ago. Capital was master of the world, and war
was going to wipe it out. In its turn, war would be
wiped out in a few months' time through lack of funds
to sustain it. His soul of a business man revolted be-
fore the hundreds of thousands of millions that this
foolhardy event was going to convert into smoke and
slaughter.
As his indignation had to fix upon something close
at hand, he made his own countrymen responsible for
this msanity. Too much talk about la revanche! The
very idea of worrying for forty-four years over the two
lost provinces when the nation was mistress of enormous
and undeveloped lands in other countries! . . . Now
they were going to pay the penalty for such exasperat-
ing and clamorous foolishness.
For him war meant disaster writ large. He had no
faith in his country. France's day had passed. Now
the victors were of the Northern peoples, and especially
^8i
l82 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
that Germany which he had seen so close, admiring with
a certain terror its discipline and its rigorous organiza-
tion. The former working-man felt the conservative and
selfish instinct of all those who have amassed millions.
He scorned political ideals, but through class interest
he had of late years accepted the declarations against
the scandals of the government. What could a corrupt
and disorganized Republic do against the solidest and
strongest empire in the world? . . .
"We are going to our deaths/' he said to himself.
*'Worse than '70! . . . We are going to see horrible
things !"
The good order and enthusiasm with which the French
responded to their country's call and transformed them-
selves into soldiers were most astonishing to him. This
moral shock made his national faith begin to revive.
The great majority of Frenchmen were good after all;
the nation was as valiant as in former times. Forty-
four years of suffering and alarm had developed their
old bravery. But the leaders? Where were they going
to get leaders to march to victory? . . .
Many others were asking themselves the same ques^
tion. The silence of the democratic government was
keeping the country in complete ignorance of their fu-
ture commanders. Everybody saw the army increasing
from hour to hour: very few knew the generals. One
name was beginning to be repeated from mouth to mouth,
"Joffre . . . Joffre." His first pictures made the curi-
ous crowds struggle to get a glimpse of them. Desnoyers
studied them very carefully. ''He looks like a very
capable person." His methodical instincts were gratified
by the grave and confident look of the general of the
Republic. Suddenly he felt the great confidence that
efficient-looking bank directors always inspired in him
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 183
H^ could entrust his interests to this gentleman, sure,
tliat he would not act impulsively.
Finally, against his will, Desnoyers was drawn into
the whirlpool of enthusiasm and emotion. Like everyone
around him, he lived minutes that were hours, and hours
that were years. Events kept on overlapping each other ;
within a week the world seemed to have made up for
its long period of peace.
The old man fairly lived in the street, attracted by
the spectacle of the multitude of civilians saluting the
multitude of uniformed men departing for the seat of
war.
At night he saw the processions passing through the
boulevards. The tricolored flag was fluttering its colors
tinder the electric lights. The cafes were overflowing
with people, sending forth from doors and windows the
excited, musical notes of patriotic songs. Suddenly,
amidst applause and cheers, the crowd would make an
Opening in the street. All Europe was passing here ; all
K.urope — less the arrogant enemy — and was saluting
)''rance in her hour of danger with hearty spontaneity.
3^'lags of different nations were filing by, of all tints of
the rainbow, and behind them were the Russians with
bright and mystical eyes; the EngHsh, with heads un-
( covered, intoning songs of religious gravity; the Greeks
and Roumanians of aquiline profile ; the Scandinavians,
white and red ; the North Americans, with the noisiness
<'f a somewhat puerile enthusiasm; the Hebrews without
t country, friends of the nation of socialistic revolu-
tbns ; the Italians, as spirited as a choir of heroic tenors ;
t^e Spanish and South Americans, tireless in their huz-
zas. They were students and apprentices who were com-
pleting their courses in the schools and workshops, and
refugees who, like shipwrecked mariners, had sought
shelter on the hospitable strand of Paris. Their cheers
I84 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSF-
had no special significance, but they were all moved by
their desire to show their love for the RepubHc. And
Desnoyers, touched by the sight, felt that France was still
of some account in the world, that she yet exercised
a moral force among the nations, and that her joys and
sorrows were still of interest to humanity.
"In Berlin and Vienna, too," he said to himself, "they
must also be cheering enthusiastically at this moment
, . . but Germans onl}, no others. Assuredly no for-
eigner is joining in their demonstrations."
The nation of the Revolution, legislator of the rights
of mankind, was harvesting the gratitude of the throngs,
but was beginning to feel a certain remorse before the
enthusiasm of the foreigners who were offering their
blood for France. Many were lamenting that the gov-
ernment should delay twenty days, until after they had
finished the operations of mobilization, in admitting the
volunteers. And he, a Frenchman born, a few hours be-
fore, had been mistrusting his country! . . .
In the daytime the popular current was running toward
the Care de I'Est. Crowded against the gratings was
a surging mass of humanity stretching its tentacle?
throug'h the nearby streets. The station that was acquir-
ing the importance of a historic spot appeared like a
narrow tunnel through which a great human river was
trying to flow with many ripling encounters and much
heavy pressure against its banks. A large part of France
in arms was coursing through this exit from Paris toward
the battlefields at the frontier.
Desnoyers had been in the station only twice, when
going and coming from Germany. Others were now tak-
ing the same road. The crowds were swarming in from
the environs of the city in order to see the masses of
human beings in geometric bodies, uniformly clad, dis-
appearing within the entrance with flash of steel and the
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 185
rhythm of clanking metal. The crystal archways that
were glistening in the sun like fiery mouths were swal-
lowing and swallowing people. When night fell the pro-
cessions were still coming on, by light of the electric
lamps. Through the iron grills were passing thousands
and thousands of draught horses ; men with their breasts
crossed with metal and bunches of horsehair hanging
from their helmets, like paladins of bygone centuries;
enormous cases that were serving as cages for the aero-
nautic condors; strings of cannon, long and narrow,
painted grey and protected by metal screens, more like
astronomical instruments than mouths of death; masses
and masses of red kepis (military caps) moving in
marching rhythm, rows and rows of muskets, some black
and stark like reed plantations, others ending in bayonets
like shining spikes. And over all these restless fields
of seething throngs, the flags of the regiments were
fluttering in the air like colored birds; a white body, a
blue wing, or a red one, a cravat of gold on the neck,
and above, the metal tip pointing toward the clouds.
Don Marcelo would return home from these send-offs
vibrating with nervous fatigue, as one who had just par-
ticipated in a scene of racking emotion. In spite of his
tenacious character which always stood out against ad-
mitting a mistake, the old man began to feel ashamed of
his former doubts. The nation was quivering with life ;
France was a grand nation; appearances had deceived
him as well as many others. Perhaps the most of his
countrymen were of a light and flippant character, given
to excessive interest in the sensuous side of life; but
when danger came they were fulfilling their duty simply,
without the necessity of the harsh force to which the
iron-clad organizations were submitting their people.
On leaving home on the morning of the fourth day
of the mobilization Desnoyers, instead of betaking him-
I86 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
self to the centre of the city, went in the opposite direc-
tion toward the rue de la Pompe. Some imprudent
words droped by Chichi, and the uneasy looks of his
wife and sister-in-law made him suspect that Julio had
returned from his trip. He felt the necessity of seeing
at least the outside of the studio windows, as if they
might give him news. And in order to justify a trip
so at variance with his policy of ignoring his son, he.
remembered that the carpenter lived in the same street.
"I must hunt up Robert. He promised a week ago
that he would come here."
This Robert was a husky young fellow who, to nsft
his own words, was "emancipated from boss tyranny,*
and was working independently in his own home. A
tiny, almost subterranean, room was serving him fo
dwelling and workshop. A woman he called "my affin
ity" was looking carefully after his hearth and home,
with a baby boy clinging to her skirts. Desnoyers waj<
accustomed to humor Robert's tirades against his fellow
citizens because the man had always humored his whin?
seys about the incessant rearrangement of his furniture
In the luxurious apartment in the avenue Victor Hug-i-
the carpenter would sing La Internacional while using
hammer and saw, and his employer would overlook his
audacity of speech because of the cheapness of his
work.
Upon arriving at the shop he found the man with cap
over one ear, broad trousers like a mameluke's hobnailed
boots and various pennants and rosettes fastened to tha
lapels of his jacket.
"You've come too late. Boss," he said cheerily. "I am
just going to close the factory. The Proprietor has been
mobilized, and in a few hours will join his regiment."
And he pointed to a written paper posted on the door
of his dwelling like the printed cards on all establish-*
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 187
ifi^jnts, signifying that employer and employees had
obeyed the order of mobilization.
^t had never occurred to Desnoyers that his carpenter
might become a soldier, since he was so opposed to all
kiiids of authority. He hated the Mcs, the Paris police,
with whom he had, more than once, exchanged fisticuffs
and clubbings. Militarism was his special aversion, in
the meetings against the despotism of the barracks he
had always been one of the noisiest participants. And
was this revolutionary fellow going to war naturally and
voluntarily? . . .
Robert spoke enthusiastically of his regiment, of life
among comrades with Death but four steps away.
"I believe in my ideas, Boss, the same as before," he
explained as though guessing the other's thought. "But
war is war and teaches many things — among others that
Liberty must be accompanied with order and authority.
It is necessary that someone direct that the rest may
Ifollow — willingly, by common consent . . . but they
must follow. When war actually comes one sees things
very differently from when living at home doing as one
pleases."
The night that they assassinated Jaures he howled with
rage, announcing that the following morning the murder
would be avenged. He had hunted up his associates in
the district in order to inform them what retaliation was
being planned against the malefactors. But war was
about to break out. There was something in the air
that was opposing civil strife, that was placing private
grievances in momentary abeyance, concentrating all
minds on the common weal.
"A week ago," he exclaimed, *T was an anti-militarist 1
How far away that seems now — as if a year had gone
by ! ... I keep thinking as before ! I love oeace and
hate W3.V like all my comrades. But the French have
I88 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
not offended anybody, and yet they threaten us, wish-
ing to enslave us. . . . But we French can be fierce,
since they oblige us to be, and in order to defend our-
selves it is just that nobody should shirk, that all should
obey. Discipline does not quarrel with Revolution. Re-
member the armies of the first Republic — all citizens,
Generals as well as soldiers, but Hoche, Kleber and the
others were rough-hewn, unpolished benefactors who
knew how to command and exact obedience."
The carpenter was well read. Besides the papers and
pamphlets of "the Idea," he had also read on stray
sheets the views of Michelet and other liberal actors
on the stage of history.
"We are going to make war on War," he added. "We
are going to fight so that this war will be the last."
This statement did not seem to be expressed with
sufficient clearness, so he recast his thought.
"We are going to fight for the future; we are going
to die in order that our grandchildren may not have to
endure a similar calamity. If the enemy triumphs, the
war-habit will triumph, and conquest will be the only
means of growth. First they will overcome Europe,
then the rest of the world. Later on, those who have
been pillaged will rise up in their wrath. More wars!
. . . We do not want conquests. We desire to regain
Alsace and Lorraine, for their inhabitants wish to return
to us . . . and nothing more. We shall not imitate the
enemy, appropriating territory and jeopardizing the peace
of the world. We had enough of that with Napoleon;
we must not repeat that experience. We are going to
fight for our immediate security, and at the same time for
the security of the world — for the life of the weaker
nations. If this were a war of aggression, of mere
vanity, of conquest, then we Socialists would bethink
ourselves of our anti-militarism. But this is self-defense,
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 189
and the government has not been at fault. Since we
are attacked, we must be united in our defensive."
The carpenter, who was also anti-clerical, was now
showing a more generous tolerance, an amplitude of
ideas that embraced all mankind. The day before he had
met at the administration office a Reservist who was
just leaving to join his regiment. At a glance he saw
that this man was a priest.
*T am a carpenter," he had said to him, by way of in-
troduction, "and you, comrade, are working in the
churches ?"
He employed this figure of speech in order that the
priest might not suspect him of anything offensive. The
two had clasped hands.
'T do not take much stock in the clerical cowl," Robert
explained to Desnoyers. "For some time I have not been
on friendly terms with religion. But in every walk of
life there must be good people, and the good people
ought to understand each other in a crisis like this.
Don't you think so. Boss?"
The war coincided with his socialistic tendencies. Be-
fore this, when speaking of future revolution, he had
felt a malign pleasure in imagining all the rich deprived
of their fortunes and having to work in order to exist.
Now he was equally enthusiastic at the thought that all
Frenchmen would share the same fate without class
distinction.
"All with knapsacks on their backs and eating at
mess."
And he was even extending this military sobriety to
those who remained behind the army. War was going to
cause great scarcity of provisions, and all would have
to come down to very plain fare.
"YoUj too, Boss, who are too old to go to war — ^you.
190 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
with all your millions, will have to eat the same as 1
. . . Admit that it is a beautiful thing."
Desnoyers was not offended by the malicious satisfat-
tion that his future privations seemed to inspire in the
carpenter. He was very thoughtful. A man of h«
stamp, an enemy of existing conditions, who had p^o
property to defend, was going to war — to death, per-
haps— because of a generous and distant ideal, in orde^r
that future generations might never know the actu^
horrors of war! To do this, he was not hesitating ?t
the sacrifice of his former cherished beliefs, all that he
had held sacred till now. . . . And he who belonged to
the privileged class, who possessed so many tempting
things, requiring defense, had given himself up to doubt
and criticism! . . .
Hours after, he again saw the carpenter, near the Arc
de Triomphe. He was one of a group of workmen look-
ing much as he did, and this group was joining others
and still others that represented every social class — well-
dressed citizens, stylish and anaemic young men, gradu-
ate students with worn jackets, pale faces and thick
glasses, and youthful priests who were smiling rather
shamefacedly as though they had been caught at some
ridiculous escapade. At the head of this human herd
was a sergeant, and, as a rear guard, various soldiers
with guns on their shoulders. Forward march, Reserv-
ists! . . .
And a musical cry, a solemn harmony like a Greek
chant, menacing and monotonous, surged up from this
mass with open mouths, swinging arms, and legs that
tvere opening and shutting like compasses.
Robert was singing the martial chorus with such great
energy that his eyes and Gallic moustachios were fairly
trembling. In spite of his corduroy suit and his bulging
linen hand bag, he had the same grand and heroic aspect
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 191
aS' the figures by Rude in the Arc de Triomphe. The
"affinity" and the boy were trudging along the side-
walk so as to accompany him to the station. For a mo-
ment he took his eyes from them to speak with a com-
panion in the line, shaven and serious-looking, undoubt-
edly the priest whom he had met the day before. Now
they were talking confidentially, intimately, with that
brotherliness which contact with death inspires in man-
kind.
The millionaire followed the carpenter with a look
of respect, immeasurably increased since he had taken
his part in this human avalanche. And this respect had
in it something of envy, the envy that springs from an
uneasy conscience.
Whenever Don Marcelo passed a bad night, suffering
from nightmare, a certain terrible thing — always the
same — would torment his imagination. Rarely did he
dream of mortal peril to his family or self. The fright-
ful vision was always that certain notes bearing his sig-
nature were presented for collection which he, Marcelo
Desnoyers, the man always faithful to his bond, with a
past of immaculate probity, was not able to pay. Such
a possibility made him tremble, and long after waking
his heart would be oppressed with terror. To his imagi-
nation this was the greatest disgrace that a man could
suffer.
Now that war was overturning his existence with its
agitations, the same agonies were reappearing. Com-
pletely awake, with full powers of reasoning, he was
suffering exactly the same distress as when in his hor-
rible dreams he saw his dishonored signature on a pro-
tested document.
All his past was looming up before his eyes with such
extraordinary clearness that it seemed as though until
then his mind must have been in hopele^^ confusion.
192 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
The threatened land of France was his native country.
Fifteen centuries of history had been working for him,
in order that his opening eyes might survey progress and
comforts that his ancestors did not even know. Many
generations of Desnoyers had prepared for his advent
into hfe by struggling with the land and defending it
that he might be born into a free family and fireside.
. . . And when his turn had come for continuing this
effort, when his time had arrived in the rosary of genera-
tions— he had fled like a debtor evading payment ! . . .
On coming into his fatherland he had contracted obliga-
tions with the human group to whom he owed his exist-
ence. This obligation should be paid with his arms, with
any sacrifice that would repel danger . . . and he had
eluded the acknowledgment of his signature, fleeing hig
country and betraying his trust to his forefathers ! Ah,
miserable coward ! The material success of his life, the
riches acquired in a remote country, were compara^
tively of no importance. There are failures that mil-
lions cannot blot out. The uneasiness of his conscience
was proving it now. Proof, too, was in the envy and
respect inspired by this poor mechanic marching to meet
his death with others equally humble, all kindled with
the satisfaction of duty fulfilled, of sacrifice accepted.
The memory of Madariaga came to his memory.
"Where we make our riches, and found a family— »-
there is our country."
No, the statement of the centaur was not correct. In
normal times, perhaps. Far from one's native land
when it is not exposed to danger, one may forget it for
a few years. But he was living now in France, and
France was being obliged to defend herself against en-
emies wishing to overpower her. The sight of all her
people rising en masse was becoming an increasingly
shameful torture for Desnoyers, making him think all
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 193
the time of what he should have done in his youth, of
what he had dodged.
The veterans of "70 were passing through the streets,
with the green and black ribbon in their lapel, souvenirs
of the privations of the Siege of Paris, and of heroic and
disastrous campaigns. The sight of these men, satis-
fied with their past, made him turn pale. Nobody was
recalling his, but he knew it, and that was enough. In
vain his reason would try to lull this interior tempest.
. . . Those times were different ; then there was none of
the present unanimity; the Empire was unpopular. . .
everything was lost. . . . But the recollection of a cele-
brated sentence was fixing itself in his mind as an obses-
sion— -"^'France still remained !" Many had thought as he
did in his youth, but they had not, therefore, evaded
military service. They had stood by their country in
a last and desperate resistance.
Useless was his excuse-making reasoning. Nobler
thoughts showed him the fallacy of this beating around
the bush. Explanations and demonstrations are unneces-
sary to the understanding of patriotic and religious
ideals ; true patriotism does not need them. One's coun-
try ... is one's country. And the laboring man, skepti-
cal and jesting, the self-centred farmer, the solitary pas-
tor, all had sprung to action at the sound of this con-
juring word, comprehending it instantly, without previ-
ous instruction.
"It is necessary to pay," Don Marcelo kept repeating
mentally. 'T ought to pay my debt."
As in his dreams, he was constantly feeling the an-
guish of an upright and desperate man who wishes to
meet his obligations.
Pay! . . . and how? It was now very late. For a
moment the heroic resolution came into his head of of-
fering himself as a volunteer, of marching with his bag
194 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
at his side in some one of the groups of future com-
batants, the same as the carpenter. But the uselessness
of the sacrifice came immediately into his mind. Of what
use would it be? . . . He looked robust and was well-
preserved for his age, but he was over seventy, and only
the young make good soldiers. Combat is but one inci-
dent in the struggle. Equally necessary are the hard-
ship and self-denial in the form of interminable marches,
extremes of temperature, nights in the open air, shovel-
ing earth, digging trenches, loading carts, suffering hun-
ger. . . . No; it was too late. He could not even leave
an illustrious name that might serve as an example.
Instinctively he glanced behind. He was not alone in
the world; he had a son who could assume his father's
debt . . . but that hope only lasted a minute. His son
was not French; he belonged to another people; half
of his blood was from another source. Besides, how
could the boy be expected to feel as he did? Would
he even understand if his father should explain it to him?
... It was useless to expect anything from this lady-
killing, dancing clown, from this fellow of senseless
bravado, who was constantly exposing his life in duels
in order to satisfy a silly sense of honor.
Oh, the meekness of the bluff Senor Desnoyers after
these reflections ! . . . His family felt alarmed at seeing
the humility and gentleness with which he moved around
the house. The two men-servants had gone to join their
regiments, and to them the most surprising result of the
de ^aration of war was the sudden kindness of their
master, the lavishness of his farewell gifts, the paternal
care with which he supervised their preparations for
departure. The terrible Don Marcelo embraced them
with moist eyes, and the two had to exert themselves to
prevent his accompanying them to the station.
Outside of his home he was slipping about humbly
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 195
as though mutely asking pardon of the many people
around him. To him they all appeared his superiors.
It was a period of economic crisis ; for the time being,
the rich also were experiencing what it was to be poor
and worried; the banks had suspended operations and
were paying only a small part of their deposits. For
some weeks the millionaire was deprived of his wealth,
and felt restless before the uncertain future. How long
would it be before they could send him money from
South America? Was war going to take away fortunes
as well as lives? , , . And yet Desnoyers had never ap-
preciated money less, nor disposed of it with greater
generosity.
Numberless mobilized men of the lower classes who
were going alone toward the station met a gentleman
who would timidly stop them, put his hand in his pocket
and leave in theii right hand a bill of twenty francs,
fleeing immediately before their astonished eyes. The
working-women who were returning weeping from say-
ing good-bye to their husbands saw this same gentleman
smiling at the children who were with them, patting
their cheeks and hastening away, leaving a five-franc
piece in their hands.
Don Marcelo, who had never smoked, was now fre-
quenting the tobacco shops, coming out with hands and
pockets filled in order that he might, with lavish gener-
osity, press the packages upon the first soldier he met.
At times the recipient, smiling courteously, would thank
him with a few words, revealing his superior breeding
— afterwards passing the gift on to others clad in cloaks
as coarse and badly cut as his own. The mobilization,
universally obligatory, often caused him to make these
mistakes.
The rough hands pressing his with a grateful clasp,
left him satisfied for a few moments. Ah, if he could
196 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
only do more : . . . The Government in mobilizing its
vehicles had appropriated three of his monumental auto-
mobiles, and Desnoyers felt very sorry that they were
not also taking the fourth mastodon. Of what use were
they to him ? The shepherds of this monstrous herd, the
chauffeur and his assistants, were now in the army.
Everybody was marching away. Finally he and his son
would be the only ones left — two useless creatures.
He roared with wrath on learning of the enemy's en-
trance into Belgium, considering this the most unheard-
of treason in history. He suffered agonies of shame
at remembering that at first he had held the exalted
patriots of his country responsible for the war. . . ,
What perfidy, methodically carried out after long years
of preparation ! The accounts of the sackings, fires and
butcheries made him turn pale and gnash his tee'"h. To
him, to Marcelo Desnoyers, might happen the very same
thing that Belgium was enduring, if the barbarians
should invade France He had a home in the city, a cas-
tie in the country, and a family. Through associatio^a of
ideas, the women assaulted by the soldiery made him
think of Chichi and the dear Dona Luisa. The man-
sions in flames called to his mind the rare and costly
furnishings accumulated in his expensive dwellings — the
armorial bearings of his social elevation. The old folk
that were shot, the women foully mutilated, the children
with their hands cut off, all the horrors of a war of
terror, aroused the violence of his character.
And such things could happen with impunity in this
day and generation ! . . .
In order to convince himself that punishment was
near, that vengeance was overtaking the guilty ones, he
felt the necessity of mingling daily with the people crowd-
ing around the Gare de I'Est.
Although the greater part of the troops were operat-
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 197
ing on the frontiers, that was not diminishing the ac-
tivity in Paris. Entire battaHons were no longer going
off, but day and night soldiers were coming to the sta-
tion singly or in groups. These were Reserves without
uniform on their way to enroll themselves with their
companies, officials who until then had been busy with
the work of the mobilization, platoons in arms destined
to fill the great gaps opened by death.
The multitude, pressed against the railing, was greet-
ing those who were going off, following them with their
eyes while they were crossing the large square. The
latest editions of the daily papers were announced with
hoarse yells, and instantly the dark throng would be
spotted with white, all reading with avidity the printed
sheets. Good news: ''Vive la France!" A doubtful
despatch, foreshadowing calamity : "No matter ! We
must press on at all costs ! The Russians will close in
behind them !'* And while these dialogues, inspired by
the latest news were taking place, many young girls were
going among the groups offering little flags and tricolored
cockades — and passing through the patio, men and still
more men were disappearing behind the glass doors, on
their way to the war.
A sub-lieutenant of the Reserves, with his bag on his
shoulder, was accompanied by his father toward the file
of policemen keeping the crowds back. Desnoyers saw
in the young officer a certain resemblance to his son.
The father was wearing in his lapel the black and green
ribbon of 1870 — a decoration which always filled Des-
noyers with remorse. He was tail and gaunt, but was
still trying to hold himself erect, with a heavy frown.
He wanted to show himself fierce, inhuman, in order to
hide his emotion.
"Good-bye, my boy! Do your best."
"Good-bye, father."
198 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
They did not clasp hands, and each was avoiding look-
ing at the other. The official was smiling like an autom-
aton. The father turned his back brusquely, and thread-
ing his way through the throng, entered a cafe, where
for some time he needed the most retired seat in the
darkest corner to hide his emotion.
And Don Marcelo envied his grief.
Some of the Reservists came along singing, preceded
by a flag. They were joking and jostling each other,
betraying in excited actions, long halts at all the taverns
along the way. One of them, without interrupting his
song, was pressing the hand of an old woman marching
beside him, cheerful and dry-eyed. The mother was
concentrating all her strength in order, with feigned hap-
piness, to accompany this strapping lad to the last min-
ute.
Others were coming along singly, separated from their
companies, but not on that account alone. The gun
was hanging from the shoulder, the back overlaid by the
hump of the knapsack, the red legs shooting in and out
of the turned-back folds of the blue cloak, and the smoke
of a pipe under the visor of the kepis. In front of one
of these men, four children were walking along, lined
up according to size. They kept turning their heads to
admire their father, suddenly glorified by his military
trappings. At his side was marching his wife, affable and
resigned, feeling in her simple soul a revival of love, an
ephemeral Spring, born of the contact with danger. The
man, a laborer of Paris, who a few months before was
singing La Internacional, demanding the abolishment of
armies and the brotherhood of all mankind, was now
going in quest of death. His wife, choking back her
sobs, was admiring him greatly. Affection and commis-
eration made her insist upon giving him a few last coun-
sels. In his knapsack she had put his best handkerchiefs.
WHAT DON MARCELO ENVIED 199
the few provisions in the house and all the money. Her
man was not to be uneasy about her and the children;
they would get along all right. The government and
kind neighbors would look after them.
The soldier in reply was jesting over i^he somewhat
misshapen figure of his wife, saluting the coming citizen,
and prophesying that he would be born in a time of
great victory. A kiss to the wife, an ai^ectionate hair-
pull for his offspring, and then he had Joined his com-
rades. . . . No tears. Courage! . . . Vive la France!
The final injunctions of the departing were now heard.
Nobody was crying. But as the last red pantaloons dis-
appeared, many hands grasped the iron railing convul-
sively, many handkerchiefs were bitten with gnashing
teeth, many faces were hidden in the arms with sob«
of anguish.
And Don Marc eh envied these fears.
The old woman, on losing the warm contact of her
son's hand from her withered one, turned in the direc-
tion which she believed to be that of the hostile coun-
try, waving her arms with threatening fury.
"Ah, the assassin! . . . the bandit!"
In her wrathful imagination she was again seeing the
countenance so often displayed in the illustrated pages
Tf the periodicals — moustaches insolently aggressive, a
mouth with the jaw and teeth of a wolf, that laughed
. . . and laughed as men must have laughed in the time
Df the cave-men.
And Don Marcelo envied this wrath!
CHAPTER II
NEW LIFE
When Marguerite was able to return to the studio in
the rue de la Pompe, Julio, who had been living in a per-
petual bad humor, seeing everything in the blackest
colors, suddenly felt a return of his old optimism.
The war was not going to be so cruel as they all had
at first imagined. The days had passed by, and the
movements of the troops were beginning to be less notice-
able. As the number of men diminished in the streets,
the feminine population seemed to have increased. Al-
though there was great scarcity of money, the banks
still remaining closed, the necessity for it was increas-
ingly great, in order to secure provisions. Memories of
the famine of the siege of '70 tormented the imagina-
tion. Since war had broken out with the same enemy,
it seemed but k>gical to everybody to expect a repetition
of the same happenings. The storehouses were besieged
by women who were securing stale food at exorbitant
prices in order to store it in their homes. Future hun-
ger was producing more terror than immediate dan-
gers.
For young Desnoyers these were about all the trans-
formations that war was creating around him. People
would finally become accustomed to the new existence.
Humanity has a certain reserve force of adaptation
which enables it to mould itself to circumstances and
continue existing. He was hoping to continue his life
^ though nothing had happened. It was enough for
NEW LIFE 201
him that Marguerite should continue faithful to their
past. Together they would see events slipping by them
with the cruel luxuriousness of those who, from an in-
accessible height, contemplate a flood without the slight-
est risk to themselves.
This selfish attitude had also become habitual to Argen-
sola.
*Tet us be neutral," the Bohemian would say. "Neu-
trality does not necessarily mean indifference. Let us
enjoy the great spectacle, since nothing like it will ever
happen again in our Hfetime."
It was unfortunate that war should happen to come
when they bad so little money. Argensola was hating
the banks even more than the Central Powers, distin-
guishing with special antipathy the trust company which
was delaying payment of Julio's check. How lovely it
would have been with this sum available, to have fore-
stalled events by laying in every class of commodity!
In order to supplement the domestic scrimping, he again
had to solicit the aid of Doiia Luisa. War had blessed
Don Marcelo's precautions, and the family was now liv-
ing in generous unconcern. The mother, Hke other
house mistresses, had stored up provisions for months
and months to come, buying whatever eatables she was
able to lay hands on. Argensola took advantage of this
abundance, repeating his visits to the home in the ave-
nue Victor Hugo, descending its service stairway with
great packages which were swelling the suppHes in the
studio.
He felt all the joys of a good housekeeper in survey-
ing the treasures piled up in the kitchen — great tins of
canned meat, pyramids of butter crocks, and bags of
dried vegetables. He had accumulated enough there to
maintain a large family. The war had now offered a new
pretext for him to visit Don Marcelo's wine-vaults.
202 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSII
"Let them come!" he would say with a heroic gestuie
as he took stock of his treasure trove. "Let them cortro
when they will ! We are ready for them !"
The care and increase of his provisions, and the inves-
tigation of news were the two functions of his existence.
It seemed necessary to procure ten, twelve, fifteen pa-
pers a day; some because they were reactionary, and the
novelty of seeing all the French united filled him with
enthusiasm; others because they were radical and must
be better informed of the news received from the gov-
ernment. They generally appeared at midday, at three,
at four and at five in the afternoon. An half hour's
delay in the pubhcation of the sheet raised great hopes
in the public, on the qui vive for stupendous news. All
the last supplements were snatched up; everybody had
his pockets stuffed with papers, waiting anxiously the
issue of extras in order to buy them, too. Yet all the
sheets were saying approximately the same thing.
Argensola was developing a credulous, enthusiastic
soul, capable of admitting many improbable things. He
presumed that this same spirit was probably animating
everybody around him. At times, his old critical atti-
tude would threaten to rebel, but doubt was repulsed as
something dishonorable. He was living in a new world,
and it was but natural that extraordinary things should
occur that could be neither measured nor explained by
the old processes of reasoning. So he commented with
infantile joy on the marvellous accounts in the daily pa-
pers— of combats between a single Belgian platoon and
entire regiments of enemies, putting them to disorderly
flight; of the German fear of the bayonet that made them
run like hares the instant that the charge sounded ; of the
inefficiency of the German artillery whose projectiles
always missed fire.
It was logical and natural that little Belgium should
NEW LIFE 203
conquer gigantic Germany — a repetition of David and
Goliath — with all the metaphors and images that this
unequal contest had inspired across so many centuries.
Like the greater part of the nation, he had the mental-
ity of a reader of tales of chivalry who feels himself
defrauded if the hero, single-handed, fails to cleave a
thousand enemies with one fell stroke. He purposely
:hose the most sensational papers, those which published
many stories of single encounters, of individual deeds
about which nobody could know with any degree of cer-
tainty.
The intervention of England on the seas made him
imagine a frightful famine, coming providentially like
a thunder-clap to torture the enemy. He honestly be-
lieved that ten days of this maritime blockade would
convert Germany into a group of shipwrecked sailors
floating on a raft. This vision made him repeat his
visits to the kitchen to gloat over his packages of pro-
visions.
*'Ah, what they would give in Berlin for my treas-
ures!" . . .
Never had Argensola eaten with greater avidity. Con-
sideration of the great privations suffered by the ad-
versary was sharpening his appetite to a monstrous ca-
pacity. White bread, golden brown and crusty, was
stimulating him to an almost religious ecstasy.
"If friend William could only get his claws on this!"
he would chuckle to his companion.
So he chewed and swallowed with increasing relish;
solids and liquods on passing through his mouth seemed
to be acquiring a new flavor, rare and divine. Distant
hunger for him was a stimulant, a sauce of endless de-
light.
While France was inspiring his enthusiasm, he was
conceding greater credit to Russia. "Ah, those Cos-
204 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
sacks!" ... He was accustomed to speak of them as
intimate friends. He loved to describe the unbridled
gallop of the wild horsemen, impalpable as phantoms, and
so terrible in their wrath that the enemy could not look
them in the face. The concierge and the stay-at-homes
used to listen to him with all the respect due to a for-
eign gentleman, knowing much of the great outside
world with which they were not familiar.
"The Cossacks will adjust the accounts of these ban-
dits \" he would conclude with absolute assurance.
"Within a month they will have entered Berlin."
And his public composed of women — wives and
mothers of those who had gone to war — would modestly
agree with him, with that irresistible desire which we all
feel of placing our hopes on something distant and mys-
terious. The French would defend the country, recon-
quering, besides the lost territories, but the Cossacks —
of whom so many were speaking but so few had seen
— were going to give the death blow. The only person
who knew them at first hand was Tchernoff, and to
Argensola's astonishment, he listened to his words with-
out showing any enthusiasm. The Cossacks were for
him simply one body of the Russian army — good enough
soldiers, but incapable of working the miracles that every-
body was expecting from them.
"That Tchernoff!" exclaimed Argensola. "Since he
hates the Czar, he thinks the entire country mad. He
is a revolutionary fanatic. . . . And I am opposed to all
fanaticisms."
Julio was listening absent-mindedly to the news
brought by his companion, the vibrating statements re-
cited in declamatory tones, the plans of the campaign
traced out on an enormous map fastened to the wall of
the studio and bristling with tiny flags that marked the
camps of the belligerent armies. Every issue of the pa-
NEW LIFE 205
pers obliged the Spaniard to arrange a new dance of the
pins on the map, followed by his comments of bomb-
proof optimism.
"We have entered into Alsace ; very good ! ... It ap-
pears now that we abandon Alsace. Splendid ! I suspect
the cause. It is in order to enter again in a better place,
getting at the enemy from behind. . . . They say that
Liege has fallen. What a lie ! . . . And if it does fall,
it doesn't matter. Just an incident, nothing more ! The
othe-rs remain . . . the others ! . . . that are advancing
on the Eastern side, and are going to enter Berlin."
The news from the Russian front was his favorite,
but obliged him to remain in suspense every time that
he tried to find on the map the obscure names of the
places Vv'here the admired Cossacks were exhibiting their
wonderful exploits.
Aleanwhile Julio was continuing the course of his
own reflections. Marguerite ! . . . She had come back at
last, and yet each time seemed to be drifting further
away from him. . . .
In the first days of the mobilization, he had haunted
her neighborhood, trying to appease his longing by this
illusory proximity. Marguerite had written to him,
urging patience. How fortunate it was that he was a
foreigner and would not have to endure the hardship
of war ! Her brother, an officer in the artillery Reserves,
was going at almost any minute. Her mother, who
made her home with this bachelor son, had kept an as-
tonishing serenity up to the last minute, although she had
wept much while the war was still but a possibility. She
herself had prepared the soldier's outfit so that the
small valise might contain all that was indispensable
for campaign life. But Marguerite had divined her poor
mother's secret struggles not to reveal her despair, in
moist eyes and trembling hands. It was impossible to
2o6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPS^
leave her alone at such a time. . . . Then had come th*-
farewell. "God be with you, my son! Do your duty
but be prudent." Not a tear nor a sign of weakness.
All her family had advised her not to accompany her
son to the railway station, so his sister had gone with
him. And upon returning home. Marguerite had founc*
her mother rigid in her arm chair, with a set face, avoid-
ing all mention of her son, speaking of the friends who
also had sent their boys to the war, as if they only could
comprehend her torture. "Poor Mama! I ought to be
with her now more than ever. . . . To-morrow, if I can,
I shall come to see you."
When at last she returned to the rue de la Pompe, her
first care was to explain to Julio the conservatism of
her tailored suit, the absence of jewels in the adorn-
ment of her person. "The war, my dear ! Now it is the
chic thing to adapt oneself to the depressing conditior.s,
to be frugal and inconspicuous like soldiers. Who
knows what we may expect!" Her infatuation with
dress still accompanied her in every moment of her life.
Julio noticed a persistent absent-mindedness about her.
It seemed as though her spirit, abandoning her body, was
wandering to far-away places. Her eyes were looking
at him, but she seldom saw him. She would speak very
slowly, as though wishing to weigh every word, fear-
ful of betraying some secret. This spiritual alienation
did not, however, prevent her slipping bodily along the
smooth path of custom, although afterwards she would
seem to feel a vague remorse. "I wonder if it is right
to do this ! ... Is it not wrong to live like this when so
many sorrows are falling on the world?" Julio hushed
her scruples with:
"But if we are going to marry as soon as possible!
... If we are already the same as husband and wife!"
She replied with a gesture of strangeness and dismay.
NEW LIFE 20;
To marry! . . . Ten days ago she had had no other
wish. Now the possibiHty of marriage was recurring
less and less in her thoughts. Why think about such
remote and uncertain events? More immediate things
were occupying her mind.
The farewell to her brother in the station was a scene
which had fixed itself ineradicably in her memory. Upon
going to the studio she had planned not to speak about it,
foreseeing that she might annoy her lover with this
account ; but alas, she had only to vow not to mention
a thing, to feel an irresistible impulse to talk about it.
She had never suspected that she could love her
brother so dearly. Her former affection for him had
been mingled with a silent sentiment of jealousy because
her mother had preferred the older child. Besides, he
was the one who had introduced Laurier to his home;
the two held diplomas as industrial engineers and had
been close friends from their school days. . . . But upon
seeing the boy ready to depart, Marguerite suddenly
discovered that this brother, who had always been of sec-
ondary interest to her, was now occupying a pre-eminent
place in her affections.
"He was so handsome, so interesting in his lieuten-
ant's uniform! . . . He looked like another person. I
will admit to you that I was very proud to walk beside
him, leaning on his arm. People thought that we were
married. Seeing me weep, some poor women tried to
console me saying, 'Courage, Madame. . . . Your man
will come back.' He just laughed at hearing these mis-
takes. The only thing that was really saddening him
was thinking about our mother."
They had separated at the door of the station. The
sentries would not let her go any further, so she had
handed over his sword that she had wished to carry
till the last moment.
2o8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"It is lovely to be a man !" she exclaimed enthusiasti-
cally. 'T would love to v^^ear a uniform, to go to war, to
be of some real use !"
She tried not to say more about it, as though she
suddenly realized the inopportuneness of her last words.
Perhaps she noticed the scowl on Julio's face.
She was, however, so wrought up by the memory of
that farewell that, after a long pause, she was unable to
resist the temptation of again putting her thought into
words.
At the station entrance, while she was kissing her
brother for the last time, she had an encounter, a great
surprise. "He" had approached, also clad as an artil-
lery officer, but alone, having to entrust his valise to a
good-natured man from the crowd.
Julio shot her a questioning look. Who was ''he"?
He suspected, but feigned ignorance, as though fearing
to learn the truth.
"Laurier," she replied laconically, "my former hus-
band."
The lover displayed a cruel irony. It was a cowardly
thing to ridicule this man who had responded to the call
of duty. He recognized his vileness, but a malign and
irresistible instinct made him keep on with his sneers in
order to discredit the man before Marguerite. Laurier
a soldier! — He must cut a pretty figure dressed in uni-
form!
"Laurier, the warrior !" he continued in a voice so sar-
castic and strange that it seemed to be coming from
somebody else. . . . "Poor creature !"
She hesitated in her response, not wishing to exasper-
ate Desnoyers any further. But the truth was upper-
most in her mind, and she said simply:
"No ... no, he didn't look so bad. Quite the con-
trary. Perhaps it was the uniform, perhaps it was his
NEW LIFE 209
sadness at going away alone, completely alone, without
a single hand to clasp his. I didn't recognize him at
first. Seeing my brother, he started toward us ; but then
when he saw me, he went his own way. . . . Poor man!
I feel sorry for him !"
Her feminine instinct must have told her that she was
talking too much, and she cut her chatter suddenly short.
The same instinct warned her that Julio's countenance
was growing more and more saturnine, and his mouth
taking a very bitter curve. She wanted to console him
and added:
"What luck that you are a foreigner and will not have
to go to the war! How horrible it would be for me to
lose you !" . . .
She said it sincerely. ... A few moments before she
had been envying men, admiring the gallantry with which
they were exposing their lives, and now she was trem^
bling before the idea that her lover might have been one
of these.
This did not please his amorous egoism — ^to be placed
apart from the rest as a delicate and fragile being only
fit for feminine adoration. He preferred to inspire the
envy that she had felt on beholding her brother decked
out in his warlike accoutrement. It seemed to him that
something was coming between him and Marguerite that
would never disappear, that would go on expanding, re-
pelling them in contrary directions . . . far . . . very
far, even to the point of not recognizing each other
when their glances met.
He continued to be conscious of this impalpable ob-
stacle in their following interviews. Marguerite was
extremely affectionate in her speech, and would look at
him with moist and loving eyes. But her caressing hands
appeared more like those of a mother than a lover, and
her tenderness was accompanied with a certain disinter-^
210 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
estedness and extraordinary modesty. She seemed to
prefer remaining obstinately in the studio, decHning to
go into the other rooms.
"We are so comfortable here. ... I would rather not.
... It is not worth while. I should feel remorse after-
wards. . . . Why think of such things in these anxious
times!" . . .
The world around her seemed saturated with love, but
it was a new love — a love for the man who is suffering,
desire for abnegation, for sacrifice. This love called
forth visions of white caps, of tremulous hands healing
shell-riddled and bleeding flesh.
Every advance on Julio's part but aroused in Margu-
erite a vehement and modest protest as though they were
meeting for the first time.
"It is impossible," she protested. "I keep thinking of
my brother, and of so many that I know that may be
dying at this very minute."
News of battles were beginning to arrive, and blood
was beginning to flow in great quantities.
"No, no, I cannot," she kept repeating.
And when Julio finally triumphed, he found that her
thoughts were still following independently the same line
of mental stress.
One afternoon, Marguerite announced that henceforth
she would see him less frequently. She was attending
classes now, and had only two free days.
Desnoyers listened, dumbfounded. Classes? . . .
What were her studies ? . . .
She seemed a little irritated at his mocking expres-
sion. . . . Yes, she was studying; for the past week she
had been attending classes. Now the lessons were go-
ing to be more regular ; the course of instruction had
been fully organized, and there were many more instruc-
tors.
NEW LIFE 211
"I wish to be a trained nurse. I am distressed over
my uselessness. ... Of what good have I ever been till
now?" . . .
She was silent for a few moments as though review-
ing her past.
'*At times I almost think," she mused, "that war, with
all its horrors, still has some good in it. It helps to make
us useful to our fellowmen. We look at life more seri-
ously; trouble makes us realize that we have come into
the world for some purpose. ... I believe that we must
not love life only for the pleasures that it brings us.
We ought to find satisfaction in sacrifice, in dedicating
ourselves to others, and this satisfaction — I don't know
just why, perhaps because it is new — appears to me
superior to all other things."
Julio looked at her in surprise, trying to imagine what
was going on in that idolized and frivolous head. What
ideas were forming back of that thoughtful forehead
which until then had merely reflected the slightest shadow
of thoughts as swift and flitting as birds? . . .
But the former Marguerite was still alive. He saw
her constantly reappearing in a funny way among the
sombre preoccupations with which war was overshadow-
ing all lives.
"We have to study very hard in order to earn our
diplomas as nurses. Have you noticed our uniform?
... It is most distinctive, and the white is so becoming
both to blondes and brunettes. Then the cap which al-
lows little curls over the ears — the fashionable coiffure
• — and the blue cape over the white suit, make a splen-
did contrast. With this outfit, a woman well shod, and
with few jewels, may present a truly chic appearance.
It is a mixture of nun and great lady which is vastly
becoming."
She was going to study with a regular fury in order
212 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
to become really useful . . . and sooner to wear the ad-
mired uniform.
Poor Desnoyers ! . . . The longing to see her, and the
lack of occupation in these interminable afternoons which
hitherto had been employed so delightfully, compelled
him to haunt the neighborhood of the unoccupied pal-
ace where the government had just established the train-
ing school for nurses. Stationing himself at the corner,
watching the fluttering skirts and quick steps of the
feminine feet on the sidewalk, he imagined that the course
of time must have turned backward, and that he was still
but eighteen — the same as when he used to hang around
the establishments of some celebrated modiste. The
groups of women that at certain hours came out of the
palace suggested these former days. They were dressed
extremely quietly, the aspect of many of them as humble
as that of the seamstresses. But they were ladies of the
well-to-do class, some even coming in automobiles driven
by chauffeurs in military uniform, because they were
ministerial vehicles.
These long waits often brought him unexpected en-
counters with the elegant students who were going and
coming.
"Desnoyers !" some feminine voices would exclaim be-
hind him. "Isn't it Desnoyers?"
And he would find himself obliged to relieve their
doubts, saluting the ladies who were looking at him as
though he were a ghost. They were friends of a re-
mote epoch, of six months ago — ladies who had admired
and pursued him, trusting sweetly to his masterly wis-
dom to guide them through the seven circles of the sci-
ence of the tango. They were now scrutinizing him as if
between their last encounter and the present moment had
occurred a great cataclysm, transforming all the laws
NEW LIFE 213
of existence — as if he were the sole survivor of a van-
ished race.
Eventually they all asked the same questions — "Are
you not going to the war? . . . How is it that you are
not wearing a uniform?"
He would attempt to explain, but at his first words,
they would interrupt him:
"That's so. . . . You are a foreigner."
They would say it with a certain envy, doubtless think-
ing of their loved ones now suffering the privations and
dangers of war, . . . But the fact that he was a for-
eigner would instantly create a vague atmosphere of
spiritual aloofness, an alienation that Julio had not known
in the good old days when people sought each other
Without considering nationality, without feeling that dis-
avowal of danger which isolates and concentrates hu-
man groups.
The ladies generally bade him adieu with malicious sus-
picion. What was he doing hanging around there? In
search of his usual lucky adventure? . . . And their
smiles were rather grave, the smiles of older folk who
know the true significance of life and commiserate the
deluded ones still seeking diversion in frivolities.
This attitude was as annoying to Julio as though it
were a manifestation of pity. They were supposing him
still exercising the only function of which he was ca-
pable; he wasn't good for anything else. On the other
hand, these empty heads, still keeping something of their
old appearance, now appeared animated by the grand
sentiment of maternity — an abstract maternity which
seemed to be extending to all the men of the nation — a
desire for self-sacrifice, of knowing first-hand the pri-
vations of the lowly, and aiding all the ills that flesh
is heir to.
This same yearning was inspiring Marguerite when
214 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
she came away from her lessons. She was advancing
from one overpowering dread to another, accepting the
first rudiments of surgery as the greatest of scientific
marvels. At the same time, she was astonished at the
avidity with which she was assimilating these hitherto
unsuspected mysteries. Sometimes with a funny assump-
tion of assurance, she would even believe she had mis-
taken her vocation.
"Who knows but what I was born to be a famous doc-
tor?" she would exclaim.
Her great fear was that she might lose her self-control
when the time came to put her newly acquired knowl-
edge into practice. To see herself before the foul odors
of decomposing flesh, to contemplate the flow of blood —
a horrible thing for her who had always felt an invincible
repugnance toward all the unpleasant conditions of ordi-
nary life ! But these hesitations were short, and she
was suddenly animated by a dashing energy. These were
times of sacrifice. Were not the men snatched every
day from the comforts of sensuous existence to endure
the rude life of a soldier? . . . She would be a soldier
in petticoats, facing pain, battling with it, plunging her
hands into putrefaction, flashing like a ray of sunlight
into the places where soldiers were expecting the ap-
proach of death.
She proudly narrated to Desnoyers all the progress that
she was making in the training school, the complicated
bandages that she was learning to adjust, sometimes over
a mannikin, at others over the flesh of an employee, try-
ing to play the part of a sorely wounded patient. She,
so dainty, so incapable in her own home of the slightest
physical effort, was learning the most skilful ways of
lifting a human body from the ground and carrying
it on her back. Who knew but that she might render
this very service some day on the battlefield! She was
NEW LIFE 215
leady for the greatest risks, with the ignorant audacity
of women impelled by flashes of heroism. All her ad-
miration was for the English army nurses, slender women
of nervous vigor whose photographs were appearing in
the papers, wearing pantaloons, riding boots and white
helmets.
Julio listened to her with astonishment. Was this
woman really Marguerite ? . . . War was obliterating all
her winning vanities. She was no longer fluttering about
in bird-like fashion. Her feet were treading the earth
•with resolute firmness, calm and secure in the new
strength which was developing within. When one of
his caresses would remind her that she was a woman,
she would always say the same thing,
"What luck that you are a foreigner ! . . . What hap-
piness to know that you do not have to go to war !"
In her anxiety for sacrifice, she wanted to go to the
battlefields, and yet at the same time, she was rejoicing
t*) see her lover exempt from military duty. This pre-
posterous lack of logic was not gratefully received by
Julio but irritated him as an unconscious offense.
"One might suppose that she was protecting me!" he
I'hought. "She is the man and rejoices that I, the
"s^^eak comrade, should be protected from danger. . . .
ll^hat a grotesque situation!" . . .
Fortunately, at times when Marguerite presented her-
sdf at the studio, she was again her old self, making him
temporarily forget his annoyance. She would arrive
^nth the same joy in a vacation that the college student
or the employee feels on a holiday. Responsibility was
teaching her to know the value of time.
"No classes to-day!" she would call out on entering;
and tossing her hat on a divan, she would begin a dance-
step, retreating with infantile coquetry from the arms
of her lover.
2i6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
But in a few minutes she would recover her customary
gravity, the serious look that had become habitual with
her since the outbreak of hostilities. She spoke often
of her mother, always sad, but striving to hide her grief
and keeping herself up in the hope of a letter from her
son ; she spoke, too, of the war, commenting on the latest
events with the rhetorical optimism of the official dis-
patches. vShe could describe the first flag taken from
the enemy as minutely as though it were a garment of
unparalleled elegance. From a window, she had seen
the Minister of War. She was very much affected when
repeating the story of some fugitive Belgians recently
arrived at the hospital. They were the only patients that
she had been able to assist until now. Paris was not
receiving the soldiers wounded in battle ; by order of
the Government, they were being sent from the front
to the hospitals in the South.
She no longer evinced toward Julio the resistance of
the first few days. Her training as a nurse was giving her
a certain passivity. She seemed to be ignoring material
attractions, stripping them of the spiritual importance
which she had hitherto attributed to them. She wanted
to make Julio happy, although her mind was concen-
trated on other matters.
One afternoon, she felt the necessity of communicat-
ing certain news which had been filling her mind since
the day before. Springing up from the couch, she
hunted for her handbag which contained a letter. She
wanted to read it again to tell its contents to somebody
with that irresistible impulse which forestalls confes-
sion.
It was a letter which her brother had sent her from
the Vosges. In it he spoke of Laurier more than of him-
self. They belonged to different batteries, but were in
the same division and had taken part in the same com-
NEW LIFE 217
bats. The officer was filled with admiration for his
former brother-in-law. Who could have guessed that a
future hero was hidden within that silent and tranquil
engineer ! . . . But he was a genuine hero, just the same !
All the officials had agreed with Marguerite's brother
on seeing how calmly he fulfilled his duty, facing death
with the same coolness as though he were in his factory
near Paris.
He had asked for the dangerous post of lookout, slip-
ping as near as possible to the enemy's lines in order to
verify the exactitude of the artillery discharge, rectify-
ing it by telephone. A German shell had demolished
the house on the roof of which he was concealed, and
Laurier, on crawling out unhurt from the ruins, had re-
adjusted his telephone and gone tranquilly on, continu-
ing the same work in the shelter of a nearby grove. His
battery, picked out by the enemy's aeroplanes, had re-
ceived the concentrated fire of the artillery opposite. In
a few minutes all the force were rolling on the ground
— the captain and many soldiers dead, officers wounded
and almost all the gunners. There only remained as
chief, Laurier, the Impassive (as his comrades nick-
named him), and aided by the few artillerymen still on
their feet, he continued firing under a rain of iron and
fire, so as to cover the retreat of a battalion.
"He has been mentioned twice in dispatches," Mar-
guerite continued reading. 'T do not believe that it
will be long before they give him the cross. He is
valiant in every way. Who would have supposed all this
a few weeks ago?" . . .
She did not share the general astonishment. Living
with Laurier had many times shown her the intrepidity
of his character, the fearlessness concealed under that
placid exterior. On that account, her instincts had
warned her against rousing her husband's wrath in the
2i8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
first days of her infidelity. She still remembered the
way he looked the night he surprised her leaving Julio's
home. His was the passion that kills, and, nevertheless,
he had not attempted the least violence with her. . . .
The memory of his consideration was awakening in Mar-
guerite a sentiment of gratitude. Perhaps he had loved
her as no other man had.
Her eyes, with an irresistible desire for comparison,
sought Julio's, admiring his youthful grace and distinc-
tion. The image of Laurier, heavy and ordinary, came
into her mind as a consolation. Certainly the officer
whom she had seen at the station when saying good-
bye to her brother, did not seem to her like her old hus-
band. But Marguerite wished to forget the pallid lieu-
tenant with the sad countenance who had passed before,
her eyes, preferring to remember him only as the manu-
facturer preoccupied with profits and incapable of com-
prehending what she was accustomed to call ''the deli-
cate refinements of a chic woman." Decidedly Julio
was the more fascinating. She did not repent of her
past. She did not wish to repent of it.
And her loving selfishness made her repeat once more
the same old exclamation — "How fortunate that you are
a foreigner! . . . What a relief to know that you are
safe from the dangers of war!"
Julio felt the usual exasperation at hearing this. He
came very near to closing his beloved's mouth with his
hand. Was she trying to make fun of him ? ... It was
fairly insulting to place him apart from other men.
Meanwhile, with blind irrelevance, she persisted in
talking about Laurier, commenting upon his achieve-
ments.
'T do not love him, I never have loved him. Do not
look so cross ! How could the poor man ever be corn-
pared with vou? You must admit, though, that his
NEW LIFE 219
new existence is rather interesting. I rejoice in his brave
deeds as though an old friend had done them, a family
visitor whom I had not seen for a long time. . . . The
poor man deserved a better fate. He ought to have
married some other woman, some companion more on
a level with his ideals. ... I tell you that I really pity
him!"
And this pity was so intense that her eyes filled with
tears, awakening the tortures of jealousy in her lover.
After these interviews, Desnoyers was more ill-tempered
and despondent than ever.
"I am beginning to realize that we are in a false po-
sition," he said one morning to Argensola. "Life is go-
ing to become increasingly painful. It is difficult to re-
main tranquil, continuing the same old existence in the
midst of a people at war."
His companion had about come to the same conclusion.
He, too, was beginning to feel that the life of a young
foreigner in Paris was insufferable, now that it was so
upset by war.
"One has to keep showing passports all the time in
order that the police may be sure that they have not dis-
covered a deserter. In the street car, the other after-
noon, I had to explain that I was a Spaniard to some
girls who were wondering why I was not at the front.
. . . One of them, as soon as she learned my nationality^
asked me with great simplicity why I did not offer my-
self as a volunteer. . . . Now they have invented a word
for the stay-at-homes, calling them Les Embnsques, the
hidden ones. ... I am sick and tired of the ironical
looks shot at me wherever I go; it makes me wild to
be taken for an Embusque."
A flash of heroism was galvanizing the impressionable
Bohemian. Now that everybody was going to the war,
he was wishing to do the same thing. He was not
220 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCA-LYPSE
afraid of death; the only thing that was disturbing him
was the military service, the uniform, the mechanical
obedience to bugle-call, the blind subservience to the
chiefs. Fighting was not offering any difficulties for him
but his nature capriciously resented everything in the
form of discipline. The foreign groups in Paris were
trying to organize each its own legion of volunteers and
'he, too, was planning his — a battalion of Spaniards and
South Americans, reserving naturally the presidency of
the organizing committee for himself, and later the
command of the body.
He had inserted notices in the papers, making the
studio in the rue de la Pompe the recruiting office. In
ten days, two volunteers had presented themselves; a
clerk, shivering in midsummer, who stipulated that he
should be an officer because he was wearing a suitable
jacket, and a Spanish tavern-keeper who at the very out-
set had wished to rob Argensola of his command on
the futile pretext that he was a soldier in his youth while
the Bohemian was only an artist. Twenty Spanish bat-
talions were attempted with the same result in different
parts of Paris. Each enthusiast wished to be commander
of the others, with the individual haughtiness and aver-
sion to discipline so characteristic of the race. Finally
the future generalissimos decided to enlist as simple
volunteers . . . but in a French regiment.
"I am waiting to see what the Garibaldis do," said
Argensola modestly. "Perhaps I may go with them."
This glorious name made military service conceivable
to him. But then he vacillated ; he would certainly have
to obey somebody in this body of volunteers, and he did
not believe in an obedience that was not preceded by long
discussions. . . . What next !
"Life has changed in a fortnight," he continued. "It
teems as if we were living in another planet ; our former
NEW LIFE 221
achievements are not appreciated. Others, most ob-
scure and poor, those who formerly had the least con-
sideration, are now promoted to the first ranks. The
refined man of complex spirituality has disappeared for
who knows how many years ! . . . Now the simple-
minded man climbs triumphantly to the top, because,
though his ideas are limited, they are sure and he knows
how to obey. We are no longer the style."
Desnoyers assented. It was so ; they were no longer
fashionable. None knew that better than he, for he
who was once the sensation of the day, was now pass-
ing as a stranger among the very people who a few
months before had raved over him.
"Your reign is over," laughed Argensola. "The fact
that you are a handsome fellow doesn't help you one
bit nowadays. In a uniform and with a cross on my
breast, I could soon get the best of you in a rival love
affair. In times of peace, the officers only set the girls
of the provinces to dreaming; but now that we are at
war, there has awakened in every woman the ancestral
enthusiasm that her remote grandmothers used to feel
for the strong and aggressive beast. . . . Ihe high-born
dames who a few months ago were complicating their
desires with psychological subleties, are new admiring
the military man with the same simplicity tb^t the maid
has for the common soldier. Before a unKorm, they
feel the humble and servile enthusiasm of "'he female
of the lower animals before the crests, foreto*^s and gay
plumes of the fighting males. Look out, m?«<ter! . . .
We shall have to follow the new course of events or re-
sign ourselves to everlasting obscurity. The tango is
dead."
And Desnoyers agreed that truly they were two beings
on the other side of the river of life which at one bound
had changed its course. There was no longer any place
222 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
in the new existence for that poor painter of souls, nor
for that hero of a frivolous life who, from five to seven
every afternoon, had attained the triumphs most envied
by mankind.
CHAPTER III
THE RETREAT
War had extended one of Its antennas even to the
uvenue Victor Hugo. It was a silent war in which the
enemy, bland, shapeless and gelatinous, seemed con-
stantly to be escaping from the hands only to renew hos-
tilities a Httle later on.
"I have Germany in my own house," growled Marcelo
Desnoyers.
"Germany" was Dona Elena, the wife of von Hartrott.
Why had not her son — that professor of inexhaustible
sufficiency whom he now believed to have been a spy —
taken her home with him? For what sentimental caprice
had she wished to stay with her sister, losing the oppor-
tunity of returning to Berlin before the frontiers were
closed ?
The presence of this woman in his home was the
cause of many compunctions and alarms. Fortunately,
the chauffeur and all the men-servants were in the army.
The two chinas received an order in a threatening tone.
They must be very careful when talking to the French
maids — not the slightest allusion to the nationality of
Dona Elena's husband nor to the residence of her fam-
ily. Dona Elena was an Argentinian. But in spite of the
silence of the maids, Don Marcelo was always in fear of
some outburst of exalted patriotism, and that his wife's
sister might suddenly find herself confined in a concen-
tration camp under suspicion of having dealings with
the enemy.
223
224 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Frau von Hartrott made his uneasiness worse. In-
stead of keeping a discreet silence, she was constantly in-
troducing discord into the home with her opinions.
During the first days of the war, she kept herself
locked in her room, joining the family only when sum-
moned to the dining room. With tightly puckered mouth
and an absent-minded air, she would then seat herself
at the table, pretending not to hear Don Marcelo's verbal
outpourings of enthusiasm. He enjoyed describing the
departure of the troops, the movmg scenes in the streets
and at the stations, commenting on events with an optim-
ism sure of the first news of the war. Two things were
beyond all discussion. The bayonet was the secret of
the French, and the Germans were shuddering with ter-
ror before its fatal, glistening point. . . . The seventy-
five had proved itself a unique jewel, its shots being
absolutely sure. He was really feeling sorry for the en-
emy's artillery since its projectiles so seldom exploded
even when well aimed. . . . Furthermore, the French
troops had entered victoriously into Alsace; many little
towns were already theirs.
*'Now it is as it was in the *70*s," he would exult, bran-
dishing his fork and waving his napkin. "We are going
to kick them back to the other side of the Rhine — kick
them ! . . . That's the word."
Chichi always agreed gleefully while Dofia Elena was
raising her eyes to heaven, as though silently calling upon
somebody hidden in the ceiling to bear witness to such
errors and blasphemies.
The kind Dona Luisa always sought her out afterwards
in the retirement of her room, believing it necessary to
give sisterly counsel to one living so far from home.
The Romantica did not maintain her austere silence be-
fore the sister who had always venerated her superior in-
struction ; so now the poor lady was overwhelmed with
THE RETREAT 225
accounts of the stupendous forces of Germany, enunci-
ated with all the authority of a wife of a great Teutonic
patriot, and a mother of an almost celebrated professor.
According to her graphic picture, millions of men were
now surging forth in enormous streams, thousands of
cannons were filing by, and tremendous mortars like
monstrous turrets. And towering above all this vast
machinery of destruction was a man who alone was
worth an army, a being who knew everything and could
do everything, handsome, intelligent, and infallible as a
god — the Emperor.
"The French just don't know what's ahead of them,"
declared Dona Elena. *'We are going to annihilate them
It is merely a matter of two weeks. Before August is
ended, the Emperor will have entered Paris."
Senora Desnoyers was so greatly impressed by these
dire prophecies that she could not hide them from her
family. Chichi waxed indignant at her mother's cred-
ulity and her aunt's Germanism. Martial fervor was
flaming up in the former Peoncito. Ay, if the women
could only go to war! . . . She enjoyed picturing her-
self on horseback in command of a regiment of dragoons,
charging the enemy with other Amazons as dashing and
buxom as she. Then her fondness for skating would
predominate over her tastes for the cavalry, and she
would long to be an Alpine hunter, a diahle bleu among
those who slid on long runners, with musket slung across
the back and alpenstock in hand, over the snowy slopes
of the Vosges.
But the government did not appreciate the valorous
women, and she could obtain no other part in the war but
to admire the uniform of her true-love, Rene Lacour,
converted into a soldier. The senator's son certainly
looked beautiful. He was tall and fair, of a rather femi-
nine type, recalling his dead mother. In his fiancee's
226 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
opinion, Rene was just "a little sugar soldier." At first
she had been very proud to walk the streets by the side
of this warrior, believing that his uniform had greatly
augmented his personal charm, but little by little a revul-
sion of feeling was clouding her joy. The senatorial
prince was nothing but a common soldier. His illus-
trious father, fearful that the war might cut off forever
the dynasty of the Lacours, indispensable to the welfare
of the State, had had his son mustered into the auxihary
service of the army. By this arrangement, his heir need
not leave Paris, ranking about as high as those who were
kneading the bread or mending the soldiers' cloaks. Only
by going to the front could he claim — as a student of
the Ecole Cent rale — his title of sub-lieutenant in the Ar-
tillery Reserves.
"What happiness for me that you have to stay in
Paris ! How delighted I am that you are just a pri-
vate! . . ."
And yet, at the same time. Chichi was thinking en-
viously of her fri-ends whose lovers and brothers were
officers. They could parade the streets, escorted by a
gold-trimmed kepis that attracted the notice of the pass-
ers-by and the respectful salute of the lower ranks.
Each time that Dona Luisa, terrified by the fore-
casts of her sister, undertook to communicate her dis-
may to her daughter, the girl would rage up and down,
exclaiming : —
"What lies my aunt tells you ! . . . Since her husband
is a German, she sees everything as he wishes it to be.
Papa knows more ; Rene's father is better informed about
these things. We are going to give them a thorough
hiding! What fun it will be when they hit my uncle
and all my snippy cousins in Berlin ! . . ."
"Hush," groaned her mother. "Do not talk such non-
sense. The war has turned you as crazy as your father.'^
THE RETREAT 227
The good lady was scandalized at hearing the out-
burst of savage desires that the mere mention of the
Kaiser always aroused in her daughter. In times of
peace, Chichi had rather admired this personage. "He's
not so bad-looking," she had commented, "but with a
very ordinary smile." Now all her wrath was concen-
trated upon him. The thousands of women that were
weeping through his fault ! The mothers without sons,
the wives without husbands, the poor children left in the
burning towns ! . . . Ah, the vile wretch ! . . . And she
would brandish her knife of the old Peoncito days — a
dagger with silver handle and sheath richly chased, a
gift that her grandfather had exhumed from some for-
gotten souvenirs of his childhood in an old valise. The
very first German that she came across was doomed to
death. Dona Luisa was terrified to find her flourishing
this weapon before her dressing mirror. She was no
longer yearning to be a 'cavalryman nor a d'lahle bleu.
She would be entirely content if they would leave her
alone in some closed space with the detested monster.
In just five minutes she would settle the universal con-
flict.
"Defend yourself, Boche" she would shriek, standing
at guard as in her childhood she had seen the peons doing
on the ranch.
And with a knife-thrust above and below, she would
pierce his imperial vitals. Immediately there resounded
in her imagination, shouts of joy, the gigantic sigh of
millions of women freed at last from the bloody night-
mare— thanks to her playing the role of Judith or Char-
lotte Corday, or a blend of all the heroic women who had
killed for the common weal. Her savage fury made her
continue her imaginary slaughter, dagger in hand. Sec-
ond stroke! — the Crown Prince rolling to one side and
his head to the other. A rain of dagger thrusts! — all
228 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSH
the invincible generals of whom her aunt h?d been boast-
ing fleeing with their insides in their hands — and bring-
ing up the rear, that fawning lackey who wished to re-
ceive the same things as those of highest rank — the uncle
from Berlin. . . . Ay, if she could only get the chance
to make these longings a reality !
"You are mad," protested her mother. "Completely
mad ! How can a ladylike girl talk in such a way ?" . . .
Surprising her niece in the ecstasy of these delirious
ravings, Doiia Elena would raise her eyes to heaven, ab-
staining thenceforth from communicating her opinions,
reserving them wholly for the mother.
Don Marcelo's indignation took another bound when
his wife repeated to him the news from her sister. All a
lie ! . . . The war was progressing finely. On the East-
ern frontier the French troops had advanced through
Uie interior of Alsace and Lorraine.
"But — Belgium is invaded, isn't it ?" asked Dona Luisa.
And those poor Belgians?"
Desnoyers retorted indignantly.
"That invasion of Belgium is treason. . . . And a
treason never amounts to anything among decent peo-
ple."
He said it in all good faith as though war were a
duel in which the traitor was henceforth ruled out and
unable to continue his outrages. Besides, the heroic
resistance of Belgium was nourishing the most absurd
illusions in his heart. The Belgians were certainly su-
pernatural men destined to the most stupendous achieve-
ments. . . . And to think that heretofore he had never
taken this plucky little nation into account! . . . For
several days, he considered Liege a holy city before
) whose walls the Teutonic power would be completely
confounded. Upon the fall of Liege, his unquenchable
faith sought another handle. There were still remainin*
THE RETREAT 229
many other Lieges in the interior. The Germans might
force their way further in ; then we would see how many
of them ever succeeded in getting out. The entry into
Brussels did not disquiet him. An unprotected city ! . . .
Its surrender was a foregone conclusion. Now the
Belgians would be better able to defend Antwerp.
Neither did the advance of the Germans toward the
French frontier alarm him at all. In vain his sister-in-
Iciw, with malicious brevity, mentioned in the dining-room
the progress of the invasion, so confusedly outlined in
the daily papers. The Germans were already at the
frontier.
"And what of that?" yelled Don Marcelo. "Soon they
will meet someone to talk to ! Joif re is going to meet
them. Our armies are in the East, in the very place
where they ought to be, on the true frontier, at the door
of their home. But they have to deal with a treacherous
and cowardly opponent that instead of marching face to
face, leaps the walls of the corral like sheep-stealers.
. . . Their underhand tricks won't do them any good,
though ! The French are already in Belgium and ad-
justing the accounts of the Germans. We shall smash
them so effectually that never again will they be able
to disturb the peace of the world. And that accursed
individual with the rampant moustache we are going to
put in a cage, and exhibit in the place de la Concorde!"
Inspired by the paternal braggadocio. Chichi also
launched forth exultingly an imaginary series of aveng-
ing torments and insults as a complement to this Im-
perial Exhibition.
These allusions to the Emperor aggravated Frau von
Hartrott more than anything else. In the first days of
the war, her sister had surprised her weeping before
the newspaper caricatures and leaflets sold in the streets.
"Such an excellent man ... so knightly . . . such a
230 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
good father to his family ! He wasn't to blame for any-
thing. It was his enemies who forced him to assume the
offensive."
Her veneration for exalted personages was making her
take the attacks upon this admired grandee as though
they were directed against her own family.
One night in the dining room, she abandoned her
tragic silence. Certain sarcasms, shot by Desnoyers at
her hero, brought the tears to her eyes, and this senti-
mental indulgence turned her thoughts upon her sons
who were undoubtedly taking part in the invasion.
Her brother-in-law was longing for the extermination
of all the enemy. "May every barbarian be extermi-
nated ! . . . every one of the bandits in pointed helmets
who have just burned Louvain and other towns, shoot-
ing defenceless peasants, old men, women and chil-
dren! . . ."
"You forget that I am a mother," sobbed Frau von
Hartrotl. "You forget that among those whose extermi-
nation you are imploring, are my sons."
Her violent weeping made Desnoyers realize more than
ever the abyss yawning between him and this woman
lodged in his own house. His resentment, however, over-
leapt family considerations. . . . She might weep for her
sons all she wanted to; that was her right. But these
sons were aggressors and wantonly doing evil. It was
the other mothers who were inspiring his pity — those
who were living tranquilly in their smiling little Bel-
gian towns when their sons were suddenly shot down,
their daughters violated and their houses burned to the
ground.
As though this description of the horrors of war were
a fresh insult to her, Dofia Elena wept harder than ever.
What falsehoods ! The Kaiser was an excellent man,
his soldiers were gentlemen, the German armv was ?
THE RETREAT 231
model of civilization and goodness. Her husband had
belonged to this army, her sons were marching in its
ranks. And she knew her sons — well-bred and incapable
of wrong-doing. These Belgian calumnies she could no
longer listen to . . . and, with dramatic abandon, she
flung herself into the arms of her sister.
Sefior Desnoyers raged against the fate that con-
demned him to live under the same roof with this wom-
an. What an unfortunate complication for the family!
. . . and the frontiers were closed, making it impossible
to get rid of her !
"Very well, then," he thundered. "Let us talk no more
about it. We shall never reach an understanding, for
we belong to two different worlds. It's a great pity
that you can't go back to your own people."
After that, he refrained from mentioning the war in
his sister-in-law's presence. Chichi was the only one
keeping up her aggressive and noisy enthusiasm. Upon
reading in the papers the news of the shootings, sack-
ings, burning of cities, and the dolorous flight of those
who had seen their all reduced to ashes, she again felt
the necessity of assuming the role of lady-assassin. Ay,
if she could only once get her hands on one of those
bandits 1 . . . What did the men amount to anyway if
they couldn't exterminate the whole lot ? . . .
Then she would look at Rene in his exquisitely fresh
uniform, sweet-mannered and smiling as though all war
meant to him was a mere change of attire, and she would
exclaim enigmatically :
"What luck that you will never have to go to the
front! . . . How fine that you don't run any risks!"
And her lover would accept these words as but another
proof of her affectionate interest.
One day Don Marcelo was able to appreciate the hor-
rors of the war without leaving Paris. Three thousand
232 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Belgian refugees were quartered provisionally in the cir-
cus before being distributed among the provinces. When
Desnoyers entered this place, he saw in the vestibule the
same posters which had been flaunting their spectacular
gayeties when he had visited it a few months before
with his family.
Now he noticed the odor from a sick and miserable
multitude crowded together — like the exhalation from a
prison or poorhouse infirmary. He saw a throng that
seemed crazy or stupefied with grief. They did not
know exactly where they were; they had come thither,
they didn't know how. The terrible spectacle of the in-
vasion was still so persistent in their minds that it left
room for no other impression. They were still seeing
the helmeted men in their peaceful hamlets, their homes
in flames, the soldiery firing upon those who were flee-
ing, the mutilated women done to death by incessant
adulterous assault, the old men burned alive, the chil-
dren stabbed in their cradles by human beasts inflamed
by alcohol and license. . . . Some of the octogenarians
were weeping as they told how the soldiers of a civilized
nation were cutting off the breasts from the women in
order to nail them to the doors, how they had passed
around as a trophy a new-born babe spiked on a bayonet,
how they had shot aged men in the very armchair in
which they were huddled in their sorrowful weakness,
torturing them first with their jests and taunts.
They had fled blindly, pursued by fire and shot, as
crazed with terror as the people of the middle ages try-
ing not to be ridden down by the hordes of galloping
Huns and Mongols. And this flight had been across the
country in its loveliest festal array, in the. most productive
of months, when the earth was bristling with ears of
grain, when the August sky was most brilliant, and when
THE RETREAT 233
ihe birds were greeting the opulent harvest with their
glad songs!
In that circus, filled with the wandering crowds, the
immense crime was living again. The children were cry-
ing with a sound like the bleating of lambs; the men
were looking wildly around with terrified eyes ; the fren-
zied women were howling like the insane. Families had
become separated in the terror of flight. A mother of
five little ones now had but one. The parents, as they
reairzed the number missing, were thinking with anguish
of those who had disappeared. Would they ever find
them again? . . . Or were they already dead? . . .
Don Marcelo returned home, grinding his teeth and
waving his cane in an alarming manner. Ah, the ban-
dits! ... If only his sister-in-law could change her sex!
Why wasn't she a man? ... It would be better still if
she could suddenly assume the form of her husband, von
Hartrott. What an interesting interview the two
brothers-in-law would have ! . . ,
The war was awakening religious sentiment in the men
and increasing the devotion of the women. The churches
were filled. Dona Luisa was no longer confining herself
to those of her neighborhood. With the courage induced
by extraordinary events, she was traversing Paris afoot
and going from the Madeleine to Notre Dame, or to he
Sacre Coeur on the heights of Montmartre. Religious
festivals were now thronged Hke popular assemblies. The
preachers were tribunes. Patriotic enthusiasm inter-
rupted many a sermon with applause.
Each morning on opening the papers, before reading
the war news, Senora Desnoyers would hunt other no-
tices. "Where was Father Amette going to be to-day?"
Then, under the arched vaultings of that temple, would
she unite her voice with the devout chorus imploring
supernatural intervention. "Lord, save France!" Pa-
234 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
triotic religiosity was putting" Sainte Genevieve at the
head of the favored ones, so from all these fiestas, Dona
Luisa, tremulous with faith, would return in expectation
of a miracle similar to that which the patron saint of
Paris had worked before the invading hordes of At-
tila.
Dona Elena was also visiting the churches, but those
nearest the house. Her brother-in-law saw her one after-
noon entering Saint-Honor ee d'Eylau. The building was
filled with the faithful, and on the altar was a sheaf of
flags — France and the allied nations. The imploring
crowd was not composed entirely of women. Desnoyers
saw men of his age, pompous and grave, moving their
lips and fixing steadfast eyes on the altar on which were
reflected like lost stars, the flames of the candles. And
again he felt envy. They were fathers who were re-
calling their childhood prayers, thinking of their sons
in battle. Don Marcelo, who had always considered
religion with Indifference, suddenly recognized the ne-
cessity of faith. He wanted to pray like the others,
with a vague. Indefinite supplication. Including all be-
ings who were struggling and dying for a land that he
had not tried to defend.
He was scandalized to see von Hartrott's wife kneel-
ing among these people raising her eyes to the cross In
a look of anguished entreaty. She was begging heaven
to protect her husband, the German who perhaps at this
moment was concentrating all his devilish faculties on the
best organization for crushing the weak ; she was praying
for her sons, officers of the King of Prussia, who
revolver In hand were entering villages and farmlands,
driving before them a horror-stricken crowd, leaving be-
hind them fire and death. And these orisons were going
to mingle with those of the mothers who were praying
for the youth trying to check the onslaught of the bar-
THE RETREAT 235
barians — with the petitions of these earnest men, rigid
in their tragic grief ! . . .
He had to make a great effort not to protest aloud,
and he left the church. His sister-in-law had no right
to kneel there among those people.
*They ought to put her out !" he growled indignantly.
"She is compromising God with her absurd entreaties."
But in spite of his annoyance, he had to endure her
living in his household, and at the same time had taken
,great pains to prevent her nationality being known out-
ride.
It was a severe trial for Don Marcelo to be obliged to
keep silent when at table with his family. He had to
avoid the hysterics of his sister-in-law who promptly
burst into sighs and sobs at the slightest allusion to her
hero; and he feared equally the complaints of his wife,
always ready to defend her sister, as though she were
the victim. . . . That a man in his own home should
have to curb his tongue and speak tactfully! . . .
The only satisfaction permitted him was to announce
the military moves. The French had entered Belgium.
*Tt appears that the Bodies have had a good set-back."
The slightest clash of cavalry, a simple encounter with
the advance troops, he would glorify as a decisive victory.
*Tn Lorraine, too, we are making great headway!" . . .
But suddenly the fountain of his bubbling optimism
seemed to become choked up. To judge from the pe-
riodicals, nothing extraordinary was occurring. They
continued publishing war-stories so as to keep enthusiasm
at fever-heat, but nothing definite. The Government, too,
was issuing communications of vague and rhetorical ver-
bosity. Desnoyers became alarmed, his instinct warning
him of danger. "There is something wrong," he thought.
"There's a spring broken somewhere !"
This lack of encouraging news coincided exactly with
2Z^ FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the sudden rise in Dona Elena's spirits. Wich whom had
that woman been talking? Whom did she meet when
she was on the street? . . . Without dropping her pose
as a martyr, with the same woebegone look and droop-
ing mouth, she was talking, and talking treacherously.
The torment of Don Marcelo in being obliged to listen
to the enemy harbored within his gates ! . . . The French
had been vanquished in Lorraine and in Belgium at the
same time. A body of the army had deserted the col-
ors ; many prisoners, many cannon were captured. "Lies !
German exaggerations !" howled Desnoyers. And Chichi
with the derisive ha-ha's of an insolent girl, drowned out
the triumphant communications of the aunt from Ber-
lin. "I don't knew, of course,*^' said the unwelcome
lodger with mock humility. "Perhaps it is not authentic.
I have heard it said." Her host was furious. Where
had she heard it said? Who was giving her such
news? . . .
And in order to ventilate his wrath, he broke forth into
tirades against the enemy's espionage, against the care-
lessness of the police force in permitting so many Ger-
mans to remain hidden in Paris. Then he suddenly be-
came quiet, thinking of his own behavior in this line.
He, too, was involuntarily contributing toward the main-
tenance and support of the foe.
The fall of the ministry and the constitution of a gov-
ernment of national defense made it apparent that some-
thing very important must have taken place. The alarms
and tears of Doiia Luisa increased his nervousness. The
good lady was no longer returning from the churches,
cheered and strengthened. Her confidential talks with
her sister were filling her with a terror that she tried in
vain to communicate to her husband. "All is lost. . . .
Elena is the only one that knows the truth."
Desnoyers went in search of Senator Lacour. He
THE RETREAT 237
would know all the ministers ; no one could be better
informed. "Yes, my friend," said the important man
sadly. "Two great losses at Morhange and Charleroi,
at the East and the North. The enemy is going to in-
vade French soil! . . . But our army is intact, and will
retreat in good order. Good fortune may still be ours.
A great calamity, but all is not lost."
Preparations for the defense of Paris were being
pushed forward . . . rather late. The forts were sup-
plying themselves with new cannon. Houses, built in the
danger zone in the piping times of peace, were now dis-
appearing under the blows of the official demolition.
The trees on the outer avenues were being felled In or-
der to enlarge the horizon. Barricades of sacks of earth
and tree trunks were heaped at the doors of the old
walls. The curious were skirting the suburbs in order
to gaze at the recently dug trenches and the barbed
wire fences. The Bois de Boulogne was filled with herds
of cattle. Near heaps of dry alfalfa steers and sheep
were grouped in the green meadows. Protection against
famine was uppermost in the minds of a people still re-
membering the suffering of 1870. Every night, the street
lighting was less and less. The sky, on the other hand,
was streaked incessantly by the shafts from the search-
lights. Fear of aerial invasion was increasing the public
uneasiness. Timid people were speaking of Zeppelins,
attributing to them irresistible powers, with all the exag-
geration that accompanies mysterious dangers.
In her panic. Dona Luisa greatly distressed her hus-
band, who was passing the days in continual alarm, yet
trying to put heart into his trembling and anxious wife.
"They are going to come, Marcelo; my heart tells me
so. The girl ! . . . the girl !" She was accepting blindly
all the statements made by her sister, the only thing that
comforted her being the chivalry and discipline of those
238 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
troops to which her nephews belonged. The news of the
atrocities committed against the women of Belgium were
received with the same credulity as the enemy's advances
announced by Elena. "Our girl, Marcelo. . . . Our
girl !" And the girl, object of so much solicitude, would
laugh with the assurance of vigorous youth on hearing
of her mother's anxiety. "Just let the shameless fellows
come ! I shall take great pleasure in seeing them face to
face !" And she clenched her right hand as though it al-
ready clutched the avenging knife.
The father became tired of this situation. He still had
one of his monumental automobiles that an outside chauf-
feur could manage. Senator Lacour obtained the neces-
sary passports and Desnoyers gave his wife her orders
in a tone thrt admitted of no remonstrance. They must
go to Biarritz or to some of the summer resorts in the
north of Spain. Almost all the South American families
had already gone in the same direction. Doiia Luisa
tried to object. It was impossible for her to separate
herself from her husband. Never before, in their many
years of married life, had they once been separated. But
a harsh negative from Don Marcelo cut her pleadings
short. He would remain. Then the poor senora ran to
the rue de la Pompe. Her son ! . . . Julio scarcely lis-
tened to his mother. Ay ! he, too, would stay. So finally
the imposing automobile lumbered toward the South car-
rying Dona Luisa, her sister who hailed with delight this
withdrawal before the admired troops of the Emperor,
and Chichi, pleased that the war was necessitating an ex-
cursion to the fashionable beaches frequented by her
friends.
Don Marcelo was at last alone. The two coppery
maids had followed by rail the flight of their mistresses.
At first the old man felt a little bewildered by this soli-
tude, which obliged him to eat uncomfortable meals iit
THE RETREAT 239
a restaurant and pass the nights in enormous and de-
serted rooms still bearing traces of their former occu-
pants. The other apartments in the building had also
been vacated. All the tenants were foreigners, who had
discreetly decamped, or French families surprised by the
war when summering at their country seats.
Instinctively he turned his steps toward the rue de la
Pompe gazing from afar at the studio windows. What
was his son doing? . . . Undoubtedly continuing his gay
and useless life. Such men only existed for their own
selfish folly.
Desnoyers felt satisfied with the stand he had taken.
To follow the family would be sheer cowardice. The
memory of his youthful flight to South America was
sufficient martyrdom; he would finish his life with all
the compensating bravery that he could muster. "No,
they will not come," he said repeatedly, with the opti-
mism of enthusiasm. I have a presentiment that they will
never reach Paris. And even if they do come!" . . .
The absence of his family brought him a joyous valor
and a sense of bold youth fulness. Although his age
might prevent his going to war in the open air, he could
still fire a gun, immovable in a trench, without fear of
death. Let them come ! . . . He was longing for the
struggle with the anxiety of a punctilious business man
wishing to cancel a former debt as soon as possible.
In the streets of Paris he met many groups of fugi-
tives. They were from the North and East of France,
and had escaped before the German advance. Of all
the tales told by this despondent crowd — not knowing
where to go and dependent upon the charity of the peo-
ple— he was most impressed with those dealing with the
disregard of property. Shootings and assassinations
made him clench his fists, with threats of vengeance ; but
the robberies authorized by the heads, the wholesale sack-
240 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ings by superior order, followed by fire, appeared to him
so unheard-of that he was silent with stupefaction, his
speech seeming to be temporarily paralyzed. And a
people with laws could wage war in this fashion, like a
tribe of Indians going to combat in order to rob ! . . .
His adoration of property rights made him beside him-
self with wrath at these sacrileges.
He began to worry about his castle at Villeblanche.
All that he owned in Paris suddenly seemed to him of
slight importance to what he had in his historic mansion.
His best paintings were there, adorning the gloomy sa-
lons ; there, too, the furnishings captured from the anti-
quarians after an auctioneering battle, and the crystal
cabinets, the tapestries, the silver services.
He mentally reviewed all of these objects, not letting
a single one escape his inventory. Things that he had
forgotten came surging up in his memory, and the fear
of losing them seemed to give them greater lustre, in-
creasing their size, and intensifying their value. All the
riches of Villeblanche were concentrated in one certain
acquisition which Desnoyers admired most of all; for,
to his mind, it stood for all the glory of his immense
fortune — in fact, the most luxurious appointment that
even a millionaire could possess.
"My golden bath," he thought. 'T have there my tub
of gold."
This bath of priceless metal he had procured, after
much financial wrestling, from an auction, and he con-
sidered the purchase the culminating achievement of his
wealth. No one knew exactly its origin ; perhaps it had
been the property of luxurious princes ; perhaps it owed
its existence to the caprice of a demi-mondaine fond of
display. He and his had woven a legend around this
golden cavity adorned with lions' claws, dolphins and
busts of naiads. Undoubtedly it was once a king's!
THE RETREAT 241
Chichi gravely affirmed that it had been Marie An-
toinette's, and the entire family thought that the home on
the avenue Victor Hugo v^as altogether too modest and
plebeian to enshrine such a jewel. They therefore agreed
to put it in the castle, where it was greatly venerated,
although it was useless and solemn as a museum piece.
. , . And was he to permit the enemy in their advance
toward the Marne to carry off this priceless treasure,
as well as the other gorgeous things which he had accu-
mulated with such patience? . . . Ah, no! His soul of
a collector would be capable of the greatest heroism
before he would let that go.
Each day was bringing a fresh sheaf of bad news.
The papers were saying little, and the Government was
so veiling its communications that the mind was left in
great perplexity. Nevertheless, the truth was mysteri-
ously forcing its way, impelled by the pessimism of the
alarmists, and the manipulation of the enemy's spies who
Were remaining hidden in Paris. The fatal news was
being passed along in whispers. **They have already
crossed the frontier. . . " "They are already in Lille."
. . . They were advancing at the rate of thirty-five miles
a day. The name of von Kluck was beginning to have a
familiar ring. English and French were retreating be-
.fore the enveloping progression of the invaders. Some
were expecting another Sedan. Desnoyers was following
the advance of the Germans, going daily to the Gare du
Nord. Every twenty-four hours was lessening the radius
of travel. Bulletins announcing that tickets would not be
sold for the Northern districts served to indicate how
these places were falling, one after the other, into the
power of the invader. The shrinkage of national terri-
tory was going on with such methodical regularity that,
with watch in hand, and allowing an advance of thirty-
five miles daily, one might gauge the hour when the
242 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
lances of the first Uhlans would salute the Eiifel tower.
The trains were running full, great bunches of people
overflowing from their coaches.
In this time of greatest anxiety, Desnoyers again
visited his friend, Senator Lacour, in order to astound
him with the most unheard-of petitions. He wished to go
immediately to his castle. While everybody else was
fleeing toward Paris he earnestly desired to go in the
opposite direction. The senator couldn't believe his ears.
"You are beside yourself !" he exclaimed. "It is neces-
sary to leave Paris, but toward the South. I will tell you
confidentially, and you must not tell because it is a secret
— we are leaving at any minute; we are all going, the
President, the Government, the Chambers. We are going
to establish ourselves at Bordeaux as in 1870. The enemy
is surely approaching; it is only a matter of days . . .
of hours. We know little of just what is happening, but
all the news is bad. The army still holds firm, is yet
intact, but retreating . , . retreating, all the time yielding
ground. . . . Believe me, it will be better for you to leave
Paris. Gallieni will defend it, but the defense is going
to be hard and horrible. . . . Although Paris may sur-
render, France will not necessarily surrender. The war
will go on if necessary even to the frontiers of Spain
• . . but it IS sad . . , very sad !"
And he offered to take his friend with him in that
flight to Bordeaux of which so few yet knew, Desnoy-
ers shook his head. No ; he wanted to go to the castle of
Villeblanche. His furniture ... his riches . . . his parks.
"But you will be taken prisoner !" protested the sena-
tor. "Perhaps they will kill you !"
A shrug of indifference was the only response. He
considered himself energetic enough to struggle against
the entire German army in the defense of his property.
The important thing was to get there, and then — just let
THE RETREAT 243
anybody dare to touch his things ! . . . The senator looked
with astonishment at this civiHan infuriated by the lust
of possession. It reminded him of some Arab merchants,
that he had once known, ordinarily mild and pacific, who
quarrelled and killed like wild beasts when Bedouin
thieves seized their wares. This was not the moment for
discussion, and each must map out his own course. So
the influential senator finally yielded to the desire of his
friend. If such was his pleasure, let him carry it
through ! So he arranged that his mad petitioner should
depart that very night on a military train that was going
to meet the army.
That journey put Don Marcelo in touch with the ex-
traordinary movement which the war had developed on
the railroads. His train took fourteen hours to cover the
distance normally made in two. It was made up of
freight cars filled with provisions and cartridges, with
the doors stamped and sealed. A third-class car was
occupied by the train escort, a detachment of provincial
guards. He was installed in a second-class compartment
with the lieutenant in command of this guard and certain
officials on their way to join their regiments after having
completed the business of mobilization in the small towns
in which they were stationed before the war. The crowd,
habituated to long detentions, was accustomed to getting
out and settling down before the motionless locomotive,
or scattering through the nearby fields.
In the stations of any importance all the tracks were
occupied by rows of cars. High-pressure engines were
whistling, impatient to be off. Groups of soldiers were
hesitating before the different trains, making mistakes,
getting out of one coach to enter others. The employees,
calm but weary-looking, were going from side to side,
giving explanations about mountains of all sorts of
freight and arranging them for transpo^rt. In the convoy
244 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
in which Desnoyers was placed the Territorials were
sleeping, accustomed to the monotony of acting as guard.
Those in charge of the horses had opened the sliding
doors, seating themselves on the floor with their legs
hanging over the edge. The train went very slowly dur-
ing the night, across shadowy fields, stopping here and
there before red lanterns and announcing its presence by
prolonged whistling.
In some stations appeared young girls clad in white
with cockades and pennants on their breasts. Day and
night they were there, in relays, so that no train should
pass through without a visit. They offered, in baskets
and trays, their gifts to the soldiers — bread, chocolate,
fruit. Many, already surfeited, tried to resist, but had
to yield eventually before the pleading countenance of the
maidens. Even Desnoyers was laden down with these
gifts of patriotic enthusiasm.
He passed a great part of the night talking with his
travelling companions. Only the officers had vague direc-
tions as to where they were to meet their regiments, for
the operations of war were daily changing the situation.
Faithful to duty, they were passing on, hoping to arrive
in time for the decisive combat. The Chief of the Guard
had been over the ground, and was the only one able to
give any account of the retreat. After each stop the train
made less progress. Everybody appeared confused. Why
the retreat? . . . The army had undoubtedly suffered
reverses, but it was still united and, in his opinion, ought
to seek an engagement where it was. The retreat was
leaving the advance of the enemy unopposed. To what
point were they going to retreat? . . . They who two
weeks before were discussing in their garrisons the place
in Belgium where their adversaries were going to receive
iheir death blow and through what places their victorious
troops would invade Germany! . , ,
THE RETREAT 245
Their admission of the change of tactics did not reveal
the slightest discouragement. An indefinite but firm hope
was hovering triumphantly above their vacillations. The
Generalissimo was the only one who possessed the secret
of events. And Desnoyers approved with the blind en-
thusiasm inspired by those in whom we have confidence.
Jofire! . . . That serious and calm leader would finally
bring things out all right. Nobody ought to doubt his
ability; he was the kind of man who always says the
decisive word.
At daybreak Don Marcelo left the train. "Good luck
to you !" And he clasped the hands of the brave young
fellows who were going to die, perhaps in a very short
time. Finding the road unexpectedly open, the train
started immediately and Desnoyers found himself alone
in the station. In normal times a branch road would
have taken him on to Villeblanche, but the service was
now suspended for lack of a train crew. The employees
had been transferred to the lines crowded with the war
transportation.
In vain he sought, with most generous offers, a horse,
a simple cart drawn by any kind of old beast, in order to
continue his trip. The mobilization had appropriated the
best, and all other means of transportation had disap-
peared with the flight of the terrified. He would have to
walk the eight miles. The old man did not hesitate. For-
ward March ! And he began his course along the dusty,
straight, white highway running between an endless suc-
cession of plains. Some groups of trees, some green
hedges and the roofs of various farms broke the monot-
ony of the countryside. The fields were covered with
stubble from the recent harvest. The haycocks dotted
the ground with their yellowish cones, now beginning to
darken and take on a tone of oxidized gold. In the
246 FOUR H(3R SEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
valleys the birds were flitting about, shaking off the dew
of dawn.
The first rays of the sun announced a very hot day.
Around the hay stacks Desnoyers saw knots of people
who were getting up, shaking out their clothes, and
awaking those who were still sleeping. They were fugi-
tives camping near the station in the hope that some train
would carry them further on, they knew not where.
Some had come from far-away districts ; they had heard
the cannon, had seen war approaching, and for several
days had been going forward, directed by chance. Others,
infected with the contagion of panic, had fled, fearing to
know the same horrors. . . . Among them he saw mothers
with their little ones in their arms, and old men who
could only walk with a cane in one hand and the other
arm in that of some member of the family, and a few
old women, withered and motionless as mummies, who
were sleeping as they were trundled along in wheel-
barrows. When the sun awoke this miserable band they
gathered themselves together with heavy step, still stif-
fened by the night. Many were going toward the station
in the hope of a train which never came, thinking that,
perhaps, they might have better luck during the day that
was just dawning. Some were continuing their way
down the track, hoping that fate might be more propitious
in some other place.
Don Marcelo walked all the morning long. The white,
rectilinear ribbon of roadway was spotted with approach-
ing groups that on the horizon line looked like a file of
ants. He did not see a single person going in his direc-
tion. All were fleeing toward the South, and on meeting
this city gentleman, well-shod, with walking stick and
straw hat, going on alone toward the country which they
were abandoning in terror, they showed the greatest
THE RETREAT 247
•astonishment. They concluded that he must be some
functionary, some celebrity from the Government.
At midday he was able to get a bit of bread, a little
cheese and a bottle of white wine from a tavern near the
road. The proprietor was at the front, his wife sick and
moaning in her bed. The mother, a rather deaf old
woman surrounded by her grandchildren, was watching
from the doorvv^ay the procession of fugitives which had
been filing by for the last three days. "Monsieur, why do
they flee?" she said to Desnoyers. *'War only concerns
the soldiers. We country folk have done no wrong to
anybody, and we ought not to be afraid."
Four hours later, on descending one of the hills that
bounded the valley of the Marne, he saw afar the roofs
of Villeblanche clustered around the church, and further
on, beyond a little grove, the slatey points of the round
towers of his castle.
The streets of the village were deserted. Only on the
outer edges of the square did he see some old w^orp^n sit-
ting as in the placid evenings of bygone summers. Half
of the neighborhood had fled; the others were stay ng by
their firesides through sedentary routine, or deceiving
themselves with a blind optimism. If the Prussians
should approach, what could they do to them? . . . They
would obey their orders without attempting any resist-
ance, and it is impossible to punish people who obey. . . .
Anything would be preferable to losing the homes built
by their forefathers which they had never left.
In the square he saw the mayor and the principal
inhabitants grouped together. Like the w^omen, they all
stared in astonishment at the owner of the castle. He
was the most unexpected of apparitions. While so many
were fleeing toward Paris, this Parisian had come to join
them and share in their fate. A smile of affection a
look of sympathy began to appear on the rough, bark-like
*J48 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
countenances of the suspicious rustics. For a long time
Desnoyers had been on bad terms with the entire village.
He had harshly insisted on his rights, showing no toler-
ance in matters touching his property. He had spoken
many times of bringing suit against the mayor and
sending half of the neighborhood to prison, so his enemies
had retaliated by treacherously invading his lands, poach-
ing in his hunting preserves, and causing him great
trouble with counter-suits and involved claims. His
hatred of the community had even united him with the
priest because he was on terms of permanent hostility
with the mayor. But his relations with the Church
turned out as fruitless as his struggles with the State.
The priest w^as a kindly old soul who bore a certain
resemblance to Renan, and seemed interested only in
getting alms for his poor out of Don Marcelo, even
carrying his good-natured boldness so far as to try to
excuse the marauders on his property.
How remote these struggles of a few months ago now
seemed to him ! . . . The millionaire was greatly sur-
prised to see the priest, on leaving his house to enter the
church, greet the mayor as he passed, with a friendly
smile.
After long years of hostile silence they had met on the
evening of August first at the foot of the church tower.
The bell was ringing the alarm, announcing the mobiliza-
tion to the men who were in the field — and the two
enemies had instinctively clasped hands. All French!
This affectionate unanimity also came to meet the de-
tested owner of the castle. He had to exchange greetings
first on one side, then on the other, grasping many a
horny hand. Behind his back the people broke out into
kindly excuses — "A good man, with no fault except a
little bad temper. . . ." And in a few mmutes Monsieur
THE RETREAT ^i-c
Desno^/ers was basking in the delightful ratiriospneTe of
popularity.
As the iron-willed old gentleman approarned his castle
he concluded that, although the fatigue of "'«e long walk
was making his knees tremble, the trio .iad been well
worth while. Never had his park appeared to him so
extensive and so majestic as in that summer twilight,
never so glistening white the swans that were gliding
double over the quiet waters, never so imposing the great
group of towers whose inverted images were repeated in
the glassy green of the moats. He felt eager to see at
once the stables with their herds of animals ; then a brief
glance shov/ed him that the stalls were comparatively
empty. Mobilization had carried off his best work horses ;
the driving and riding horses also had disappeared. Those
m charge of the grounds and the various stable boys were
also in the army. The Warden, a man upwards of fifty
and consumptive, was the only one of the personnel left
at the castle. With his wife and daughter he was keep-
ing the mangers filled, and from time to time was milking
the neglected cows.
Within the noble edifice he again congratulated himself
on the adamantine will which had brought him thither.
How could he ever give up such riches ! . . . He gloated
over the paintings, the crystals, the draperies, all bathed
in gold by the splendor of the dying day, and he felt more
than proud to be their possessor. This pride awakened
in him an absurd, impossible courage, as though he were
a gigantic being from another planet, and all humanity
merely an ant hill that he could grind under foot Just
let the enemy come ! He could hold his own against the
whole lot ! . . . Then, when his common sense brought
him out of his heroic delirium, he tried to calm himself
with an equally illogical optimism. They would not
250 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
come. He did not know why it was, but his heart told
him that they would not get that far.
He passed the following morning reconnoitring the
artificial meadows that he had made behind the park,
lamenting their neglected condition due to the departure
of the men, trying himself to open the sluice gates so
as to give some water to the pasture lands which were
beginning to dry up. The grape vines were extending
their branches the length of their supports, and the full
bunches, nearly ripe, were beginning to show their tri-
angular lusciousness among the leaves. Ay, who would
gather this abundant fruit! . . .
By afternoon he noted an extraordinary amount of
movement in the village. Georgette, the Warden's
daughter, brought the news that many enormous auto-
mobiles and soldiers, French soldiers, were beginning to
pass through the main street. In a little while a pro-
cession began filing past on the high road near the castle,
leading to the bridge over the Marne. This was com-
posed of motor trucks, open and closed, that still had
their old commercial signs under their covering of dust
and spots of mud. Many of them displayed the names
of business firms in Paris, others the names of provin-
cial establishments. With these industrial vehicles req-
uisitioned by mobilization were others from the public
service which produced in Desnoyers the same effect as
a familiar face in a throng of strangers. On their
upper parts were the names of their old routes : — ''Made^
leine-Bastille, P assy-Bourne,^' etc. Probably he had
travelled many times in these very vehicles, now shabby
and aged by twenty days of intense activity, with dented
planks and twisted metal, perforated like sieves, but rat-
tling crazily on.
Some of the conveyances displayed white discs with
^ red cross in the center; others had certain letters and
THE RETREAT 251
^gures comprehensible only to those initiates in the
secrets of military administration. Within these vehicles
— the only new and strong motors — he saw soldiers,
many soldiers, but all wounded, with head and legs
bandaged, ashy faces made still more tragic by their
growing beards, feverish eyes looking fixedly ahead-
mouths so sadly immobile that they seemed carven by
agonizing groans. Doctors and nurses were occupying
various carriages in this convoy escorted by several
platoons of horsemen. And mingled with the s!owly
moving horses and automobiles were marching gioups
of foot-soldiers, with cloaks unbuttoned or hanging from
their shoulders like capes — wounded men who were able
to walk and joke and sing, some with arms in splints
across their breasts, others with bandaged heads with
clotted blood showing through the thin white strips.
The millionaire longed to do something for these brave
fellows, but he had hardly begun to distribute some bot-
tles of wine and loaves of bread before a doctor inter-
posed, upbraiding him as though he had committed a
crime. His gifts might result fatally. So he had to
stand beside the road, sad and helpless, looking after the
sorrowful convoy. . . . By nightfall the vehicles filled
with the sick were no longer filing by.
He now saw hundreds of drays, some hermetically
sealed with the prudence that explosive material requires,
others with bundles and boxes that were sending out
a stale odor of provisions. Then came great herds of
cattle raising thick, whirling clouds of dust in the nar-
row parts of the road, prodded on by the sticks and yells
of the shepherds in kepis.
His thoughts kept him wakeful all night. This, then,
was the retreat of which the people of Paris were talk-
ing, but in which many wished not to believe — the re-
treat reachinsr even there and continuing: its indefinite
252 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
retirement, since nobody knew what its end might
be. . . . His optimism aroused a ridiculous hope.
Perhaps this was only the retreat of the hospitals and
stores which always follows an army. The troops, wish-
ing to be rid of impedimenta, were sending them for-
ward by railway and highway. That must be it. So
all through the night, he interpreted the incessant bustle
as the passing of vehicles filled with the wounded, with
munitions and eatables, like those which had filed by
in the afternoon.
Toward morning he fell asleep through sheer weari-
ness, and when he awoke late in the day his first glance
was toward the road. He saw it filled with men and
horses dragging some rolling objects. But these men
were carrying guns and were formed in battalions and
regiments. The animals were pulling the pieces of ar-
tillery. It was an army. ... It was the retreat!
Desnoyers ran to the edge of the road to be more
convinced of the truth.
Alas, they were regiments such as he had seen leaving
the stations of Paris. . . . But with what a very dif-
ferent aspect ! The blue cloaks were now ragged and
yellowing garments, the trousers faded to the color of
a half-baked brick, the shoes great cakes of mud. The
faces had a desperate expression, with layers of dust
and sweat in all their grooves and openings, with beards
of recent growth, sharp as spikes, with an air of great
weariness showing the longing to drop down somewhere
forever, killing or dying, but without going a step further.
They were tramping . . . tramping . . . tramping!
Some marches had lasted thirty hours at a stretch. The
enemy was on their tracks, and the order was to go on
and not to fight, freeing themselves by 'their fleetfooted-
'aess from the involved movements of the invader.
The chiefs suspected the discouraged exhaustion d
THE RETREAT 25?
their men. They might exact of them complete sacri-
fice of life — but to order them to march day and night,
forever fleeing before the enemy when they did not
consider themselves vanquished, when they were ani-
mated by that ferocious wrath which is the mother of
heroism! . . . Their despairing expressions mutely
sought the nearest officers, the leaders, even the colonel.
They simply could go no further ! Such a long, devas-
tating march in such a few days, and what for? . . .
The superior officers, who knew no more than their men,
seemed to be replying with their eyes, as though they
possessed a secret — ''Courage ! One more effort I . . .
This is going to come to an end very soon."
The vigorous beasts, having no imagination, were re-
sisting less than the men, but their aspect was deplorable.
How could these be the same strong horses with glossy
coats that he had seen in the Paris processions at the be-
ginning of the previous month? A campaign of twenty
days had aged and exhausted them; their dull gaze
seemed to be imploring pity. They were weak and
emaciated, the outline of their skeletons so plainly ap-
parent that it made their eyes look larger. Their har-
ness, as they moved, showed the skin raw and bleeding.
Yet they were pushing on with a mighty effort, con-
centrating their last powers, as though human demands
were beyond their obscure instincts. Some could go no
further and suddenly collapsed from sheer fatigue.
Desnoyers noticed that the artillerymen rapidly unhar-
nessed them, pushing them out of the road so as to
ieave the way open for the rest. There lay the skele-
ton-like frames with stiffened legs and glassy eyes star-
ing fixedly at the first flies already attracted by their
miserable carrion.
The cannons painted gray, the gun-carriages, the artil-
lery equipment, all that Don Marcelo had seen clean arnj
254 FOUK H-UK5EMEN OF THE ATOCAEYPSE
shining with the enthusiastic friction that man has given
to arms from remote epochs — even more persistent than
that which woman gives to household utensils — were now
dirty, overlaid wath the marks of endless use, with the
wreckage of unavoidable neglect. The wheels were de-
formed with mud, the metal darkened by the smoke of
explosion, the gray paint spotted with mossy damp-
ness.
In the free spaces in this file, in the parentheses
opened between battery and regiment, were sandwiched
crowds of civilians — miserable groups driven on by the
invasion, populations of entire towns that had disinte-
grated, following the army in its retreat. The approach
of a new division would make them leave the road tem-
porarily, continuing their march in the adjoining fields.
Then at the slightest opening in the troops they would
again slip along the white and even surface of the high-
way. They were mothers who were pushing hand-carts
heaped high with pyramids of furniture and tiny babies,
the sick who could hardly drag themselves along, old
men carried on the shoulders of their grandsons, old
women with little children clinging to their skirts— a
pitiful, silent brood.
Nobody now opposed the liberality of the owner of
the castle. His entire vintage seemed to be overflowing
on the highway. Casks from the last grape-gathering
were rolled out to the roadside, and the soldiers filled the
metal ladles hanging from their belts with the red stream.
Then the bottled wine began making its appearance by
order of date, and was instantly lost in the river of
men continually flowing by. Desnoyers observed with
much satisfaction the effects of his munificence. The
smiles were reappearing on the despairing faces, the
French jest was leaping from row to row, and on '^o
suming their march the groups began to smg.
THE RETREAT - 255
Then he went to see the officers who in the village
square were giving their horses a brief rest before
rejoining their columns. With perplexed countenances
and heavy eyes they were talking among themselves
about this retreat, so incomprehensible to them all. Days
before in Guise they had routed their pursuers, and yet
now they were continually withdrawing in obedience to
a severe and endless order. *'We do not understand
it," they were saying. "We do not understand." An
ordered and methodical tide was dragging back these
men who wanted to fight, yet had to retreat. All were
suffering the same cruel doubt. "We do not under-
stand."
And doubt was making still more distressing this day-
and-night march with only the briefest rests — because
the heads of the divisions were in hourly fear of being
cut off from the rest of the army. "One effort more,
boys ! Courage ! Soon we shall rest !" The columns
in their retirement were extending hundreds of miles.
Desnoyers was seeing only one division. Others and
still others were doing exactly this same thing at that
very hour, their recessional extending across half of
France. All, with the same disheartened obedience,
were falling back, the men exclaiming the same as the
officials, "We don't understand. . . . We don't under-
stand!"
Don Marcelo soon felt the same sadness and bewilder-
ment as these soldiers. He didn't understand, either.
He saw the obvious thing, what all were able to see — ■
the territory invaded without the Germans encountering
any stubborn resistance ; — entire counties, cities, villages,
hamlets remaining in the power of the enemy, at the
back of an army that was constantly withdrawing. His
enthusiasm suddenly collapsed like a pricked balloon, and
all his former pessimism returned. The troops were dis-
256 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
playing energy and discipline ; but what did that amount
to if they had to keep retreating all the time, unable on
account of strict orders to fight or defend the land?
"Just as it was in the '70's," he sighed. "Outwardly
there is more order, but the result is going to be the
same.'*
As though a negative reply to his faint-heartedness,
he overheard the voice of a soldier reassuring a farmer:
"We are retreating, yes — only that we may pounce upon
the Boches with more strength. Grandpa Joffre is going
to put them in his pocket when and where he will."
The mere sound of the Marshal's name revived Don
Marcelo's hope. Perhaps this soldier, who was keep-
ing his faith intact in spite of the interminable and
demoralizing marches, was nearer the truth than the
reasoning and studious officers.
He passed the rest of the day making presents to the
last detachments of the column. His wine cellars were
gradually emptying. By order of dates, he continued
distributing thousands of bottles stored in the subter-
ranean parts of the castle. By evening he was giving
to those who appeared weakest bottles covered with
the dust of many years. As the lines filed by the men
seemed weaker and more exhausted. Stragglers were
now passing, painfully drawing their raw and bleeding
feet from their shoes. Some had already freed them-
selves from these torture cases and were marching bare-
foot, with their heavy boots hanging from their
shoulders, and staining the highway with drops of blood.
Although staggering with deadly fatigue, they kept their
arms and outfits, believing that the enemy was near.
Desnoyers' liberality stupefied many of them. They
were accustomed to crossing their native soil, having
to struggle with the selfishness of the producer. No-
body had been offering anything. Fear of danger had
THE RETREAT 257
made the country folk hide their eatables and refuse
to lend the slightest aid to their compatriots who were
fighting for them.
The millionaire slept badly this second night in his
pompous bed with columns and plushes that had be-
longed to Henry IV — according to the declarations of
the salesmen. The troops no longer were marching
past. From time to time there straggled by a single
battalion, a battery, a group of horsemen — the last forces
of the rear guard that had taken their position on the
outskirts of the village in order to cover the retreat.
The profound silence that followed the turmoil of trans-
portation awoke in his mind a sense of doubt and dis-
quietude. What was he doing there when the soldiers
had gone? Was he not crazy to remain there? . . .
But immediately there came galloping into his mind the
great riches which the castle contained. H he could
only take it all away! . . . That was impossible now
through want of means and time. Besides, his stubborn
will looked upon such flight as a shameful concession.
"We must finish what we have begun !" he said to him-
self. He had made the trip on purpose to guard his
own, and he must not flee at the approach of danger. . . .
The following morning, when he went down into the
village, he saw hardly any soldiers. Only a single de-
tachment of dragoons was still in the neighborhood;
the horsemen were scouring the woods and pushing
forward the stragglers at the same time that they were
opposing the advance of the enemy. The troopers had
obstructed the street with a barricade of carts and furni-
ture. Standing behind this crude barrier, they were
watching the white strip of roadway which ran between
the two hills covered with trees. Occasionally there
sounded stray shots like the snapping of cords. "Ours/*
said the troopers. These were the last detachments of
258 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
sharpshooters firing at the advancing Uhlans. The cav-
alry of the rear guard had the task of opposing a con-
tinual resistance to the enemy, repelling the squads of
Germans who were trying to work their way along to the
retreating columns.
Desnoyers saw approaching along the highroad the
last stragglers from the infantry. They were not walk-
ing, they rather appeared to be dragging themselves for-
ward, with the firm intention of advancing, but were
betrayed by emaciated legs and bleeding feet. Some had
sunk dow^n for a moment by the roadside, agonized with
weariness, in order to breathe without the weight of
their knapsacks, and draw their swollen feet from their
leather prisons, and wipe off tht sweat ; but upon trying
to renew their march, they found it impossible to rise.
Their bodies seemed made of stone. Fatigue had
brought them to a condition bordering on catalepsy; so,
unable to move, they were seeing dimly the rest of the
army passing on as a fantastic file — battalions, more
battalions, batteries, troops of horses. Then the silence,
the night, the sleep on the stones and dust, shaken by
most terrible nightmare. At daybreak they were awa-
kened by bodies of horsemen exploring the ground,
rounding up the remnants of the retreat. Ay, it was
impossible to move! The dragoons, revolver in hand,
had to resort to threats in order to rouse them! Only
the certainty that the pursuer was near and might make
them prisoners gave them a momentary vigor. So they
we^"e forcing themselves up by superhuman effort, stag-
gering, dragging their legs, and supporting themselves
on their guns as though they were canes.
Many of these were young men who had aged in an
hour and changed into confirmed invalids. Poor fel-
lows! They would not go very far! Their intention
wa^ to follow on, to join the column, but on entering
THE RETREAT 259
the village they looked at the houses with supplicating
eyes, desiring to enter them, feeling such a craving for
immediate relief that they forgot even the nearness of
the enemy.
Villeblanche was now more military than before the
arrival of the troops. The night before a great part of
the inhabitants had fled, having become infected with the
same fear that was driving on the crowds following the
army. The mayor and the priest remained. Reconciled
with the owner of the castle through his unexpected
presence in their midst, and admiring his liberality, the
municipal official approached to give him some news.
The engineers were mining the bridge over the Marne.
They were only waiting for the dragoons to cross before
blowing it up. If he wished to go, there was still time.
Again Desnoyers hesitated. Certainly it was fool-
hardy to remain there. But a glance at the woods over
whose branches rose the towers of his castle, settled his
doubts. No, no. . . . "We must finish what we have
begun !"
The very last band of troopers now made their appear-
ance, coming out of the woods by different paths. They
were riding their horses slowly, as though they deplored
this retreat. They kept looking behind, carbine in hand,
ready to halt and shoot. The others who had been occu-
pying the barricade were already on their mounts.
The division reformed, the commands of the officers
were heard and a quick trot, accompanied by the clank-
ing of metal, told Don Marcelo that the last of the army
had left.
He remained near the barricade in a solitude of in-
tense silence, as though the world were suddenly depopu-
lated. Two dogs, abandoned by the flight of their mas-
ters, leaped and sniffed around him, coaxing him for
protection. They were unable to get the desired seer?
26o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
in that land trodden down and disfigured by the transit
of thousands of men. A family cat was watching the
birds that w^ere beginning to return to their haunts.
With timid flutterlngs they were picking at what the
horses had left, and an ownerless hen was disputing the
banquet with the winged band, until then hidden In the
trees and roofs. The silence Intensified the rustling of
the leaves, the hum of the Insects, the summer respira-
tion of the sunburnt soil which appeared to have con-
tracted timorously under the weight of the men in arms.
Desnoyers was losing exact track of the passing of
time. He was beginning to believe that all which had gone
before must have been a bad dream. The calm surround-
ing him made what had been happening here seem m^st
improbable.
Suddenly he saw something moving at the far end of
the road, at the very highest point w^here the white rib-
bon of the highway touched the blue of the horizon.
There were two men on horseback, two little tin soldiers
who appeared to have escaped from a box of toys.
He had brought with him a pair of field glasses that had
often surprised marauders on his property, and by their
aid he saw more clearly the two riders clad In greenish
gray! They were carrying lances and wearing helmets
ending In a horizontal plate. . . . They! He could
not doubt it: before his eyes were the first Uhlans!
For some time they remained motionless, as though
exploring the horizon. Then, from the obscure masses
of vegetation that bordered the roadside, others and
still others came sallying forth in groups. The little tin
Goldlers no longer were showing their silhouettes against
the horizon's blue ; the whiteness of the highway was
now making their background, ascending behind their
heads. They came slowly down, like a band that fears
ambush, examining carefully everything around.
THE RETREAT 261
The advisability of prompt retirement made Don Mar-
celo bring his investigations to a close. It would be
most disastrous for him if they surprised him here.
But on lowering his glasses something extraordinary
passed across his field of vision. A short distance away,
so that he could almost touch them with his hand, he
saw many men skulking along in the shadow of the trees
on both sides of the road. His surprise increased as he
became convinced that they were Frenchmen, wearing
kepis. Where were they coming from? . . . He ex-
amined more closely with his spy glass. They were
stragglers in a lamentable state of body and a picturesque
variety of uniforms — infantry, Zouaves, dragoons with-
out their horses. And with them were forest guards
and officers from the villages that had received too late
the news of the retreat — altogether about fifty. A few
were fresh and vigorous, others were keeping themselves
up by supernatural effort. All were carrying arms.
They finally made the barricade, looking continually
behind them, in order to watch, in the shelter of the
trees, the slow advance of the Uhlans. At the head
of this heterogeneous troop was an official of the police,
old and fat, with a revolver in his right hand, his mous-
tache bristling with excitement, and a murderous glitter
in his heavy-lidded blue eyes. The band was continu-
ing its advance through the village, slipping over to the
other side of the barricade of carts without paying much
attention to their curious countryman, when suddenly
sounded a loud detonation, making the horizon vibrate
and the houses tremble.
*'What is that ?" asked the officer, looking at Desnoyers
for the first time. He explained that it was the bridge
which had just been blown up. The leader received the
news with an oath, but his confused followers, brought
2^2 FOUR HORSEMEN OF TH:e APOCALYPSE
together by chance, remained as indifferent as though
they had lost all contact with reality.
"Might as well die here as anywhere," continued the
official. Many of the fugitives acknowledged this de-
cision with prompt obedience, since it saved them the tor-
ture of continuing their march. They were almost re-
joicing at the explosion which had cut off their progress.
Instinctively they were gathering in the places most
sheltered by the barricade. Some entered the abandoned
houses whose doors the dragoons had forced in order to
utilize the upper floors. All seemed satisfied to be able
to rest, even though they might soon have to fight. The
officer went from group to group giving his orders.
They must not fire till he gave the word.
Don Marcelo watched these preparations with the im-
movability of surprise. So rapid and noiseless had been
the apparition of the stragglers that he imagined he must
still be dreaming. There could be no danger in this un-
real situation; it was all a lie. And he t^emained in his
place without understanding the deputy who was order-
ing his departure with roughest words. Obstinate civil-
ian! .. .
The reverberation of the explosion had filled the high-
way with horsemen. They were coming from all direc-
tions, forming themselves into the advance group. The
Uhlans were galloping around under the impression that
the village was abandoned.
"Fire!"
Desnoyers was enveloped in a rain of crackling noises,
as though the trunks of all the trees had split before his
eyes.
The impetuous band halted suddenly. Some of their
men were rolling on the ground. Some were bending
themselves double, trying to get across the road without
being seen. Others remained stretched out on their
THE RETREAT 263
backs or face downward with their arms in front. The
riderless horses were racing wildly across the fields with
reins dragging, urged on by the loose stirrups.
And after this rude shock which had brought them
surprise and death, the band disappeared, instantly swal«
lowed up by the tre^b
CHAPTER IV
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO
Argensola had found a new occupation even more
exciting than marking out on the map the manceuvres of
the armies.
"I am now devoting myself to the taube" he an-
nounced. "It appears from four to five with the preci-
sion of a punctilious guest coming to take tea."
Every afternoon at the appointed hour, a German
aeroplane was flying over Paris dropping bombs. This
would-be intimidation was producing no terror, the peo-
ple accepting the visit as an Interesting and extraordi-
nary spectacle. In vain the aviators were flinging in the
city streets German flags bearing ironic messages, giving
accounts of the defeat of the retreating army and the
failures of the Russian offensive. Lies, all lies ! In vain
they were dropping bombs, destroying garrets, killing or
wounding old men, women and babes. **Ah, the ban-
dits !" The crowds would threaten with their fists the
malign mosquito, scarcely visible 6,000 feet above them,
and after this outburst, they would follow it with strain-
ing eyes from street to street, or stand motionless in the
square in order to study its evolutions.
The most punctual of all the spectators was Argensola.
At four o'clock he was in the place de la Concorde with
upturned face and wide-open eyes, in most cordial good-
fellowship with all the bystanders. It " was as though
they were holding season tickets at the same theatre,
264
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 265
becoming acquainted through seeing each other so often.
**Will it come? . . . Will it not come to-day?" The
women appeared to be the most vehement, some of them
rushing up, flushed and breathless, fearing that they
might have arrived too late for the show. ... A
great cry — "There it comes ! . . . There it is !" And
thousands of hands were pointing to a vague spot on the
horizon. With field glasses and telescopes they were
aiding their vision, the popular venders offering every
kind of optical instruments . . . and for an hour the
thrilling spectacle of an aerial hunt was played out, noisy
and useless.
The great insect was trying to reach the Eiffel Tower,
and from its base would come sharp reports, at the
same time that the different platforms spit out a fierce
stream of shrapnel. As it zigzagged over the city, the
discharge of rifles would crackle from roof and street.
Everyone that had arms in his house was firing — the
soldiers of the guard, and the English and Belgians on
their way through Paris. They knew that their shots
were perfectly useless, but they were firing for the fun
of retorting, hoping at the same time that one of their
chance shots might achieve a miracle; but the only
miracle was that the shooters did not kill each other
with their precipitate and ineffectual fire. As it was, a
few passers-by did fall, wounded by balls from unknown
sources.
Argensola would tear from street to street following
the evolutions of the inimical bird, trying to guess where
its projectiles would fall, anxious to be the first to reach
the bombarded house, excited by the shots that were
answering from below. And to think that he had no gun
like those khaki-clad Englishmen or those Belgians in
barrick cap, with tassel over the front ! . . . Finally
the taiibe, tired of manoeuvring, would disappear.
266 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"Until to-morrow!'' ejaculated the Spaniard. "Perhaps
to-morrow's show may be even more interesting!"
He employed his free hours between his geographical
observations and his aerial contemplations in making the
rounds of the stations, watching the crowds of travellers
making their escape from Paris. The sudden vision of
the truth — after the illusion which the Government had
been creating with its optimistic dispatches, the cer-
tainty that the Germans were actually near when a week
before they had imagined them completely routed, the
taubes flying over Paris, the mysterious threat of the
Zeppelins — all these dangerous signs were filling a part
of the community with frenzied desperation. The rail-
road stations, guarded by the soldiery, were only admit-
ting those who had secured tickets in advance. Some
had been waiting entire days for their turn to depart.
The most impatient were starting to walk, eager to get
outside of the city as soon as possible. The roads were
black with the crowds all going in the same directions.
Toward the South they were fleeing by automobile, in
carriages, in gardeners' carts, on foot.
Argensola surveyed this hegira with serenity. He
would remain because he had always admired those men
who witnessed the Siege of Paris in 1870. Now it was
going to be his good fortune to observe an historical
drama, perhaps even more interesting. The wonders that
he would be able to relate in the future ! . . . But the
distraction and indifference of his present audience were
annoying him greatly. He would hasten back to the
studio, in feverish excitement, to communicate the latest
gratifying news to Desnoyers who would listen as though
he did not hear him. The night that he informed him
that the Government, the Chambers, the Diplomatic
Corps, and even the actors of the Comedie FrangaLv
were going that very hour on special trains for Bordeau ♦
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 267
his companion merely replied with a shrug of indiffer-
ence.
Desnoyers was worrying about other things. That
morning he had received a note from Marguerite — only
two lines scrawled in great haste. She was leaving,
starting immediately, accompanied by her mother.
Adieu ! . . . and nothing more. The panic had caused
many love-affairs to be forgotten, had broken off long
intimacies, but Marguerite's temperament was above such
incoherencies from mere flight. Julio felt that her terse-
ness was very ominous. Why not mention the place to
which she was going? . . .
In the afternoon, he took a bold step which she had
always forbidden. He went to her home and talked a
long time with the concierge in order to get some news.
The good woman was delighted to work off on him the
loquacity so brusquely cut short by the flight of tenants
and servants. The lady on the first floor (Marguerite's
mother) had been the last to abandon the house in spite
of the fact that she was really sick over her son's de-
parture. They had left the day before without saying
where they were going. The only thing that she knew
was that they took the train in the Gare d*Orsay. They
were going toward the South like all the rest of the rich.
And she supplemented her revelations with the vague
news that the daughter had seemed very much upset by
the information that she had received from the front.
Someone in the family was wounded. Perhaps it was
the brother, but she really didn't know. With so many
surprises and strange things happening, it was difficult
to keep track of everything. Her husband, too, was in
the army and she had her own affairs to worry about.
"Where can she have gone?" Julio asked himself all
day long. "Why does she wish to keep me in ignorance
of her whereabouts?**
268 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
When his comrade told him that night about the trans-
fer of the seat of government, with all the mystery of
news not yet made public, Desnoyers merely replied :
"They are doing the best thing. ... I, too, will go
to-morrow if I can."
Why remain longer in Paris? His family was away.
His father, according to Argensola's investigations, also
had gone off without saying whither. Now Marguerite's
mysterious flight was leaving him entirely alone, in a
solitude that was filling him with remorse.
That afternoon, when strolling through the boulevards,
he had stumbled across a friend considerably older than
himself, an acquaintance in the fencing club which he
used to frequent. This was the first time they had met
since the beginning of the war, and they ran over the
list of their companions in the army. Desnoyers' in-
quiries were answered by the older man. So-and-so?
. . . He had been wounded in Lorraine and was now in
a hospital in the South. Another friend? . . . Dead
in the Vosges. Another? . . . Disappeared at Char-
leroi. And thus had continued the heroic and mournful
roll-call. The others were still living, doing brave things.
The members of foreign birth, young Poles, English resi-
dents in Paris and South Americans, had finally enlisted
as volunteers. The club might well be proud of its
young men who had practised arms in times of peace,
for now they were all jeopardizing their existence at the
front. Desnoyers turned his face away as though he
feared to meet in the eyes of his friend, an ironical
and questioning expression. Why had he not gone with
the others to defend the land in which he was liv-
ing? . . .
"To-morrow I will go," repeated Julio, depressed by
this recollection.
But he went toward the South like all those wha
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 269
were fleeing from the war. The following morning
Argensola was charged to get him a railroad ticket for
Bordeaux. The value of money had greatly increased,
but fifty francs, opportunely bestowed, wrought the mira-
cle and procured a bit of numbered cardboard whose
conquest represented many days of waiting,
"It is good only for to-day," said the Spaniard, "you
will have to take the night train."
Packing was not a very serious matter, as the trains
"were refusing to admit anything more than hand-luggage.
Argensola did not wish to accept the liberality of Julio
who tried to leave all his money with him. Heroes need
very little and the painter of souls was inspired with
heroic resolution. The brief harangue of Gallieni in tak-
ing charge of the defense of Paris, he had adopted as his
own. He intended to keep up his courage to the last,
just like the hardy general.
"Let them come," he exclaimed with a tragic expres-
sion. "They will find me at my pnst !" . . .
His post was the studio from which he could witness
the happenings which he proposed relating to coming
generations. He would entrench himself there with the
eatables and wines. Besides he had a plan — just as
soon as his partner should disappear — of bringing to live
there with him certain lady-friends who were wandering
around in search of a problematical dinner, and feeling
timid in the solitude of their own quarters. Danger
often gathers congenial folk together and adds a new
attractiveness to the pleasures of a community. The
tender affections of the prisoners of the Terror, when
they were expecting momentarily to be conducted to the
guillotine, flashed through his mind. Let us drain Life's
goblet at one draught since we have to die! . . . The
studio of the rue de la Pompa was about to witness the
270 FOUR HORSE!MEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
mad and desperate revels of a castaway bark well-stocked
with provisions.
Desnoyers left the Gare d'Orsay in a first-class com-
partment, mentally praising the good order with which
the authorities had arranged everything, so that every
traveller could have his own seat. At the Austerlitz sta-
tion, however, a human avalanche assaulted the train.
The doors were broken open, packages and children came
in through the windows like projectiles. The people
pushed with the unreason of a crowd fleeing before a
fire. In the space reserved for eight persons, fourteen
installed themselves; the passageways were heaped with
mountains of bags and valises that served later travel-
lers for seats. All class distinctions had disappeared.
The villagers invaded by preference the best coaches, be-
lieving that they would there find more room. Those
holding first-class tickets hunted up the plainer coaches
in the vain hope of travelling without being crowded.
On the cross roads were waiting from the day before
long trains made up of cattle cars. All the stables on
wheels were filled with people seated on the wooden
floor or in chairs brought from their homes. Every train
load was an encampment eager to take up its march;
whenever it halted, layers of greasy papers, hulls and
fruit skins collected along its entire length.
The invaders, pushing their way in, put up with many
annoyances and pardoned one another in a brotherly
way. "In war times, war measures," they would always
say as a last excuse. And each one was pressing closer
to his neighbor in order to make a few more inches of
room, and helping to wedge his scanty baggage among
the other bundles swaying most precariously above.
Little by little, Desnoyers was losing all his advantage
as a first comer. These poor people who had been wait-
ing for the train from four in the morning till eight at
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 271
night, awakened his pity. The women, groaning with
weariness, were standing in the corridors, looking with
ferocious envy at those who had seats. The children
were bleating like hungry kids. Julio finally gave up his
place, sharing with the needy and improvident the boun-
tiful supply of eatables with which Argensola had pro-
vided him. The station restaurants had all been emptied
of food.
During the train's long wait, soldiers only were seen
on the platform, soldiers who were hastening at the
call of the trumpet, to take their places again in the
strings of cars which were constantly steaming toward
Paris. At the signal stations, long war trains were wait-
ing for the road to be clear that they might continue
their journey. The cuirassiers, wearing a yellow vest
over their steel breastplate, were seated with hanging legs
in the doorways of the stable cars, from whose interior
came repeated neighing. Upon the flat cars were rows
of gun carriages. The slender throats of the seventy-
fives were pointed upwards like telescopes.
Young Desnowxrs passed the night in the aisle, seated
on a valise, noting the sodden sleep of those around him,
worn out by weariness and exhaustion. It was a cruel
and endless night of jerks, shrieks and stops punctuated
by snores. At every station, the trumpets were sound-
ing precipitously as though the enemy were right upon
them. The soldiers from the South were hurrying to
their posts, and at brief intervals another detachment of
men was dragged along the rails toward Paris. They all
appeared gay, and anxious to reach the scene of slaughter
as soon as possible. Many were regretting the delays,
fearing that they might arrive too late. Leaning out of
the window, Julio heard the dialogues and shouts on the
platforms impregnated with the acrid odor of men and
mules. All were evincing an unauenchable confidence-
272 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"The Boches! very numerous, with huge cannons, with
many mitrailleuse . . . but we only have to charge with
our bayonets to make them run like rabbits !"
The attitude of those going to meet death was in sharp
contrast to the panic and doubt of those who were de-
serting Paris. An old and much-decorated gentleman,
type of a jubilee functionary, kept questioning Desnoyers
whenever the train started on again — "Do you believe
that they will get as far as Tours?" Before receiving
his reply, he would fall asleep. Brutish sleep was
marching down the aisles with leaden feet. At every
junction the old man would start up and suddenly ask,
"Do you believe that we will get as far as Bordeaux?"
. . . And his great desire not to halt until, with his
family, he had reached an absolutely secure refuge, made
him accept as oracles all the vague responses.
At daybreak, they saw the Territorialists guarding the
roads. They were armed with old muskets, and were
wearing the red kepis as their only military distinction.
They were following the opposite course of the military
trains.
In the station at Bordeaux, the civilian crowds strug-
gling to get out or to enter other cars, were mingling with
the troops. The trumpets were incessantly sounding
their brazen notes, calling the soldiers together. Many
were men of darkest coloring, natives with wide gray
breeches and red caps above their black or bronzed faces.
Julio saw a train bearing wounded from the battles
of Flanders and Lorraine. Their worn and dirty uni-
forms were enlivened by the whiteness of the bandages
sustaining the wounded limbs or protecting the broken
heads. All were trying to smile, although with livid
mouths and feverish eyes, at their first glimpse of the
land of the South as it emerged from the mist bathed
in the sunlight, and covered with the regal vestures of
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 273
Its vineyards. The men from the North stretched out
their hands for the fruit that the women were offering
them, tasting with delight the sweet grapes of the coun-
try.
For four days the distracted lover Hved in Bordeaux,
stunned and bewildered by the agitation of a provincial
city suddenly converted into a capital. The hotels were
overcrowded, many notables contenting themselves with
servants' quarters. There was not a vacant seat in the
cafes ; the sidewalks could not accommodate the extra-
ordinary assemblage. The President was installed in
the Prefecture; the State Departments were established
in the schools and museums ; two theatres were fitted up
for the future reunions of the Senate and the Chamber
of Deputies. Julio was lodged in a filthy, disreputable
hotel at the end of a foul-smelling alley. A little Cupid
adorned the crystals of the door, and the looking-glass
in his room was scratched with names and unspeakable
phrases — souvenirs of the occupants of an hour . . .
and yet many grand ladies, hunting in vain for temporary
residence, would have envied him his good fortune.
All his investigations proved fruitless. The friends
whom he encountered in the fugitive crowd were think-
ing only of their own affairs. They could talk of noth-
ing but incidents of the installation, repeating the news
gathered from the ministers with whom they were living
on familiar terms, or mentioning with a mysterious air,
the great battle which was going on stretching from the
vicinity of Paris to Verdun. A pupil of his days of
glory, whose former elegance was now attired in the
uniform of a nurse, gave him some vague information.
"The little Madame Laurier? ... I remember hear-
ing that she was living somewhere near here. . . .
Perhaps in Biarritz." Julio needed no more than this
to continue his journey. To Biarritz-'
274 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
The first person that he encountered on his arrival was
Chichi. She declared that the town was impossible be-
cause of the families of rich Spaniards who were sum-
mering there. "The Boches are in the majority, and I
pass a miserable existence quarrelling with them. . . .
I shall finally have to live alone." Then he met his
mother — embraces and tears. Afterwards he saw his
Aunt Elena in the hotel parlors, most enthusiastic over
the country and the summer colony.
She could talk at great length with many of them
about the decadence of France. They were all expect-
ing to receive the news from one moment to another, that
the Kaiser had entered the Capital. Ponderous men who
had never done anything in all their lives, were criticiz-
ing the defects and indolence of the Republic. Young
men whose aristocracy aroused Dona Elena's enthusiasm,
broke forth into apostrophes against the corruption of
Paris, corruption that they had studied thoroughly, from
sunset to sunrise, in the virtuous schools of Montmartre.
They all adored Germany where they had never been,
or which they knew only through the reels of the mov-
ing picture films. They criticized events as though they
were witnessing a bull fight. "The Germans have the
snap ! You can't fool with them ! They are fine
brutes!" And they appeared to admire this inhumanity
as the most admirable characteristic. "Why will they
not say that in their own home on the other side of
the frontier?" Chichi would protest. "Why do they
come into their neighbor's country to ridicule his trou-
bles? . . . Possibly they consider it a sign of their
wonderful good-breeding !"
But Julio had not gone to Biarritz to live with his
family. . . . The very day of his ^ arrival, he saw
Marguerite's mother in the distance. She was alone.
His inquiries developed the information that her daughter
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 275
was living in Pau. She was a trained nurse taking care
of a wounded member of the family. "Her brother . . .
undoubtedly it is her brother," thought Julio. And he
again continued his trip, this time going to Pau.
His visits to the hospitals there were also unavailing.
Nobody seemed to know Marguerite. Every day a train
was arriving with a new load of bleeding flesh, but her
brother was not among the wounded. A Sister of Chari-
ty, believing that he was in search of some one of his
family, took pity on him and gave him some helpful
directions. He ought to go to Lourdes ; there were
many of the wounded there and many of the military
nurses. So Desnoyers immediately took the short cut
between Pau and Lourdes.
He had never visited the sacred city whose name was
so frequently on his mother's lips. For Dona Luisa, the
French nation was Lourdes. In her discussions with her
sister and other foreign ladies who were praying that
France might be exterminated for its impiety, the good
senora always summed up her opinions in the same
words : — *'When the Virgin wished to make her appear-
ance in our day, she chose France. This country, there-
fore, cannot be as bad as you say. . . . When I see
that she appears in Berlin, we will then re-discuss the
matter,"
But Desnoyers was not there to confirm his mother's
artless opinions. Just as soon as he had found a room
in a hotel near the river, he had hastened to the big
hostelry, now converted into a hospital. The guard
told him that he could not speak to the Director until
the afternoon. In order to curb his impatience he walked
through the street leading to the basilica, past all the
booths and shops with pictures and pious souvenirs
which have converted the place into a big bazaar. Here
and in the gardens adjoining the church, he saw
276 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
wounded convalescents with uniforms stained with
traces of the combat. Their cloaks were greatly soiled
in spite of repeated brushings. The mud, the blood and
the rain had left indelible spots and made them as
stiff as cardboard. Some of the wounded had cut their
sleeves in order to avoid the cruel friction on their
shattered arms, others still showed on their trousers the
rents made by the devastating shells.
They were fighters of all ranks and of many races — ■
infantry, cavalry, artillerymen ; soldiers from the metrop-
olis and from the colonies ; French farmers and African
sharpshooters; red heads, faces of Mohammedan olive
and the black countenances of the Sengalese, with eyes of
fire, and thick, bluish blubber lips ; some showing the
good-nature and sedentary obesity of the middle-class
man suddenly converted into a warrior; others sinewy,
alert, with the aggressive profile of men born to fight,
and experienced in foreign fields.
The city, formerly visited by the hopeful, Catholic
sick, was now invaded by a crowd no less dolorous but
clad in carnival colors. All, in spite of their physical
distress, had a certain air of good cheer and satisfaction.
They had seen Death very near, slipping out from his
bony claws into a new joy and zest in life. With their
cloaks adorned with medals, their theatrical Moorish
garments, their kepis and their African headdresses, this
heroic band presented, nevertheless, a lamentable aspect.
Very few still preserved the noble vertical carriage, the
pride of the superior human being. They were walk-
ing along bent almost double, limping, dragging them-
selves forward by the help of a staff or friendly arm.
Others had to let themselves be pushed along, stretched
out on the handcarts which had so oftfn conducted the
devout sick from the station to the Grotto of the Virgin.
Some were feeling their way along, blindly, leaning on
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 277
a child or nurse. The first encounters in Belgium and
in the East, a mere half-dozen battles, had been enough to
produce these physical wrecks still showing a manly
nobility in spite of the most horrible outrages. These
organisms, struggling so tenaciously to regain their hold
on life, bringing their reviving energies out into the
sunlight, represented but the most minute part of the
number mowed down by the scythe of Death. Back of
them were thousands and thousands of comrades groan-
ing on hospital beds from which they would probably
never rise. Thousands and thousands were hidden for-
ever in the bosom of the Earth moistened by their death
agony — fatal land which, upon receiving a hail of pro-
jectiles, brought forth a harvest of bristling crosses !
War now showed itself to Desnoyers with all its
cruel hideousness. He had been accustomed to speak of
it heretofore as those in robust health speak of death,
knowing that it exists and is horrible, but seeing it afar
off ... so far off that it arouses no real emotion.
The explosions of the shells were accompanying their
destructive brutality with a ferocious mockery, gro-
tesquely disfiguring the hum^an body. He saw wounded
objects just beginning to recover their vital force who
were but rough skeletons of men, frightful caricatures,
human rags, saved from the tomb by the audacities of
science — trunks with heads which were dragged along on
wheeled platforms ; fragments of skulls whose brains
were throbbing under an artificial cap ; bemgs without
arms and without legs, restmg in the bottom of little
wagons, like bits of plaster models or scraps from the dis-
secting room ; faces without noses that looked like skulls
with great, black nasal openings. And these half-men were
talking, smoking, laughing, satisfied to see the sky, to
feel the caress of the sun, to have come back to life,
dominated by that sovereign desire to live which trust'
278 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ingly forgets present misery in the confident hope of
something better.
So strongly was Julio impressed that for a little while
he forgot the purpose which had brought him thither. . . .
If those who provoke war from diplomatic chambers or
from the tables of the Military Staff could but see it —
not in the field of battle fired with the enthusiasm which
prejudices judgments — but in cold blood, as it is seen
in the hospitals and cemeteries, in the wrecks left in
its trail ! . . .
To Julio's imagination this terrestrial globe appeared
like an enormous ship sailing through infinity. Its crews
— poor humanity — had spent century after century in
exterminating each other on the deck. They did not
even know what existed under their feet, in the hold of
the vessel. To occupy the same portion of the surface
in the sunlight seemed to be the ruling desire of each
group. Men, considered superior human beings, were
pushing these masses to extermination in order to scale
the last bridge and hold the helm, controlling the course
of the boat. And all those who felt the overmastering
ambition for absolute command knew the same thing
, . . nothing. Not one of them could say with certainty
what lay beyond the visible horizon, nor whither the ship
was drifting. The sullen hostility of mystery surrounded
them all ; their life was precarious, necessitating inces-
sant care in order to maintam it, yet in spite of that, the
crew for ages and ages, had never known an instant of
agreement, of team work, of clear reason. Periodically
half of them would clash with the other half. They
killed each other that they might enslave the vanquished
on the rolling deck floating over the abyss ; they fought
that they might cast their victims from the vessel, filling
its wake with cadavers. And from the demented throng
there were still springing up gloomy sophistries to prove
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 279
^at a state of war was the perfect state, that it ought
to go on forever, that it was a bad dream on the part of
the crew to wish to regard each other as brothers with a
common destiny, enveloped in the same unsteady envi-
ronment of mystery. . . . Ah, human misery !
JuHo was drawn out of these pessimistic reflections by
the childish glee which many of the convalescents were
evincing. Some were Mussulmans, sharpshooters from
Algeria and Morocco. In Lourdes, as they might be any-
where, they were interested only in the gifts which the
people were showering upon them with patriotic affec-
tion. They all surveyed with indifference the basilica
inhabited by ''the white lady," their only preoccupation
being to beg for cigars and sweets.
Finding themselves regaled by the dominant race, they
became greatly puffed up, daring everything like mis-
chievous children. What pleased them most was the fact
that the ladles would take them by the hand. Blessed
war that permitted them to approach and touch these
white women, perfumed and smiling as they appeared in
their dreams of the paradise of the blest! "Lady . . .
Lady," they would sigh, looking at them with dark,
sparkling eyes. And not content with the hand, their
dark paws would venture the length of the entire arm
while the ladies laughed at this tremulous adoration.
Others would go through the crowds, offering their right
hand to all the women. "We touch hands." . . . And
then they would go away satisfied after receiving the
hand clasp.
Desnoyers wandered a long time around the basilica
where, in the shadow of the trees, were long rows of
wheeled chairs occupied by the wounded. Officers and
soldiers rested many hours in the blue shade, watching
their comrades who were able to use their legs. The
sacred grotto was resplendent with the lights from hun-
28o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
dreds of candles. Devout crowds were kneeling in the
open air, fixing their eyes in supplication on the sacred
stones whilst their thoughts were flying far away to the
fields of battle, making their petitions with that confi-
dence in divinity which accompanies every distress.
Among the kneeling mass were many soldiers with
bandaged heads, kepis in hand and tearful eyes.
Up and down the double staircase of the basilica were
flitting women, clad in white, w^ith spotless headdresses
that fluttered in such a way that they appeared like flying
doves. These were the nurses and Sisters of Charity
guiding the steps of the injured. Desnoyers thought he
recognized Marguerite in every one of them, but the
prompt disillusion following each of these discoveries
soon made him doubtful about the outcome of his jour-
ney. She was not in Lourdes, either. He would never
find her in that France so immeasurably expanded by the
war that it had converted every town into a hospital.
His afternoon explorations were no more successful.
The employees listened to his interrogations with a dis-
traught air. He could come back again ; just now they
were taken up with the announcement that another hos-
pital train was on the way. The great battle was still
going on near Paris. They had to improvise lodgings
for the new consignment of mutilated humanity. In
order to pass away the time until his return, Desnoyers
went back to the garden near the grotto. He was plan-
ning to return to Pau that night; there was evidently
nothing more to do at Lourdes. In what direction should
he now continue his search ?
Suddenly he felt a thrill down his back — the same
indefinable sensation which used to warn him of her
presence when they were meeting in the gardens of Paris.
Marguerite was going to present herself unexpectedly
as in the old days without his knowing from exactly
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 281
what spot — as though she came up out of the earth or
descended from the clouds.
After a second's thought he smiled bitterly. Mere
tricks of his desire! Illusions! . . . Upon turning his
head he recognized the falsity of his hope. Nobody was
following his footsteps; he was the only being going
down the center of the avenue. Near him, in the diapha-
nous white of a guardian angel, was a nurse. Poor blind
man ! . . . Desnoyers was passing on when a quick move-
ment on the part of the white-clad woman, an evident
desire to escape notice, to hide her face by looking at the
plants, attracted his attention. He was slow in recogniz-
ing her. Two little ringlets escaping from the band of
her cap made him guess the hidden head of hair; the feet
shod in white were the signs which enabled him to recon-
struct the person somewhat disfigured by the severe
uniform. Her face was pale and sad. There wasn't a
trace left in it of the old vanities that used to give it its
childish, doll-like beauty. In the depths of those great,
dark-circled eyes life seemed to be reflected in new
forms. . . . Marguerite!
They stared at one another for a long while, as though
hypnotized with surprise. She looked alarmed when Des-
noyers advanced a step toward her. No . . . No ! Her
eyes, her hands, her entire body seemed to protest, to
repel his approach, to hold him motionless. Fear that he
might come near her, made her go toward him. She said
a few words to the soldier who remained on the bench,
receiving across the bandage on his face a ray of sunlight
which he did not appear to feel. Then she rose, going
to meet Julio, and continued forward, indicating by a
gesture that they must find some place further on where
the wounded man could not hear them.
She led the way to a side path from which she could
see the blind man confided to her care. They stood
282 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
motionless, face to face. Desnoyers wished to say many
things; many . . . but he hesitated, not knowing how to
frame his complaints, his pleadings, his endearments.
Far above all these thoughts towered one, fatal, dominant
and wrathful.
"Who is that man?"
The spiteful accent, the harsh voice with which he said
these words surprised him as though they came from
someone else's mouth.
The nurse looked at him with her great limpid eyes,
eyes that seemed forever freed from contractions of sur-
prise or fear. Her response slipped from her with equal
directness.
'Tt is Laurier. ... It is my husband."
Laurier! . . . Julio looked doubtfully and for a long
time at the soldier before he could be convinced. That
blind officer motionless on the bench, that figure of heroic
grief, was Laurier! ... At first glance, he appeared
prematurely old with roughened and bronzed skin so fur-
rowed with lines that they converged like rays around all
the openings of his face. His hair was beginning to
whiten on the temples and in the beard which covered
his cheeks. He had lived twenty years in that one month.
... At the same time he appeared younger, with a youth-
fulness that was radiating an inward vigor, with the
strength of a soul which has suffered the most violent
emotions and, firm and serene in the satisfaction of duty
fulfilled, can no longer know fear.
As Desnoyers contemplated him, he felt both admira-
tion and jealousy. He was ashamed to admit the aversion
inspired by the wounded man, so sorely wounded that he
was unable to see what was going on around him. His
hatred was a form of cowardice, terrifying in its persist-
ence. How pensive were Marguerite's eyes if she took
them off her patient for a few seconds! . . . She had
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 283
ever looked at him in that way. He knew all the amor-
ous gradations of her glance, but her fixed gaze at this
injured man was something entirely different, something
that he had never seen before.
He spoke with the fury of a lover v^^ho discovers an
infidelity.
"And for this thing you have run away without warn-
ing, without a word ! . . . You have abandoned me in
order to go in search of him. . . . Tell me, why did you
come? . . . Why did you come?" . . .
"I came because it was my duty."
Then she spoke like a mother who takes advantage of
a parenthesis of surprise in an irascible child's temper,
in order to counsel self-control, and explained how it had
all happened. She had received the news of Laurier's
wounding just as she and her mother were preparing to
leave Paris. She had not hesitated an instant; her duty
was to hasten to the aid of this man. She had been doing
a great deal of thinking in the last few weeks; the war
had made her ponder much on the values in life. Her
eyes had been getting glimpses of new horizons; our
destiny is not mere pleasure and selfish satisfaction; v/e
ought to take our part in pain and sacrifice.
She had wanted to work for her country, to share the
general stress, to serve as other women did; and since
she was disposed to devote herself to strangers, was it
not natural that she should prefer to help this man whom
she had so greatly wronged? . . . There still lived in her
memory the moment in which she had seen him approach
the station, completely alone among so many who had
the consolation of loving arms when departing in search
of death. Her pity had become still more acute on hear-
ing of his misfortune. A shell had exploded near him,
killing all those around him. Of his many wounds, the
only serious one was that on his face. He had completely
284 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
lost the sight of one eye; and the doctors were keeping
the other bound up hoping to save it. But she was very-
doubtful about it; she was almost sure that Laurier
would be blind.
Marguerite's voice trembled when saying this as if she
were going to cry, although her eyes were tearless. They
did not now feel the irresistible necessity for tears.
Weeping had become something superfluous, like many
other luxuries of peaceful days. Her eyes had seen so
much in so few days ! . . .
"How you love him !" exclaimed Julio.
Fearing that they might be overheard and in order to
keep him at a distance, she had been speaking as though
to a friend. But her lover's sadness broke down her
reserve.
"No, I love you. ... I shall always love you."
The simplicity with which she said this and her sudden
tenderness of tone revived Desnoyers' hopes.
"And the other one ?'' he asked anxiously.
Upon receiving her reply, it seemed to him as though
something had just passed across the sun, veiling its light
temporarily. It was as though a cloud had drifted over
the land and over his thoughts, enveloping them in an
unbearable chill.
"I love him, too."
She said it with a look that seemed to implore pardon,
with the sad sincerity of one who has given up lying and
weeps in foreseeing the injury that the truth must inflict.
He felt his hard wrath suddenly dwindling like a
crumbling mountain. Ah, Marguerite! His voice was
tremulous and despairing. Could it be possible that
everything between these two was going to end thu3
simply ? Were her former vows mere jies ? . . . They
had been attracted to each other by an irresistible affinity
in order to be together forever, to be one. . . . And now,
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 285
suddenly hardened by indifference, were they to drift
apart like two unfriendly bodies? . . . What did this
absurdity about loving him at the same time that she
loved her former husband mean, anyway?
Marguerite hung her head, murmuring desperately :
"You are a man, I am a woman. You would never
understand me, no matter what I might say. Men are
wot able to comprehend certain of our mysteries. ... A
woman would be better able to appreciate the com-
plexity."
Desnoyers felt that he must know his fate in all its
cruelty. She might speak without fear. He felt strong
enough to bear the blow. . . . What had Laurier said
when he found that he was being so tenderly cared for
by Marguerite? . . .
''He does not know who I am. . . „ He believes me to
be a war-nurse, like the rest, who pities him seeing him
alone and blind with no relatives to write to him or visit
him. ... At certain times, I have almost suspected that
he guesses the truth. My voice, the touch of my hands
made him shiver at first, as though with an unpleasant
sensation. I have told him that I am a Belgian lady who
has lost her loved ones and is alone in the world. He
has told me his life story very sketchily, as if he desired
to forget a hated past. . . . Never one disagreeable word
about his former wife. There are nights when I think
that he knows me, that he takes advantage of his blind-
ness in order to prolong his feigned ignorance, and that
distresses me. I long for him to recover his sight, for the
doctors to save that doubtful eye — and yet at the same
time I feel afraid. What will he say when he recognizes
me ? . . . But, no ; it is better that he should see, no matter
what may result. You cannot understand my anxiety^
you cannot know what I am suffering."
286 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOTALYPSB.
She was silent for an instant, trying to regain her self-
control, again tortured with the agony of her soul,
"Oh, the war!" she resumed. "What changes in our
life ! Two months ago, my present situation would have
appeared impossible, unimaginable. ... I caring for my
husband, fearing that he would discover my identity and
leave me, yet at the same time, wishing that he would
recognize me and pardon me. ... It is only one week
that I have been with him. I disguise my voice when I
can, and avoid words that may reveal the truth . . . but
this cannot keep up much longer. It is only in novels
that such painful situations turn out happily."
Doubt suddenly overwhelmed her.
*T believe," she continued, "that he has recognized me
from the first. . . . He is silent and feigns ignorance be-
cause he despises me . . . because he can never bring
himself to pardon me. I have been so bad! ... I have
wronged him so !" . . .
She was recalling the long and reflective silences of
the wounded man after she had dropped some imprudent
words. After two days of submission to her care, he had
been somewhat rebellious, avoiding going out with her
for a walk. Because of his blind helplessness, and com-
prehending the uselessness of his resistancCr he had finally
yielded in passive silence.
"Let him think what he will !" concluded Marguerite
courageously. "Let him despise me ! I am here where I
ought to be. I need his forgiveness, but if he does not
pardon me, I shall stay with him just the same. . . .
There are moments when I wish that he may never
recover his sight, so that he may always need me, so that
I may pass my life at his side, sacrificing everything for
him."
"And I ?" said Desnoyers.
Marguerite looked at him with clouded eyes as though
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 287
phe were just awaking. It was true — and the other one ?
. . . Kindled by the proposed sacrifice which was to be
her expiation, she had forgotten the man before her.
"You !" she said after a long pause. "You must leave
me. . . . Life is not what we have thought it. Had it not
been for the war, we might, perhaps, have realized our
dream, but now! . . . Listen carefully and try to under-
stand. For the remainder of my life, I shall carry the
heaviest burden, and yet at the same time it will be sweet,
since the more it weighs me down the greater will my
atonement be. Never will I leave this man whom I have
so grievously wronged, now that he is more alone in the
world and will need protection like a child. Why do you
come to share my fate ? How could it be possible for you
to live with a nurse constantly at the side of a blind and
worthy man whom we would constantly offend with our
passion? . . . No, it is better for us to part Go your
way, alone and untrammelled. Leave me ; yuu will meet
other women who will make you more happy than I.
Yours is the temperament that finds new pleasures at
every step."
She stood firmly to her decision. Her voice was calm,
but back of it trembled the emotion of <* last farewell to
a joy which was going from her forever. The man
would be loved by others . . . and she was giving him
up! . . . But the noble sadness of the sacrifice restored
her courage. Only by this renunciation could she expiate
her sins.
Julio dropped his eyes, vanquished and perplexed. The
picture of the future outlined by Marguerite terrified
him. To live with her as a nurse takmg advantage of her
patient's blindness would be to offer him fresh insult
every day. . . . Ah, no ! That would be villainy, indeed I
He was now ashamed to recall the malignity with which,
a little while before, he had regarded this innocent unfor-
288 FOUR TiORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
tunate. He realized that he was powerless to contend
with him. Weak and helpless as he was sitting there on
the garden bench, he was stronger and more deserving of
respect than Julio Desnoyers with all his youth and
elegance. The victim had amounted to something in his
life ; he had done what Julio had not dared to do.
This sudden conviction of his inferiority made him cry
out like an abandoned child, "What will become of
me?" . . .
Marguerite, too — contemplating the love which was
^oing from her forever, her vanished hopes, the future
illumined by the satisfaction of duty fulfilled but monot-
<)nous and painful — cried out :
"And I. . . . What will become of me?" . . .
As though he had suddenly found a solution which
was reviving his courage, Desnoyers said :
"Listen, Marguerite; I can read your soul. You love
this man, and you do well. He is superior to me, and
women are always attracted by superiority. ... I am a
coward. Yes, do not protest, I am a coward with all my
youth, with all my strength. Why should you not have
been impressed by the conduct of this man! . . . But I
will atone for past wrongs. This country is yours. Mar-
guerite; I will fight for it. Do not say no. . . ."
And moved by his hasty heroism, he outlined the plan
more definitely. He was going to be a soldier. Soon she
would hear him well spoken of. His idea was either to
be stretched on the battlefield in his first encounter, or to
astound the world by his bravery. In this way the impos-
sible situation would settle itself — either the oblivion of
death or glory.
"No, no !" interrupted Marguerite in an anguished
tone. "You, no! One is enough. . . . How horrible!
You, too, wounded, mutilated forever, perhaps dead ! . . .
No, you must live- I want you to live, even thousji you
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 289
might belong to another. . . . Let me know that you
exist, let me see you sometimes, even though you may
have forgotten me, even though you may pass me with
indifference, as if you did not know me."
In this outburst her deep love for him rang true — her
heroic and inflexible love which would accept all penalties
for herself, if only the beloved one might continue to live.
But then, in order that Julio might not feel any false
hopes, she added : —
''Live ; you must not die ; that would be for me another
torment. . . . But live without me. No matter how much
we may talk about it, my destiny beside the other one is
marked out forever."
**Ah, how you love him ! . , . How you have deceived
me!"
In a last desperate attempt at explanation she again
repeated what she had said at the beginning ot their
interview. She loved Julio . . . and she loved her hus-
band. They were different kinds of love. She could not
say which was the stronger, but misfortune was forcing
her to choose between the two, and she was accepting the
most difficult, the one demanding the greatest sacrifices.
'*You are a man, and you will never be able to under-
stand me. ... A woman would comprehend me."
It seemed to Julio, as he looked around him, as though
the afternoon were undergoing some celestial phenom-
enon. The garden was still illuminated by the sun, but
the green of the trees, the yellow of the ground, the blue
of the sky, all appeared to him as dark and shadowy as
though a rain of ashes were falling.
*'Then ... all is over between us?"
His pleading, trembling voice charged with tears made
her turn her head to hide her emotion. Then in the pain-
ful silence the two despairs formed one and the same
question, as if interrogating the shades of the future:
290 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"What will become of me ?" murmured the man. And like
an echo her lips repeated, ''What will become of me?"
All had been said. Hopeless words came between the
two like an obstacle momentarily increasing in size, im-
pelling them in opposite directions. Why prolong the
painful interview ? . . . Marguerite showed the ready and
energetic decision of a woman who wishes to bring a
scene to a close. ''Good-bye !" Her face had assumed a
yellowish cast, her pupils had become dull and clouded
like the glass of a lantern when the light dies out.
"Good-bye !" She must go to her patient.
She went away without looking at him, and Desnoyers
instinctively went in the opposite direction. As he be-
came more self-controlled and turned to look at her
again, he saw her moving on and giving her arm to the
blind man, without once turning her head.
He now felt convinced that he should never see her
again, and became oppressed by an almost suffocating
agony. And could two beings, who had formerly con-
sidered the universe concentrated in their persons, thus
easily be separated forever? . . .
His desperation at finding himself alone made him
accuse himself of stupidity. Now his thoughts came
tumxbling over each other in a tumultuous throng, and
each one of them seemed to him sufficient to have con-
vinced Marguerite. He certainly had not known how
to express himself. He would have to talk with her
again . . . and he decided to remain in Lourdes.
He passed a night of torture in the hotel, listening to
the ripple of the river among its stones. Insomnia had
him in his fierce jaws, gnawing him with interminable
agony. He turned on the light several times, but was not
able to read. His eyes looked with stupid fixity at the
patterns of the wall paper and the pious pictures around
the room which had evidently served as the lodging place
NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 291
of some rich traveller. He remained motionless and as
abstracted as an Oriental who thinks himself into an
absolute lack of thought. One idea only was dancing in
the vacuum in his skull — "I shall never see her again. . . .
Can such a thing be possible?"
He drowsed for a few seconds, only to be awakened
with the sensation that some horrible explosion was send-
ing him through the air. And so, with sweats of anguish,
he wakefully passed the hours tmtil in the gloom of his
room the dawn showed a milky rectangle of light, and
began to be reflected on the window curtains.
The velvet-like caress of day finally closed his eyes.
Upon awaking he found that the morning was well ad-
vanced, and he hurried to the garden of the grotto. . . .
Oh, the hours of tremulous and unavailing waiting, be-
lieving that he recognized Marguerite in every white-clad
lady that came along, guiding a wounded patient !
By afternoon, after a lunch whose dishes filed past him
untouched, he returned to the garden in search of her.
Beholding her in the distance with the blind man leaning
on her arm, a feeling of faintness came over him. She
looked to him taller, thinner, her face sharper, with two
dark hollows in her cheeks and her eyes bright with fever,
the lids drawn with weariness. He suspected that she,
too, had passed an anguished night of tenacious, self-
centred thought, of grievous stupefaction like his own, in
the room of her hotel. Suddenly he felt all the weight
of insomnia and listlessness, all the depressing emotion of
the cruel sensations experienced in the last few hours.
Oh, how miserable they both were ! . . .
She was walking warily, looking from one side to the
other, as though foreseeing danger. Upon discovering
him she clung to her charge, casting upon her former
lover a look of entreaty, of desperation, imploring pity.
. . . Ay, that look !
292 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
He felt ashamed of himself; his personality appeared
to be unrolling itself before him, and he surveyed himself
with the eyes of a judge. What was this seduced and
useless man, called Julio Desnoyers, doing there, tor-
menting with his presence a poor woman, trying to turn
her from her righteous repentance, insisting on his selfish
and petty desires when all humanity was thinking of
other things? . . . His cowardice angered him. Like a
thief taking advantage of the sleep of his victim, he was
stalking around this brave and true man who could not
see him, who could not defend himself, in order to rob
him of the only affection that he had in the world which
had so miraculously returned to him ! Very well. Gentle-
man Desnoyers ! . . . Ah, what a scoundrel he was !
Such subconscious insults made him draw himself
erect, in haughty, cruel and inexorable defiance against
that other I who so richly deserved the judge's scorn.
He turned his head away; he could not meet Mar-
guerite's piteous eyes; he feared their mute reproach.
Neither did he dare to look at the blind man in his shabby
and heroic uniform, with his countenance aged by duty
and glory. He feared him like remorse.
So the vanquished lover turned his back on the two
and went away with a firm step. Good-bye, Love!
Good-bye, Happiness! . . . He marched quickly and
bravely on; a miracle had just taken place within him!
He had found the right road at last!
To Paris! ... A new impetus was going to fill the
vacuum of his objectless existence.
CHAPTER V
THE INVASION
Don Marcelo was fleeing to take refuge in his castle
when he met the mayor of Villeblanche. The noise of
the firing had made him hurry to the barricade. When
he learned of the apparition of the group of stragglers he
threw up his hands in despair. They were crazy. Their
resistance was going to be fatal for the village, and he
ran on to beg them to cease.
For some time nothing happened to disturb the morn-
ing calm. Desnoyers had climbed to the top of his towers
and was surveying the country with his field glasses. He
couldn't make out the highway through the nearest group
of trees, but he suspected that underneath their branches
great activity was going on — masses of men on guard,
troops preparing for the attack. The unexpected defense
of the fugitives had upset the advance of the invasion.
Desnoyers thought despairingly of that handful of mad
fellows and their stubborn chief. What was their fate
going to be? . . .
Focussing his glasses on the village, he saw the red
spots of kepis waving like poppies over the green of the
meadows. They were the retreating men, now convinced
of the uselessness of their resistance. Perhaps they had
found a ford or forgotten boat by which they might cross
the Marne, and so were continuing their retreat toward
the river. At any minute now the Germans were going
to enter Villeblanche.
Half an hour of profound silence passed by. The vil-
293
294 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
lage lay silhouetted against a background of hills — a mass
of roofs beneath the church tower finished with its cross
and iron weather cock. Everything seemed as rr^nqtiil
■as in the best days of peace. Suddenly he noticea that
the grove was vomiting forth something noisy and pene-
trating— a bubble of vapor accompanied by a deafening
report. Something was hurtling through the air with a
strident curve. Then a roof In the village opened like a
crater, vomiting forth flying wood, fragments of plaster
and broken furniture. All the Interior of the house
seemed to be escaping in a stream of smoke, dirt and
splinters.
The invaders were bombarding Vllleblanche before
attempting attack, as though fearing to encounter per-
sistent resistance In its streets. More projectiles fell.
Some passed over the houses, exploding between the
hamlet and the castle. The towers of the Desnoyers
property were beginning to attract the aim of the artil-
lerymen. The owner was therefore about to abandon his
dangerous observatory when he saw something white like
a tablecloth or sheet floating from the church tower,
His neighbors had hoisted this signal of peace in order
to avoid bombardment. A few more missiles fell and
then there was silence.
When Don Marcelo reached his park he found the
Warden burying at the foot of a tree the sporting rifles
still remaining In his castle. Then he went toward the
great iron gates. The enemies were going to come, and
he had to receive them. While uneasily awaiting their
arrival his compunctions again tormented him. What was
he doing there? Why had he remained? . . . But his
obstinate temperament Immediately put aside the prompt^
ings of fear. He was there because he had to guard hl.s
own. Besides, It was too late now to think about sucb
things.
THE INVASION 295
Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by a sound
iike the deafening tearing of strong cloth. *'Shots, Mas-
ter," said the Warden. "Firing! It must be in the
square."
A few minutes after they saw running toward them a
woman from the village, an old soul, dried up and dark-
ened by age, who was panting from her great exertion,
and looking wildly around her. She was fleeing blindly,
trying to escape from danger and shut out horrible
visions. Desnoyers and the Keeper's family listened to
her explanations interrupted with hiccoughs of terror.
The Germans were in Villeblanche. They had entered
first in an automobile driven at full speed from one end
of the village to the other. Its mitrailleuse was firing at
random against closed houses and open doors, knocking
down all the people in sight. The old woman flung up
her arms with a gesture of terror. . . . Dead . . . many
dead . . . wounded . . . blood! Then other iron-plated
vehicles had stopped in the square, and behind them
cavalrymen, battalions of infantry, many battalions com-
ing from everywhere. The helmeted men seemed furi-
ous; they accused the villagers of having fired at them.
In the square they had struck the mayor and villagers
who had come forward to meet them. The priest, bend-
ing over some of the dying, had also been trodden under
foot. ... All prisoners! The Germans were talking of
shooting them.
The old dame's words were cut short by the rumble of
approaching automobiles.
"Open the gates," commanded the owner to the
Warden.
The massive iron grill work swung open, and was
never again closed. All property rights were at an end.
An enormous automobile, covered with dust and filled
with men, stopped at the entrance. Behind them sounded
296 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the horns of other vehicles that were putting on the
brakes. Desnoyers saw soldiers leaping out, all wearing
the greenish-gray uniform with a sheath of the same tone
covering the pointed casque. The one who marched at
their head put his revolver to the millionaire's forehead.
"Where are the sharpshooters?" he asked.
He was pale with the pallor of wrath, vengeance and
fear. His face was trembling under the influence of his
triple emotion. Don Marcelo explained slowly, contem-
plating at a short distance from his eyes the black circle
of the threatening tube. He had not seen any sharp-
shooters. The only inhabitants of the castle were the
Warden with his family and himself, the owner of the
castle.
The officer surveyed the edifice aud then examined Des-
noyers with evident astonishment as though he thought
his appearance too unpretentious for a proprietor. He
had taken him for a simple employee, and his respect for
social rank made him lower his revolver.
He did not, however, alter his haughty attitude. He
pressed Don Marcelo into the service as a guide, making
him search ahead of him while forty soldiers grouped
themselves at his back. They advanced in two files to
the shelter of the trees which bordered the central avenue,
with their guns ready to shoot, and looking uneasily at
the castle windows as though expecting to receive from
them hidden shots. Desnoyers marched tranquilly
through the centre, and the official, who had been imitat-
ing the precautions of his men, finally joined him when
he was crossing the drawbridge.
The armed men scattered through the rooms in search
of the enemy. They ran their bayonets through beds and
divans. Some, with automatic destructiyeness, slit the
draperies and the rich bed coverings. The owner pro-
tested; what was the sense in such useless destruction I
THE INVASION 297
. . . He was suffering unbearable torture at seeing the
enormous boots spotting the rugs with mud, on hearing
the clash of guns and knapsacks against the most fragile,
choicest pieces of furniture. Poor historic mansion ! . . .
The officer looked amazed that he should protest for
such trifling cause, but he gave orders in German and his
men ceased their rude explorations. Then, in justifica-
tion of this extraordinary respect, he added in French:
"I believe that you are going to have the honor of
entertaining here the general of our division."
The certainty that the castle did not hold any hidden
enemies made him more amiable. He, nevertheless, per-
sisted in his wrath against the sharpshooters. A group of
the villagers had opened fire upon the Uhlans when they
were entering unsuspiciously after the retreat of the
French.
Desnoyers felt it necessary to protest. They were
neither inhabitants nor sharpshooters ; they were French
soldiers. He took good care to be silent about their pres-
ence at the barricade, but he insisted that he had dis-
tinguished their uniforms from a tower of the castle.
The official made a threatening face.
"You, too? . . . You, who appear a reasonable man,
can repeat such yarns as these?" And in order to close
the conversation, he said, arrogantly : *'They were wear-
ing uniforms, then, if you persist in saying so, but they
were sharpshooters just the same. The French Govern-
ment has distributed arms and uniforms among the
farmers that they may assassinate us. . . . Belgium did
the same thing. . . . But we know their tricks, and we
know how to punish them, too!"
The village was going to be burned. It was necessary
to avenge the four German dead lying on the outskirts of
Villeblanche, near the barricade. The mayor, the priest?
the principal inhabitants would all be shot.
298 FOUR HOxRSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
By the time they reached the top floor Desnoyers could
see floating above the boughs of his park dark clouds
whose outlines were reddened by the sun. The top of
the bell tower was the only thing that he could distinguish
at that distance. Around the iron weathercock were
flying long thin fringes like black cobwebs lifted by the
breeze. An odor of burning wood came toward the
castle.
The German greeted this spectacle with a cruel smile.
Then on descending to the park, he ordered Desnoyers to
follow him. His liberty and his dignity had come to an
end. Henceforth he was going to be an underling at the
beck and call of these men who would dispose of him as
their whims directed. Ay, why had he remained? . . .
He obeyed, climbing into an automobile beside the officer,
who was still carrying his revolver in his right hand. His
men distributed themselves through the castle and out-
buildings, in order to prevent the flight of an imaginary
enemy. The Warden and his family seemed to be saying
good-bye to him with their eyes. Perhaps they were tak-
ing him to his death. . , .
Beyond the castle woods a new world was coming into
existence. The short cut to Villeblanche seemed to Des-
noyers a leap of millions of leagues, a fall into a red
planet where men and things were covered with the film
of smoke and the glare of fire. He saw the village under
a dark canopy spotted with sparks and glowing embers.
The bell tower was burning like an enormous torch ; the
roof of the church was breaking into flames with a crash-
ing fury. The glare of the holocaust seemed to shrivel
and grow pale in the impassive light of the sun.
Running across the fields with the haste of desperation
were shrieking women and children. The animals had
escaped from the stables, and driven forth by the flamei
were racing wildly across the country. The cow and the
THE INVASION 299
work horse were dragging their halters broken by their
flight. Their flanks were smoking and smelt of burnt
hair. The pigs, the sheep and the chickens were all tear-
ing along mingled with the cats and the dogs. All the
domestic animals were returning to a brute existence,
fleeing from civilized man. Shots were heard and hellish
ha-ha's. The soldiers outside of the village were making
themselves merry in this hunt for fugitives. Their guns
were aimed at beasts and were hitting people.
Desnoyers saw men, many men, men everywhere.
They were like gray ants, marching in endless files to-
wards the South, coming out from the woods, filling the
roads, crossing the fields. The green of vegetation was
disappearing under their tread ; the dust was rising in
spirals behind the dull roll of the cannons and the meas-
ured trot of thousands of horses. On the roadside sev-
eral battalions had halted, with their accompaniment of
vehicles and draw horses. They were resting before
renewing their march. He knew this army. He had seen
it in Berlin on parade, and yet it seemed to have changed
its former appearance. There now remained very little
of the heavy and imposing glitter, of the mute and vain-
glorious haughtiness which had made his relatives-in-Iaw
weep with admiration. War, with its realism, had wiped
out all that was theatrical about this formidable organiza-
tion of death. The soldiers appeared dirty and tired out.
The respiration of fat and sweaty bodies, mixed with the
strong smell of leather, floated over the regiments. All
the men had hungry faces.
For days and nights they had been following the heels
of an enemy which was always just eluding their grasp.
In this forced advance the provisions of the administra-
tion would often arrive so late at the cantonments that
they could depend only on what they happened to have in
their knapsacks. Desnoyers saw them lined up near the
300 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
road devouring hunks of black bread and mouldy sau-
sages. Some had scattered through the fields to dig up
beet roots and other tubers, chewing with loud crunchings
the hard pulp to which the grit still adhered. An ensign
was shaking the fruit trees using as a catch-all the flag
of his regiment. That glorious standard, adorned with
souvenirs of 1870, was serving as a receptacle for green
plums. Those who were seated on the ground were im-
proving this rest by drawing their perspiring, swollen feet
from high boots which were sending out an insufferable
smell.
The regiments of infantry which Desnoyers had seen
in Berlin reflecting the light on metal and leather straps,
the magnificent and terrifying Hussars, the Cuirassiers in
pure white uniform like the paladins of the Holy Grail,
the artillerymen with breasts crossed with white bands,
all the military variations that on parade had drav/n forth
the Hartrotts' sighs of admiration — these were now all
unified and mixed together, of uniform color, all in
greenish mustard like the dusty lizards that, slipping
along, try to be confounded with the earth.
The persistency of the iron discipline was easily dis-
cernible. A word from the chiefs, the sound of a whistle,
and they all grouped themselves together, the human
being disappearing in the throngs of automatons; but
danger, weariness, and the uncertainty of triumph had
for the time being brought officers and men nearer to-
gether, obliterating caste distinction. The officers were
coming part way out of their overbearing, haughty seclu-
sion, and were condescending to talk with the lower
orders so as to revive their courage. One effort more
and they would overwhelm both French and English,
repeating the triumph of Sedan, whose anniversary they
were going to celebrate in a few days ! They were going
to enter Paris; it was only a matter of a week. Paris?
THE INVASION 30I
Great shops filled with luxurious things, famous res-
taurants, women, champagne, money. . . . And the men,
flattered that their commanders were stooping to chat
with them, forgot fatigue and hunger, reviving like the
throngs of the Crusade before the image of Jerusalem.
"Nach Paris!" The joyous shout circulated from the
head to the tail of the marching columns. "To Paris !
To Paris !'*...
The scarcity of their food supply was here supple-
mented by the products of a country rich in wines.
When sacking houses they rarely found eatables, but
mvariably a wine cellar. The humble German, the per-
petual beer drinker, who had always looked upon wine as
a privilege of the rich, could now open up casks with
blows from his weapons, even bathing his feet in the
stream of precious liquid. Every battalion left as a
souvenir of its passing a wake of empty bottles ; a halt in
camp sowed the land with glass cylinders. The regi-
mental trucks, unable to renew their stores of provisions,
were accustomed to seize the wine in all the towns. The
soldier, lacking bread, would receive alcohol. . . .
This donation was always accompanied by the good
counsels of the officers — war is war; no pity toward our
adversaries who do not deserve it. The French were
shooting their prisoners, and their women were putting
out the eyes of the wounded. Every dwelling was a den
of traps. The simple-hearted and innocent German enter-
ing therein was going to certain death. The beds were
made over subterranean caves, the wardrobes were make-
believe doors, in every corner was lurking an assassin.
This traitorous nation, which was arranging its ground
like the scenario of a melodrama, would have to be chas-
tised. The municipal officers, the priests, the school-
masters were directing and protecting the sharpshooters.
Desnoyers was shocked at the indifference with which
302 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
these men were stalking around the burning village.
They did not appear to see the fire and destruction; it
was just an ordinary spectacle not worth looking at,
Ever since they had crossed the frontier, smoldering and
blasted villages, fired by the advance guard, had marked
their halting places on Belgian and French soil.
When entering Villeblanche the automobile had to lower
its speed. Burned walls were bulging out over the street
and half-charred beams were obstructing the way, oblig-
ing the vehicle to zigzag through the smoking rubbish.
The vacant lots were burning like fire pans between the
houses still standing, with doors broken, but not yet in
flames. Desnoyers saw within these rectangular spaces
partly burned wood, chairs, beds, sewing machines, iron
stoves, all the household goods of the well-to-do country-
man, being consumed or twisted into shapeless masses.
Sometimes he would spy an arm sticking out of the ruins,
beginning to burn like a long wax candle. No, it could
not be possible . . . and then the smell of cooking flesh
began to mingle with that of the soot, wood and plaster.
He closed his eyes, not able to look any longer. He
thought for a moment he must be dreaming. It was un-
believable that such horrors could take place in less than
an hour. Human wickedness at its worst he had sup-
posed incapable of changing the aspect of a village in
such a short time.
An abrupt stoppage of the motor made him look
around involuntarily. This time the obstruction was the
dead bodies in the street — two men and a woman. They
had probably fallen under the rain of bullets from the
machine gun which had passed through the town preced-
ing the invasion. Some soldiers were seated a little
beyond them, with their backs to the victims, as though
Ignoring their presence. The chauffeur yelled to them to
THE INVASION 303
clear the track; with their guns and feet they pushed
aside the bodies still warm, at every turn leaving a trail
of blood. The space was hardly opened before the
vehicle shot through ... a thud, a leap — the back wheels
had evidently crushed some very fragile obstacle.
Desnoyers was still huddled in his seat, benumbed and
with closed eyes. The horror around himi made him
think of his own fate. Whither was this lieutenant tak-
ing him? . . .
He soon saw the town hall flaming in the square; the
church was now nothing but a stone shell, bristling with
flames. The houses of the prosperous villagers had had
their doors and windows chopped out by axe-blows.
Within them soldiers were moving about methodically.
They entered empty-handed and came out loaded with
furniture and clothing. Others, in the upper stories, were
flinging out various objects, accompanying their trophies
with jests and guffaws. Suddenly they had to come out
flying, for fire was breaking out with the violence and
rapidity of an explosion. Following their footsteps was
a group of men with big boxes and metal cylinders.
Someone at their head was pointing out the buildings
into whose broken windows were to be thrown the
lozenges and liquid streams which would produce catas-
trophe with lightning rapidity.
Out of one of these flaming buildings two men, who
seemed but bundles of rags, were being dragged by some
Germans. Above the blue sleeves of their military cloaks
Don Marcelo could distinguish blanched faces and eyes
immeasurably distended with suffering. Their legs were
dragging on the ground, sticking out between the tatters
of their red pantaloons. One of them still had on his
kepis. Blood was gushing from different parts of their
bodies and behind them, like white serpents, were trailing
their loosened bandages. They were wounded French-
304 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
men, stragglers who had remained in the village because
too weak to keep up with the retreat. Perhaps they had
joined the group which, finding its escape cut off, had
attempted that insane resistance.
Wishing to make that matter more clearly understood,
Desnoyers looked at the official beside him, attempting to
speak; but the officer silenced him instantly: "French
sharpshooters in disguise who are going to get the pun-
ishment they deserve." The German bayonets were sunk
deep into their bodies. Then blows with the guns fell on
the head of one of them . . . and these blows were
repeated with dull thumps upon their skulls, crackling as
they burst open.
Again the old man wondered what his fate would be.
Where was this lieutenant taking him across such visions
of horror? . . .
They had reached the outskirts of the village, where
the dragoons had built their barricade. The carts were
still there, but at one side of the road. They climbed out
of the automobile, and he saw a group of officers in gray,
with sheathed helmets like the others. The one who had
brought him to this place was standing rigidly erect with
one hand to his visor, speaking to a military man stand-
ing a few paces in front of the others. He looked at this
man, who was scrutinizing him with his little hard blue
eyes that had carved his spare, furrowed countenance
with lines. He must be the general. His arrogant and
piercing gaze was sweeping him from head to foot. Don
Marcelo felt a presentiment that his life was hanging on
this examination; should an evil suggestion, a cruel
caprice flash across this brain, he was surely lost. The
general shrugged his shoulders and said a few words in
a contemptuous tone, then entered his automobile with
two of his aids, and the group disbanded.
The cruel uncertainty, the interminable moments be-
THE INVASION 305
fore the official returned to his side, filled Desnoyers
with dread.
*'His Excellency is very gracious," announced the lieu-
tenant. *'He might have shot you, but he pardons ycu
. . . and yet you people say that we are savages !" . . .
With involuntary contempt, he further explained that
he had conducted him thither fully expecting that he
would be shot. The General was planning to punish all
the prominent residents of Villeblanche, and he had
inferred, on his own initiative, that the owner of the
castle must be one of them.
"MiHtary duty, sir. . . . War exacts it."
After this excuse the petty official renewed his eulogies
of His Excellency. He was going to make his head-
quarters in Don Marcelo's property, and on that account
granted him his life. He ought to thank him. . . . Then
again his face trembled with wrath. He pointed to some
bodies lying near the road. They were the coi*pses of
Uhlans, covered with some cloaks from which were pro-
truding the enormous soles of their boots.
"Plain murder!" he exclaimed. "A crime for which
the guilty are going to pay dearly !"
His indignation made him consider the death of four
soldiers as an unheard-of and monstrous outrage — as
though in war only the enemy ought to fall, keeping safe
and sound the lives of his compatriots.
A band of infantry commanded by an officer ap-
proached. As their ranks opened, Desnoyers saw the
gray uniforms roughly pushing forward some of the
inhabitants. Their clothes were torn and some had blood
on face and hands. He recognized them one by one as
they were lined up against the mud wall, at twenty paces
from the firing squad of soldiers — the mayor, the priest,
the forest guard, and some rich villagers whose houses he
had seen falling in flames.
3o6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE'
"They are going to shoot them ... in order to prevent
any doubt about it," the lieutenant explained. "I wanted
you to see this. It will serve as an object lesson. In this
way, you will feel more appreciative of the leniency of
His Excellency."
The prisoners were mute. Their voices had been ex-
hausted in vain protest. All their life was concentrated
in their eyes, looking around them in stupefaction. . . ,
And was it possible that they would kill them in cold
blood without hearing their testimony, without admitting
the proofs of their innocence!
The certainty of approaching death soon gave almost
all of them a noble serenity. It was useless to complain.
Only one rich countryman, famous for his avarice, was
whimpering desperately, saying over and over, "I do not
wish to die. ... I do not want to die !"
Trembling and with eyes overflowing with tears, Des-
noyers hid himself behind his implacable guide. He
knew them all, he had battled with them all, and repented
now of his former wrangling. The mayor had a red stain
on his forehad from a long skin wound. Upon his breast
fluttered a tattered tricolor; the municipality had placed
it there that he might receive the invaders who had torn
most of it away. The priest was holding his little round
body as erect as possible, wishing to embrace in a look
of resignation the victims, the executioners, earth and
heaven. He appeared larger than usual and more impos-
ing. His black girdle, broken by the roughness of the
soldiers, left his cassock loose and floating. His waving,
silvery hair v/as dripping blood, spotting with its red
drops the white clerical collar.
Upon seeing him cross the fatal field with unsteady
step, because of his obesity, a savage roar cut the tragic
silence. The unarmed soldiers, who had hastened to
witness the execution, greeted the venerable old maa
THE INVASION 307
with shouts of laughter. ''Death to the priest !" . . . The
fanaticism of the reUgious wars vibrated through their
mockery. Almost all of them were devout Catholics or
fervent Protestants, but they believed only in the priests
of their own country. Outside of Germany, everything
was despicable — even their own religion.
The mayor and the priest changed their places in the
file, seeking one another. Each, with solemn courtesy,
was offering the other the central place in the group.
"Here, your Honor, is your place as mayor — at the
head of all."
''No, after you. Monsieur le cure."
They were disputing for the last time, but in this
supreme moment each one was wishing to yield
precedence to the other.
Instinctively they had clasped hands, looking straight
ahead at the firing squad, that had lowered its guns in a
rigid, horizontal line. Behind them sounded laments —
"Good-bye, my children. . . . Adieu, life! . . . I do not
wish to die ! . . . I do not want to die !" . . .
The two principal men felt the necessity of saying
something, of closing the page of their existence with an
affirmation.
"Vive la Repuhlique!" cried the mayor.
"Vive la France!" said the priest.
Desnoyers thought that both had said the same thing.
Two uprights flashed up above their heads — the arm of
the priest making the sign of the cross, and the sabre of
the commander of the shooters, glistening at the same
instant. ... A dry, dull thunderclap, followed by some
scattering, tardy shots.
Don Marcelo's compassion for that forlorn cluster o£
massacred humanity was intensified on beholding the
grotesque forms which many assumed in the moment of
death. Some collapsed like half-emptied sacks; others
3o8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
rebounded from the ground like balls; some leaped like
gymnasts, with upraised arms, falling on their backs, or
face downward, like a swimmer. In that human heap,
he saw limbs writhing in the agony of death. Some sol-
diers advanced like hunters bagging their prey. From
the palpitating mass fluttered locks of white hair, and a
feeble hand, trying to repeat the sacred sign. A few
more shots and blows on the livid, mangled mass . . .
and the last tremors of life were extinguished forever.
The officer had lit a cigar.
"Whenever you wish," he said to Desnoyers with iron-
ical courtesy.
They re-entered the automobile in order to return to
the castle by the way of Villeblanche. The increasing
number of fires and the dead bodies in the streets no
longer impressed the old man. He had seen so muchl
What could now affect his sensibilities? . . . He was
longing to get out of the village as soon as possible to
try to find the peace of the country. But the country
had disappeared under the invasion — soldiers, horses,
cannons everywhere. Wherever they stopped to rest,
they were destroying all that they came in contact with.
The marching battalions, noisy and automatic as a
machine were preceded by the fifes and drums, and every
now and then, in order to cheer their drooping spirits,
were breaking into their joyous cry, ^'Nach Paris!"
The castle, too, had been disfigured by the invasion.
The number of guards had greatly increased during the
owner's absence. He saw an entire regiment of infantry
encamped in the park. Thousands of men were moving
about under the trees, preparing the dinner in the mov-
able kitchens. The flower borders of the gardens, the
exotic plants, the carefully swept and gravelled avenues
were all broken and spoiled by this avalanche of men,
beasts and vehicles.
THE INVASION 309
A chief wearing on his sleeve the band of the military
administration was giving orders as though he were the
proprietor. He did not even condescend to look at this
civilian walking beside the lieutenant with the downcast
look of a prisont^r. The stables were vacant. Desnoyers
saw his last animals being driven off with sticks by the
helmeted shepherds. The costly progenitors of his herds
were all beheaded in the park like mere slaughter-house
animals. In the chicken houses and dovecotes, there was
not a single bird left. The stables were filled with thin
horses who were gorging themselves before overflowing
mangers. The feed from the barns was being lavishly
distributed through the avenue, much of it lost before it
could be used. The cavalry horses of various divisions
were turned loose in the meadows, destroying with their
hoofs the canals, the edges of the slopes, the level of the
ground, all the work of many months. The dry wood
was uselessly burning in the park. Through carelessness
or mischief, someone had set the wood piles on fire. The
trees, with the bark dried by the summer heat, were
crackling on being licked by the flame.
The building was likewise occupied by a multitude of
men under this same superintendent. The open windows
showed a continual shifting through the rooms. Des-
noyers heard great blows that re-echoed within his
breast. Ay, his historic mansion ! . . . The General was
going to establish himself in it, after having examined
on the banks of the Marne, the works of the pontoon
Guilders, who had been constructing several military
bridges for the troops. Don Marcelo's outraged sense of
ownership forced him to speak. He feared that they
would break the doors of the locked rooms — he would
like to go for the keys in order to give them up to tho.se
in charge. The commissary would not listen to him but
310 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
continued ignoring his existence. The lieutenant repHed
with cutting amiabihty :
*Tt is not necessary; do not trouble yourself!''
After this considerate remark, he started to rejoin his
regiment but deemed it prudent before losing sight of
Desnoyers to give him a little advice. He must remain
quietly at the castle ; outside, he might be taken for a spy,
and he already knew how promptly the soldiers of the
Emperor settled all such little matters.
He could not remain in the garden looking at his
dwelling from any distance, becatise the Germans who
were going and coming were diverting themselves by
playing practical jokes upon him. They would march
toward him in a straight line, as though they did not see
him, and he would have to hurry out of their way to
avoid being thrown down by their mechanical and rigid
advance.
Finally he sought refuge in the lodge of the Keeper,
whose good wife stared with astonishment at seeing him
drop into a kitchen chair breathless and downcast, sud-
denly aged by losing the remarkable energy that had been
the wonder of his advanced years.
"Ah, Master. . . . Poor Master !"
Of all the events attending the invasion, the most un-
believable for this poor woman was seeing her employer
take refuge in her cottage.
''What is ever going to become of us !" she groaned.
Her husband was in constant demand by the invaders.
His Excellency's assistants, installed in the basement
apartments of the castle, were incessantly calling him to
tell them the whereabouts of things which they could not
find. From every trip, he would return humiliated, his
eyes filled with tears. On his forehead was the black and
blue mark of a blow, and his jacket was badly torn.
These were souvenirs of a futile attempt at opposition,
THE INVASION 311
iur'mg his master's absence, to the German plundering of
stables and castle rooms.
The millionaire felt himself linked by misfortune to
jKese people, considered until then with indifference. He
was very grateful for the loyalty of this sick and humble
man, and the poor woman's interest in the castle as
though it were her own, touched him greatly. The pres-
ence of their daughter brought Chichi to his mind. He
had passed near her without noting the transformation
in her, seeing her just the same as when, with her little
dog trot, she had accompanied the Master's daughter on
her rounds through the parks and grounds. Now she
was a woman, slender and full grown, with the first
feminine graces showing subtly in her fourteen-year-old
figure. Her mother would not let her leave the lodge,
fearing the soldiery which was invading every other spot
with its overflowing current, filtering into all open places,
breaking every obstacle which impeded their course.
Desnoyers broke his despairing silence to admit that he
was feeling hungry. He was ashamed of this bodily
want, but the emotions of the day, the executions seen so
near, the danger still threatening, had awakened in him a
nervous appetite. The fact that he was so impotent in
the midst of his riches and unable to avail himself of
anything on his estate but aggravated his necessity.
''Poor Master !" again exclaimed the faithful soul.
And the woman looked with astonishment at the mil-
lionaire devouring a bit of bread and a triangle of cheese,
the only food that she could find in her humble dwelling.
The certainty that he would not be able to find any other
nourishment, no matter how much he might seek it,
greatly sharpened his cravings. To have acquired an
enormous fortune only to perish with hunger at the end
of his existence ! . . . The good wife, as though guessing
his thoughts, sighed, raising her eyes beseechingly in
312 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCaL.VPSE
heaven. Since the early morning hours, the world had
completely changed its course. Ay, this war ! . . .
The rest of the afternoon and a part of the night, ihe
proprietor kept receiving news from the Keeper after his
visits to the castle. The General and numerous officers
were now occupying the rooms. Not a single door was
locked, all having been opened with blows of the axe or
gun. Many things had completely disappeared ; the man
did not know exactly how, but they had vanished — per-
haps destroyed, or perhaps carried off by those who were
coming and going. The chief with the banded sleeve
was going from room to room examining everything^
dictating in German to <. soldier who was writing down
his orders. Meanwhile the General and his staff were
in the dining room drinking heavily, consulting the maps
spread out on the floor, and ordering the Warden to go
down into the vaults for the very best wines.
By nightfall, an onward movement was noticeable in
the human tide that had been overflowing the fields as far
as the eye could reach. Some bridges had been con-
structed across the Marne and the invasion had renewed
its march, shouting enthusiastically. "Nich Paris!"
Those left behind till the following day were to live in
the ruined houses or the open air. Desnoyers heard
songs. Under the splendor of the evening stars, the
soldiers had grouped themselves in musical knots, chant-
ing a sweet and solemn chorus of religious gravity.
Above the trees was floating a red cloud, intensified by
the dusk — a reflection of the still burning village. Afar
off were bonfires of farms and homesteads, twinkling in
the night with their blood-colored lights.
The bewildered proprietor of the castle finally fell
asleep in a bed in the lodge, made mercifully unconscious
by the heavy and stupefying slumber of exhaustion, with-
out fright nor nightmare. He seemed to be falling,
THE INVASION 313
falling into a bottomless pit, and on awaking fancied
that he had slept but a few minutes. The sun was turn-
ing the window shades to an orange hue, spattered with
shadows of waving boughs and birds fluttering and
twittering among the leaves. He shared their joy in the
cool refreshing dawn of the summer day. It certainly
was a fine morning — but whose dwelling was this? . . .
He gazed dumbfounded at his bed and surroundings.
Suddenly the reality assaulted his brain that had been so
sweetly dulled by the first splendors of the day. Step by
step, the host of emotions compressed into the preceding
day, came climbing up the long stairway of his memory
to the last black and red landing of the night before.
And he had slept tranquilly surrounded by enemies, under
the surveillance of an arbitrary power which might
destroy him in one of its caprices ! . . .
When he went into the kitchen, the Warden gave him
some news. The Germans were departing. The regiment
encamped in the park had left at daybreak, and aftef
them others, and still others. In the village there was,
still one regiment occupying the few houses yet standing
and the ruins of the charred ones. The General had
gone also with his numerous staff. There was nobody in
the castle now but the head of a Reserve brigade whom
his aide called "The Count," and a few officials.
Upon receiving this information, the proprietor ven-
tured to leave the lodge. He saw his gardens destroyed,
but still beautiful. The trees were still stately in spite of
the damage done to their trunks. The birds were flying
about excitedly, rejoicing to find themselves again in
possession of the spaces so recently flooded by the human
inundation.
Suddenly Desnoyers regretted having sallied forth.
Five huge trucks were lined up near the moat before the
castle bridge. Gangs of soldiers were coming out carrvr
3J4 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ing on their shoulders enormous pieces of furniture, Uke
peons conducting a moving. A bulky object wrapped in
damask curtains — an excellent substitute for sacking —
was being pushed by four men toward one of the drays.
The owner suspected immediately what it must be. His
bath ! The famous tub of gold ! . . . Then with an abrupt
revulsion of feeling, he felt no grief at his loss. He now
detested the ostentatious thing, attributing to it a fatal
influence. On account of it he was here. But, ay! . . .
the other furnishings piled up in the drays ! . . . In that
moment he suffered the extreme agony of misery and
impotence. It was impossible for him to defend his
property, to dispute with the head thief who was sacking
his castle, tranquilly ignoring the very existence of the
owner. "Robbers ! thieves !" and he fled back to the
lodge.
He passed the remainder of the morning with his
elbow on the table, his head in his hands, the same as ths
day before, letting the hours grind slowly by, trying not
to hear the rolling of the vehicles that were bearing away
these credentials of his wealth.
Toward midday, the Keeper announced that an officer
who had arrived a few hours before in an automobile
was inquiring for him.
Responding to this summons, Desnoyers encountered
outside the lodge a captain arrayed like the others in
sheathed and pointed helmet, in mustard-colored uni-
form, red leather boots, sword, revolver, field-glasses and
geographic map hanging in a case from his belt. He
appeared young; on his sleeve was the staff emblem.
"Do you know me ? . . . I did not wish to pass through
here without seeing you."
He spoke in Castilian, and Don Marcelo felt greater
surprise at this than at the many things which he had
THE INVASION 315
been experiencing so painfully during the last twenty-
four hours.
"You really do not know me?'* queried the German,
always in Spanish. "I am Otto. . . . Captain Otto von
Hartrott."
The old man's mind went painfully down the staircase
of memory, stopping this time at a far-distant landing.
There he saw the old ranch, and his brother-in-law an-
nouncing the birth of his second son. 'T shall give him
Bismarck's name," Karl had said. Then, climbing back
past many other platforms, Desnoyers saw himself in
Berlin during his visit to the von Hartrott home where
they were speaking proudly of Otto, almost as learned as
the older brother, but devoting his talents entirely to
martial matters. He was then a lieutenant and studying
for admission to the General Staff. *'Who knows but he
may turn out to be another Moltke?" said the proud
father . . . and the charming Chichi had thereupon
promptly bestowed upon the warlike wonder a nickname,
accepted through the family. From that time Otto was
Moltkecito (the baby Moltke) to his Parisian relatives.
Desnoyers was astounded by the transformation which
had meanwhile taken place in the youth. This vigorous
captain with the insolent air who might shoot him at any
minute was the same urchin whom he had seen running
around the ranch, the beardless Moltkecito who had been
the butt of his daughter's ridicule. . . .
The soldier, meanwhile, was explaining his presence
there. He belonged to another division. There were
many . . . many ! They were advancing rapidly, forming
an extensive and solid wall from Verdun to Paris. His
general had sent him to maintain the contact with the
next division, but finding himself near the castle, he had
wished to visit it. A family tie was not a mere word.
He still remembered the days that he had spent at Ville-
316 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
blanche when the Hartrott family had paid a long visit
to their relatives in France. The officials now occupying
the edifice had detained him that he might lunch with
them. One of them had casually mentioned that the
owner of the castle was somewhere about although no-
body knew exactly where. This had been a great surprise
to Captain von Hartrott, who had tried to find him,
regretting to see him taking refuge in the Warden's
quarters.
**You must leave this hut; you are my uncle," he said
haughtily. "Return to your castle where you belong. My
comrades will be much pleased to make your acquaint-
ance; they are very distinguished men."
He very much regretted whatever the old gentleman
might have suffered. . . . He did not know exactly in
what that suffering had consisted, but surmised that the
iirst moments of the invasion had been cruel ones for him.
*'But what else can you expect?" he repeated several
times. "That is war."
At the same time he approved of his having remamed
on his property. They had special orders to seize the
goods of the fugitives. Germany wished the inhabitants
to remain in their dwellings as though nothing extraor-
dinary had occurred. . . . Desnoyers protested. . . . "But
if the invaders were shooting the innocent ones and burn-
ing their homes !" . . . His nephew prevented his saying
more. He turned pale, an ashy hue spreading over his
face; his eyes snapped and his face trembled like that
of the lieutenant who had taken possession of the castle.
"You refer to the execution of the mayor and the
others. . . . My comrades have just been telling me about
it ; yet that castigation was very mild ; they should have
completely destroyed the entire village. They should
have killed even the women and children. We've got to
put an end to these sharpshooters."
THE INVASION 317
His uncle looked at him in amazement. His Moltkecifa
was as formidable and ferocious as the others. . . . But
the captain brought the conversation to an abrupt close
by repeating the monstrous and everlasting excuse.
"Very horrible, but what else can you expect ! . . . That
is war."
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 im-
prove 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 re-
maining brothers were distinguishing themselves in the
army, one of them having been presented with a medal
at Lorraine. The two sisters, although somewhat de-
pressed 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
3i8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
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 con-
tracted with an agonizing shudder. Everywhere he could
see dreadful vacancies, which made him recall the ob-
jects which had formerly been there. Rectangular spots
of stronger color announced the theft of furniture and
paintings. With what despatch and system the gentle-
man 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 un-
scrupulous 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. Separa-
ting 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.
Thus silenced, the vanquished proprietor hung his
THE INVASION 319
head. What was he going to do? . . . The Captain
now renewed his affabihty as though he had forgotten
what he had just said. He wished to present him to his
companions-at-arms. His Excellency, Count Meinbourg,
the Major General, upon learning that he was a relative
of the von Hartrotts, had done him the honor of in-
viting him to his table.
Invited into his own demesne, he finally reached the
dining room, filled with men in mustard color and high
boots. Instinctively, he made an inventory of the room.
All in good order, nothing broken — walls, draperies and
furniture still intact ; but an appraising glance within the
sideboard again caused a clutch at his heart. Two en-
tire table services of silver, and another of old porcelain
had disappeared without leaving the most insignificant of
their pieces. He was obliged to respond gravely to the
presentations which his nephew was making, and take
the hand which the Count was extending with aristo-
cratic languor. The adversary began considering him
with benevolence, on learning that he was a millionaire
from a distant land where riches were acquired very
rapidly.
Soon he was seated as a stranger at his own table,
eating from the same dishes that his family were ac-
customed to use, served by men with shaved heads,
wearing coarse, striped aprons over their uniforms.
That which he was eating was his, the wine was from
his vaults; all that adorned the room he had bought:
the trees whose boughs were waving outside the win-
dow also belonged to him. . . . And yet he felt as
though he were in this place for the first time, with all
the discomfort and diffidence of a total stranger. He
ate because he was hungry, but the food and wines
seemed to have come from another planet.
He continued looking with consternation at those oc-
320 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
cupying* the places of his wife, children and the La-
cours. . . . They were speaking in German among
themselves, but those having a limited knowledge of
French frequently availed themselves of that language
in order that their guest might understand them. 1 hose
who could only mumble a few words, repeated them to
an accompaniment of amiable smiles. All were display-
ing an amicable desire to propitiate the owner of the
castle.
**You are going to lunch with the barbarians," said
the Count, offering him a seat at his side. "Aren't you
afraid that we may eat you alive?"
The Germans burst into roars of laughter at the wit of
His Excellency. They all took great pains to demon-
strate by word and manner that barbarity was wrongly
attributed to them by their enemies.
Don Marcelo looked from one to another. The fa-
tigues of war, especially the forced march of the last
days, were very apparent in their persons. Some were
tall and slender with an angular slimness ; others were
stocky and corpulent with short neck and head sunk
between the shoulders. These had lost much of their
fat in a month's campaign, the wrinkled and flabby
skin hanging in folds in various parts of their bodies.
All had shaved heads, the same as the soldiers. Around
the table shone two rows of cranial spheres, reddish or
dark. Their ears stood out grotesquely, and their jaw
bones were in strong relief owing to their thinness.
Some had preserved the upright moustache in the style
of the Emperor; the most of them were shaved or
had a stubbv tuft like a brush.
A golden bracelet glistened on the wrist of the Count,
stretched on the table. He was the oldest of them all
and the only one that kept his hair, of a frosty red,
carefully combed and glistening with pomade. Although
THE INVASION 321
about fifty years old, he still maintained a youthful
vigor cultivated by exercise. Wrinkled, bony and strong",
he tried to dissimulate his uncouthness as a man of
battle under a suave and indolent laziness. The officers
treated him with the greatest respect. Hartrott told
his uncle that the Count was a great artist, musician and
poet. The Emperor was his friend; they had known
each other from boyhood. Before the war, certain scan-
dals concerning his private life had exiled him from
Court — mere lampoons of the socialists and scandal-
mongers. The Kaiser had always kept a secret affec-
tion for his former chum. Everybody remembered his
dance, ''The Caprices of Scheherazade," represented with
the greatest luxury in Berlin through the endorsement of
his powerful friend, William II. The Count had lived
many years in the Orient. In fact, he was a great
gentleman and an artist of exquisite sensibility as well as
a soldier.
Since Desnoyers was now his guest, the Count could
not permit him to remain silent, so he made an opportu-
nity of bringing him into the conversation.
''Did you see any of the insurrections? . . . Did the
troops have to kill many people? How about the assas-
sination of Poincare? . . .
He asked these questions in quick succession and Don
Marcelo, bewildered by their absurdity, did not know
how to reply. He believed that he must have fallen in
with a feast of fools. Then he suspected that they were
making fun of him. Uprisings? Assassinations of the
President? . . . Some gazed at him with pity because
of his ignorance, others with suspicion, believing that
he was merely pretending not to know of these events
which had happened so near him.
His nephew insisted, "The daily papers in Germany
have been full of accounts of these matters. Fifteen
322 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
days ago, the people of Paris revolted against the Gov-
ernment, bombarding the Palais de VElysee, and assassi-
nating the President. The army had to resort to the
machine guns before order could be restored. . . .
Everybody knows that."
But Desnoyers insisted that he did not know it, that
nobody had seen such things. And as his words were
received in an atmosphere of malicious doubt, he pre-,
ferred to be silent. His Excellency, superior spirit, in-
capable of being associated with the popular credulity,
here intervened to set matters straight. The report of
the assassination was, perhaps, not certain; the German
periodicals might have unconsciously exaggerated it.
Just a few hours ago, the General of the Staff had told
him of the flight of the French Government to Bordeaux,
and the statement about the revolution in Paris and the
firing of the French troops was indisputable. "The
gentlemen has seen it all without doubt, but does not
wish to admit it." Desnoyers felt obliged to contradict
this lordling, but his negative was not even listened to.
Paris ! This name made all eyes glisten and every-
body talkative. As soon as possible they wished to reach
the Eiffel Tower, to enter victorious into the city, to
receive their recompense for the privations and fatigues
of a month's campaign. They were devotees of military
glory, they considered war necessary to existence, and
yet they were bewailing the hardship that it was imposing
upon them. The Count exhaled the plaint of the crafts-
master.
"Oh, the havoc that this war has brought in my plans !'*
he sighed. "This winter they were going to bring out
my dance in Paris !"
They all protested at his sadness; his work would
lurely be presented after the triumph, and the French
would have to recognize it.
THE INVASION 323
"It will not be the same thing," complained the Count.
"I confess that I adore Paris. . . . What a pity that
these people have never wished to be on familiar terms
with us !" . . . And he relapsed into the silence of the
vinappreciated man.
Desnoyers suddenly recognized in one of the officers
who was talking, with eyes bulging with covetousness,
of the riches of Paris, the Chief Thief with the band on
his arm. He it was who so methodically had sacked
the castle. As though divining the old Frenchman's
thought, the commissary began excusing him.self.
"It is war, monsieur. . . ."
The same as the others ! . . . War had to be paid with
the treasures of the conquered. That was the new
German system; the healthy return to the wars of
ancient days; tributes imposed on the cities, and each
house sacked separately. In this way, the enemy's re-
sistance would be more effectually overcome and the war
soon brought to a close. He ought not to be down-
cast over the appropriations, for his furnishings and
ornaments would all be sold in Germany. After the
French defeat, he could place a remonstrance claim with
his government, petitioning it to indemnify his loss;
his relatives in Berlin would support his demand.
Desnoyers listened in consternation to his counsels.
What kind of mentality had these men, anyway? Were
they insane, or were they trying to have some fun at
his expense? . . .
When the lunch was at last ended, the officers arose
and adjusted their swords for service. Captain von
Hartrott rose, too ; it was necessary for him to return
to his general ; he had already dedicated too much time
to family expansion. His uncle accompanied him to the
automobile where Moltkecito once more justified the ruin
and plunder of the castle.
324 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"It is war. . . . We have to be very ruthless that it
may not last long. True kindness consists in being cruel,
because then the terror-stricken enemy gives in sooner,
and so the world suffers less."
Don Marcelo shrugged his shoulders before this soph-
istry. In the doorway, the captain gave some orders to
a soldier who soon returned with a bit of chalk which
had been used to number the lodging places. Von Hart-
rott wished to protect his uncle and began tracing on the
wall near the door: — "Bitte, nicht plilndern. Es sind
freundliche Leute"
In response to the old man's repeated questions, he
then translated the inscription. 'It means, Tlease do
not sack this house. Its occupants are kind people . . .
friendly people.' "
Ah, no ! . . . Desnoyers repelled this protection vehe-
mently. He did not wish to be kind. He was silent
because he could not be anything else. . . . But a friend
of the invaders of his country! . . . No, NO, NO!
His nephew rubbed out part of the lettering, leaving
the first words, "Bitte, nicht pliindem." Then he re-
peated the scrawled request at the entrance of the park.
He thought this notice advisable because His Excellency
might go away and other officials might be installed in
the castle. Von Hartrott had seen much and his smile
seemed to imply that nothing could surprise him, no mat-
ter how outrageous it might be. But his relative con-
tinued scorning his protection, and laughing bitterly at
the impromptu signboard. What more could they carry
off? . . . Had they not already stolen the best?
"Good-bye, uncle ! Soon we shall meet in Paris."
And the captain climbed into his automobile, ex-
tending a soft, cold hand that seemed to repel the old
man with its flabbiness.
Upon returning to his castle, he saw a table and some
THE INVASION 325'
chairs in the shadow of a group of trees. His Excel-
lency was taking his coffee in the open air, and obliged
him to take a seat beside him. Only three officers were
keeping him company. . . . There was here a grand
consumption of liquors from his wine cellars. They
«vere talking together in German, and for an hour Don
Marcelo remained there, anxious to go but never find-
ing the opportune moment to leave his seat and disap-
pear.
He employed his time in imagining the great stir
among the troops hidden by the trees. Another divi-
sion of the army was passing by with the incessant deaf-
ening roar of the sea. An inexplicable phenomenon kept
the luminous calm of the afternoon in a continuous state
of vibration. A constant thundering sounded afar off as
though an invisible storm were always approaching from
beyond the blue horizon line.
The Count, noticing his evident interest in the noise,
interrupted his German chat to explain.
"It is the cannon. A battle is going on. Soon we
shall join in the dance."
The possibility of having to give up his quarters here,
the most comfortable that he had found in all the cam-
paign, put His Excellency in a bad humor.
"War," he sighed, "a glorious life, but dirty and dead-
ening! In an entire month — to-day is the first that I
have lived as a gentleman."
And as though attracted by the luxuries that he might
shortly have to abandon, he rose and went toward the
castle. Two of the Germans betook themselves toward
the village, and Desnoyers remained with the other offi-
cer who was delightfully sampling his Hquors. He waa
the chief of the battalion encamped in the village.
"This is a sad war, Monsieur!" he said in French.
Of all the inimical group, this man was the only om
•326 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
for whom Don Marcelo felt a vague attraction. "Al-
though a German, he appears a good sort," meditated
the old man, eyeing him carefully. In times of peace,
he must have been stout, but now he showed the loose and
flaccid exterior of one who has just lost much in weight.
Desnoyers surmised that the man had formerly lived
in tranquil and vulgar sensuousness, in a middle-class
happiness suddenly cut short by war.
"What a life, Monsieur!" the officer rambled on.
*'May God punish well those who have provoked this
catastrophe !"
The Frenchman was almost affected. This man rep-
resented the Germany that he had many times imagined,
a sweet and tranquil Germany composed of burghers,
a little heavy and slow perhaps, but atoning for their
natural uncouthness by an innocent and poetic senti-
mentalism. This Blumhardt whom his companions
called Bataillon-Kommandeur, was undoubtedly the good
father of a large family. He fancied him walking with
his wife and children under the lindens of a provincial
square, all listening with religious unction to the melodies
played by a military band. Then he saw him in the beer
gardens with his friends, discussing metaphysical prob-
lems between business conversations. He was a man
from old Germany, a character from a romance by
Goethe. Perhaps the glory of the Empire had modified
his existence, and instead of going to the beer gardens,
he was now accustomed to frequent the officers' casino,
while his family maintained a separate existence — sepa-
rated from the civilians by the superciliousness of mili-
tary caste ; but at heart, he was always the good German,
ready to weep copiously before an affecting family scene
or a fragment of good music.
Commandant Blumhardt, meanwhile, was thinking of
his family living in Cassel.
THE INVASION 327
**There are eight children, Monsieur," he said with a
visible effort to control emotion. 'The two eldest are
preparing to become officers. The youngest is starting
school this year. . . . He is just so high."
And with his right hand he measured off the child's
diminutive stature. H^. trembled with laughter and
grief at recalling the litt!e chap. Then he broke forth
into eulogies about his wife — excellent manager of the
home, a mother who was always modestly sacrificing
nerself 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 Frau^
leine 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 coun-
try! .. .
**Sad war!'* he again said. "May God punish the
English !"
With a solicitude that Don Marcelo greatly appre-
ciated, 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
328 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
witty sprite, and expressing great sympathy on learning
that thft only son was causing his parents great sorrovtf
by his conduct.
Tender-hearted Commandant! . . . He was the first
rational ?nd human being that he had met in this hell
of an invasion. "There are good people everywhere,"
he told hirMself. He hoped that this new acquaintance
would not t^ 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 pres-
ence 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 carpt-t and the window frames of curtains. Only the
pieces of furniture broken in the first moments now oc-
cupied their former places. The sleeping rooms had
been stripped more methodically, everything having been
taken that was not required for immediate use. Be-
cause the General with his suite had been lodging there
the night before, this apartment had escaped the arbi-
trary 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 Hart-
rott — 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.
*T myself prefer to sleep here,'* he added condescend-
ingly. "This other habitation accords better with my
tastes."
THE INVASION 329
While saying this, he was entering- Doiia Luisa's
rooms, admiring its Louis Quinze furniture of genuine
value, with its dull golds and tapestries mellowed by
time. It was one of the most successful purchases that
Don Marcelo had made. The Count smiled with an
artist's scorn as he recalled the man who had superin-
tended the official sacking.
*'What an ass! . . . To think that he left this be-
hind, supposing that it was old and ugly !"
Then he looked the owner of the castle squarely in
tke face.
"Monsieur Desnoyers, I do not believe that I am com-
mitting any indiscretion, and even imagine that I am
interpreting your desires when I inform you that I in-
tend taking this set of furniture with me. It will serve
as a souvenir of our acquaintance, a testimony to the
friendship springing up between us. ... If it remains
here, it will run the risk of being destroyed. Warriors,
of course, are not obliged to be artists. I will guard
these excellent treasures in Germany where you may see
them whenever you wish. We are all going to be one
nation, you know. . . . My friend, the Emperor, is soon
to be proclaimed sovereign of the French."
Desnoyers remained silent. How could he reply to
that look of cruel irony, to the grimace with which the
noble lord was underscoring his words? . . .
"When the war is ended, I will send you a gift from
Berlin," he added in a patronizing tone.
The old collector could say nothing to that either. He
was looking at the vacant spots which many small pic-
tures had left on the walls, paintings by famous masters
of the XVIII century. The banded brigand must also
have passed these by as too insignificant to carry off,
but the smirk illuminating the Count's face revealed
their ultimate destination.
330 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
He had carefully scrutinized the entire apartment^*
the adjoining bedroom, Chichi's the bathroom, even the
feminine robe-room of the family, which still con-
tained some of the daughter's gowns. The warrior
fondled with delight the fine silky folds of the materials,
gloating over their cool softness.
This contact made him think of Paris, of the fashions,
of the establishments of the great modistes. The rue
de la Paix was the spot which he most admired in his
visits to the enemy's city.
Don Marcelo noticed the strong mixture of perfumes
which came from his hair, his moustache, his entire
body. Various little jars from the dressing table were
on the mantel.
"What a filthy thing war is!" exclaimed the German.
"This morning I was at last able to take a bath after a
week's abstinence ; at noon I shall take another. By the
way, my dear sir, these perfumes are good, but they are
not elegant. When I have the pleasure of being pre-
sented to the ladies, I shall give them the addresses of
my source of supply. ... I use in my home essences
from Turkey. I have many friends there. ... At
the close of the war, I will send a consignment to the
family."
While speaking the Count's eyes had been fixed upon
some photographs upon the table. Examining the por-
trait of Madame Desnoyers, he guessed that she must be
Dona Luisa. He smiled before the bewitchingly mis-
chievous face of Mademoiselle Chichi. Very enchanting;
he specially admired her militant, boyish expression ; but
he scrutinized the photograph of Julio with special
interest.
"Splendid type of youth," he murmured. "An intei'
esting head, and artistic, too. He would create a great
sensation in a fancy-dress ball. What a Persian prince
THE INVASION 331
he would make! ... A white aigrette on his head,
fastened with a great jewel, the breast bared, a black
tunic with golden birds. . . ."
And he continued seeing in his mind's eye the heir of
the Desnoyers arrayed in all the gorgeous raiment of
an Oriental monarch. The proud father, because of
the interest which his son was inspiring, began to feel
a glimmer of sympathy with the man. A pity that he
should select so unerringly and appropriate the choicest
things in the castle! . . .
Near the head of the bed, Don Marcelo saw lying
upon a book of devotions forgotten by his wife, a medal-
lion containing another photograph. It did not belong
to his family, and the Count, following the direction of
his eyes, wished to show it to him. The hands of this
son of Mars trembled. . . . His disdainful haughtiness
had suddenly disappeared. An official of the Hussars of
Death was smiling from the case ; his sharp profile with
a beak curved like a bird of prey, was surmounted by
a cap adorned with skull and cross-bones.
*'My best friend," said the Count in tremulous tones.
"The being that I love most in all the world. . . . And
to think that at this moment he may be fighting, and they
may kill him ! . . . To think that I, too, may die !"
Desnoyers believed that he must be getting a glimpse
into a romance of the nobleman's past. That Huasar
was undoubtedly his natural son. His simplicity of mind
could not conceive of anything else. Only a father's
tenderness could so express itself . . . and he was almost
touched by this tenderness.
Here the interview came to an end, the warrior turn-
ing his back as he left the room in order to hide his
emotion. A few minutes after was heard on the floor
below the sound of a grand piano which the Commissary
bad not been able to carry off, owing to the general's
332 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE'
interposition. His voice was soon heard above the
chords that he was playing. It was rather a lifeless
baritone, but he managed to impart an impassioned
tremolo to his romance. The listening old man was now
really affected ; he did not understand the words, but the
tears came into his eyes. He thought of his family, of
the sorrows and dangers about them and of the diffi-
culties surrounding his return to them. . . As though
under the spell of the melody, little by little, he descended
the stairs. What an artist's soul that haughty scoffer
had! ... At first sight, the Germans with their rough
exterior and their discipline which made them commit
the greatest atrocities, gave one a wrong impression.
One had to live intimately with them to appreciate their
true worth.
By the time the music had ceased, he had reached the
castle bridge. A sub-officer was watching the graceful
movements of the swans gliding double over the waters
of the moat. He was a young Doctor of Laws who
just now was serving as secretary to His Excellency —
a university man mobilized by the war.
On speaking with Don Marcelo, he immediately re-
vealed his academic training. The order for departure
had surprised the professor in a private institute; he
was just about to be married and all his plans had been
upset.
''What a calamity, sir! . . . What an overturning for
the world! . . . Yet many of us have foreseen that this
catastrophe simply had to come. We have felt strongly
that it might break out any day. Capital, accursed
Capital is to blame."
The speaker was a Socialist. He did not hesitate
to admit his co-operation in certain acts of his party
that had brought persecutions and set-backs to his career.
But the Social-Democracy was now being accepted by
THE INVASION 333
the Emperor and flattered by the most reactionary
Junkers. All were now one. The deputies of his party
were forming in the Reichstag the group most obedient
to the government. . . . The only belief that it retained
from its former creed was its anathematization of Cap-
ital— responsible for the war.
Desnoyers ventured to disagree with this enemy who
appeared of an amiable and tolerant character. *'Did he
not think that the real responsibility rested with German
militarism ? Had it not sought and prepared this conflict,
by its arrogance preventing any settlement?"
The Socialist denied this roundly. His deputies were
supporting the war and, therefore, must have good rea-
son. Everything that he said showed an absolute sub-
mission to discipline — the eternal German discipline,
blind and obedient, which was dominating even the most
advanced parties. In vain the Frenchman repeated argu-
ments and facts which everybody had read from the
beginning of the war. His words simply slid over the
calloused brains of this revolutionist, accustomed to
delegating all his reasoning functions to others.
"Who can tell?" he finally said. "Perhaps we have
made a mistake. But just at this moment all is confused;
the premises which would enable us to draw exact con-
clusions are lacking. When the conflict ends, we shall
know the truly guilty parties, and if they are ours we
shall throw the responsibility upon them."
Desnoyers could hardly keep from laughing at his
simplicity. To wait till the end of the war to know who
was to blame! . . . And if the Empire should come out
conqueror, what responsibility could the Socialists exact
in the full pride of victory, they who always confined
themselves to electoral battles, without the slightest
attempt at rebellion?
"Whatever the cause may be," concluded the Socialist,
334 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"this war is very sad. How many dead! ... I was at
Charleroi. One has to see modern warfare close by. . . .
We shall conquer; we are going to enter Paris, so they
say, but many of our men must fall before obtaining the
final victory.'*
And as though wishing to put these visions of death,
out of his mind, he resumed his diversion of watching
the swans, offering them bits of bread so as to make
them swing around in their slow and majestic course.
The Keeper and his family were continually crossing
and recrossing the bridge. Seeing their master on such
friendly terms with the invaders, they had lost some of
the fear which had kept them shut up in their cottage.
To the woman it seemed but natural that Don Marcelo's
authority should be recognized by these people ; the mas-
ter is always the master. And as though she had received
a part of this authority, she was entering the castle fear-
lessly, followed by her daughter, in order to put in order
her masters' sleeping room. They had decided to pass
the night in rooms near his, that he might not feel so
lonely among the Germans.
The two women were carrying bedding and mattresses
from the lodge to the top floor. The Keeper was occupied
in heating a second bath for His Excellency while his
wife was bemoaning with gestures of despair the sacking
of the castle. How many exquisite things had dis-
appeared ! . . . Desirous of saving the remainder, she
besought her master to make complaints, as though he
could prevent the individual and stealthy robberies. The
orderlies and followers of the Count were pocketing
everything they could lay their hands on, saying smilingly
that they were souvenirs. Later on the woman ap-
proached Desnoyers with a mysterious air to impart a new
revelation. She had seen a head officer force open the
chiffoniers where her mistress was accustomed to Veep
THE INVASION 335
her lingerie, and he was making up a package of the
finest pieces, including a great quantity of blonde lace.
"That's the one, Master," she said soon after, pointing
to a German who was writing in the garden, where an
oblique ray of sunlight was filtering through the branches
upon his table.
Don Marcelo recognized him with surprise. Com-
mandant Blumhardt, too! . . . But immediately he ex-
cused the act. He supposed it was only natural that
this official should want to take something away from the
castle, since the Count had set the example. Besides, he
took into account the quality of the objects which he
was appropriating. They were not for himself; they
were for the wife, for the daughters. ... A good father
of his family! For more than an hour now, he had
been sitting before that table writing incessantly, con-
versing, pen in hand, with his Augusta and all the family
in Cassel. Better that this good man should carry off
his stuff than those other domineering officers with
cutting voices and insolent stiffness.
Desnoyers noticed, too, that the writer raised his head
every time that Georgette, the Warden's daughter, passed
by, following itr 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 hor-
336 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
rors of war. Decidedly this one enemy was a good man,
anyway.
Because of his conclusion, the millionaire smiled indul-
gently 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 in-
visible tempest kept on thundering beyond the serene
twilight horizon. Each time the cannonading was more
intense.
*The battle," continued Blumhardt. "Always a bat-
tle! .. . 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 under-
stand that to-morrow we shall not be here. All the
Reserves are to combine with the attack so as to over-
come 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 respon-
sible 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 INVASION 337
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 coun-
try 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 Ger-
mans 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 sur-
rounded by four children all covered with black grime as
though coming from a coal mine.
The woman was pleading desperately, raising her
hands appealingly, her sobs interrupting her story which
she was uselessly trying to tell the soldiers, incapable of
understanding her. The petty officer convoying the band
spoke In German with the Commandant while the woman
besought the intervention of Desnoyers. When she
recognized the owner of the castle, she suddenly regained
her serenity, believing that he could intercede for her.
That husky young boy was her son. They had all been
hiding since the day before in the cellar of their burned
house. Hunger and the danger of death from asphyxia-
tion had forced them finally to venture forth. As soon
as the Germans had seen her son, they had beaten him
and were going to shoot him as they were shooting all the
young men. They believed that the lad was twenty years
old, the age of a soldier, and in order that he might not
join the French army, they were going to kill him.
"It's a lie!" shrieked the mother. '*He is not more
338 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
than eighteen . . . not eighteen ... a little less — he's only
seventeen."
She turned to those who were following behind, in
order to implore their testimony — sad women, equally
dirty, their ragged garments smelling of fire, poverty and
death. All assented, adding their outcries to those of the
mother. Some even went so far as to say that the over-
grown boy was only sixteen . . . fifteen ! And to this
feminine chorus was added the wailing of the little ones
looking at their brother with eyes distended with terror.
The Commandant examined the prisoner while he
listened to the official. An employee of the township
had said carelessly that the child was about twenty, never
dreaming that with this inaccuracy he was causing his
death.
'Tt was a lie !" repeated the mother, guessing instinc-
tively what they were saying. "That man made a mis-
take. My boy is robust and, therefore, looks older than
he is, but he is not twenty. . . . The gentleman from the
castle who knows him can tell you so. Is it not so,
Monsieur Desnoyers?"
Since, in her maternal desperation, she had appealed
to his protection, Don Marcelo believed that he ought to
intervene, and so he spoke to the Commandant. He knew
this youth very well (he did not ever remember having
seen him before) and believed that he really was under
twenty.
"And even if he were of age," he added, "is that a
crime to shoot a man for?"
Blumhardt did not reply. Since he had recovered his
functions of command, he ignored absolutely Don Mar-
celo's existence. He was about to say something, to
give an order, bat hesitated. It might bei)etter to consult
His Excellency . . . and seeing that he was going toward
the castle, Desnoyers marched by his side.
THE INVASION 339
"Commandant, this cannot be," he commenced saying.
"This lacks common sense. To shoot a man on the
suspicion that he may be twenty years old !"
But the Commandant remained silent and continued on
his way. As they crossed the bridge, they heard the
sound of the piano — a good omen, Desnoyers thought.
The aesthete who had so touched him with his impas-
sioned voice, was going to say the saving word.
On entering the salon, he did not at first recognize His
Excellency. He saw a man sitting at the piano wearing
no clothing but a Japanese dressing gown — a woman's
rose-colored kimono, embroidered with golden birds, be-
longing to Chichi. At any other time, he would have
burst into roars of laughter at beholding this scrawny,
bony warrior with the cruel eyes, with his brawny
braceleted arms appearing through the loose sleeves.
After taking his bath, the Count had delayed putting on
his uniform, luxuriating in the silky contact of the
feminine tunic so like his Oriental garments in Berlin.
Blumhardt did not betray the slightest astonishment at
the aspect of his general. In the customary attitude of
military erectness, he spoke in his own language while
the Count listened with a bored air, meanwhile passing
his fingers idly over the keys.
A shaft of sunlight from a nearby window was envel-
oping the piano and musician in a halo of gold. Through/
the window, too, was wafting the poetry of the sunset — ,
the rustling of the leaves, the hushed song of the birds
and the hum of the insects whose transparent wings were
glowing like sparks in the last rays of the sun. Thfe
General, annoyed that his dreaming melancholy should
be interrupted by this inopportune visit, cut short the
Commandant's story with a gesture of command and a
word . . . one word only. He said no more. He took
two pufifs from a Turkish cigarette that was slowly
340 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
scorching the wood of the piano, and again ran his hands
over the ivory keys, catching up the broken threads of
the vague and tender improvisation inspired by the
gloaming.
''Thanks, Your Excellency," said the gratified Desnoy-
ers, surmising his magnanimous response.
The Commandant had disappeared, nor could the
Frenchman find him outside the castle. A soldier was
pacing up and down near the iron gates in order to
transmit commands, and the guards were pushing back
with blows from their guns, a screaming group of women
and tiny children. The entrance was entirely cleared!
undoubtedly the crowds were returning to the village
after the General's pardon. . . . Desnoyers was half way
down the avenue when he heard a howling sound com-
posed of many voices, a hair-raising shriek such as only
womanly desperation can send forth. At the same time,
the air was vibrating with snaps, the loud cracking sound
that he knew from the day before. Shots! . . . He
imagined that on the other side of the iron railing there
were some writhing bodies struggling to escape from
powerful arms, and others fleeing with bounds of fear.
He saw running toward him a horror-stricken, sobbing
woman with her hands to her head. It was the wife of
the Keeper who a little while before had joined the
desperate group of women.
"Oh, don't go on. Master," she called, stopping his
hurried step. ''They have killed him. . . . They have
just shot him."
Don Marcelo stood rooted to the ground. Shot! . . .
and after the General's pardon! . . . Suddenly he ran
back to the castle, hardly knov/ing what he was doing,
and soon reached the salon. His Excellency was still at
the piano, humming in low tones, his eyes moistened by
THE INVASION 341
the poesy of his dreams. But the breathless old gentle-
man did not stop to listen.
'They have shot him, Your Excellency. . . . They have
just killed him in spite of your order."
The smile which crossed the Count's face immediately
informed him of his mistake.
"That is war, my dear sir," said the player, paus-
ing for a moment. ''War with its cruel necessities. . . .
It is always expedient to destroy the enemy of to-mor-
row."
And with a pedantic air as though he were giving a
lesson, he discoursed about the Orientals, great masters
of the art of living. One of the personages most admired
by him was a certain Sultan of the Turkish conquest
who, with his own hands, had strangled the sons of the
adversary. "Our foes do not come into the world on
horseback and brandishing the lance," said that hero.
"All are born as children, and it is advisable to wipe them
from the face of the earth before they grow up."
Desnoyers listened without taking it in. One thought
only was occupying his mind. . . . That man that he had
supposed just, that sentimentalist so affected by his own
singing, had, between two arpeggios, coldly given the
order for death ! . . .
The Count made a gesture of impatience. He might
retire now, and he counselled him to be more discreet in
the future, avoiding mixing himself up in the affairs of
the service. Then he turned his back, running his hands
over the piano, and giving himself up to harmonious
melancholy.
For Don Marcelo there now began an absurd life of
the most extraordinary events, an experience which was
going to last four days. In his life history, this period
represented a long parenthesis of stupefaction, slashed
by the most horrible visions.
S42 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Not wishing to meet these men again, he abandoned
ibis own bedroom, taking refuge on the top floor in the
servants' quarters, near the room selected by the Warden
and his family. In vain the good woman kept offering
him things to eat as the night came on — he had no-
appetite. He lay stretched out on the bed, preferring to
be alone with his thoughts in the dark. When would this
martyrdom ever come to an end? , . .
There came into his mind the recollection of a trip
which he had made to London some years ago. In his
imagination he again saw the British Museum and certain
Assyrian bas-reliefs — relics of bestial humanity, which
had filled him with terror. The warriors were repre-
sented as burning the towns ; the prisoners were beheaded
in heaps ; the pacific countrymen were marching in lines
with chains on their necks, forming strings of slaves.
Until that moment he had never realized the advance
which civilization had made through the centuries. Wars
were still breaking out now and then, but they had been
regulated by the march of progress. The life of the
prisoner was now held sacred ; the captured towns must
be respected; there existed a complete code of inter-
national law to regulate how men should be killed and
nations should combat, causing the least possible harm.
. . . But now he had just seen the primitive realities of
war. The same as that of thousands of years ago! The
men w^ith the helmets were proceeding in exactly the
same way as those ferocious and perfumed satraps with
blue mitre and curled beard. The adversary was shot
although not carrying arms ; the prisoner died of shot or
blow from the gun; the civilian captives were sent in
crowds to Germany like those of other centuries. Of
what avail was all our so-called Progress? Where was
our boasted civilization? . . .
He was awakened by the light of a candle in his eye&(
THE INVASION 343
The Warden's wife had come up again to see if he
needed anything.
"Oh, what a night, Master ! . . . Just hear them yelhng
and singing! The bottles that they have emptied! . . .
They are in the dining room. You better not see them.
Now they are amusing themselves by breaking the furni-
ture. Even the Count is drunk; drunk, too, is that
Commandant that you were talking with, and all the
rest. . . „ Some of them are dancing, half-naked."
She evidently wished to keep quiet about certain de-
tails, but her love of talking got the better of her dis-
cretion. Some of the officers had dressed themselves up
in the hats and gowns of her mistress and were dancing
and shouting, imitating feminine seductiveness and
affectations. . . . One of them had been greeted with
roars of enthusiasm upon presenting himself with nc
other clothing than a ''combination" of Mademoiselle
Chichl's. Many were taking obscene delight in soiling
the rugs and filling the sideboard drawers with Inde-
scribable filth, using thp, finest linens that they could lay
their hands on.
Her master silenced her peremptorily. Why tell him
*uch vile, disgusting things? . . .
*'And we are obliged to wait on them !" wailed the
woman. *'They are beside themselves ; they appear like
different beings. The soldiers are saying that they are
going to resume their march at daybreak. There is a great
battle on, and they are going to win it ; but it is necessary
that every one of them should fight in it. . . . My poor,
sick husband just can't stand it any longer. So many
humiliations . . . and my little girl. . . . My little girl I"
The child was her greatest anxiety. She had her well
hidden away, but she was watching uneasily the goings
Uid comings of some of these men maddened with alco-
344 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
hoi. The most terrible of them all was that fat officer
who had patted Georgette so paternally.
Apprehension for her daughter's safety made her
hurry restlessly away, saying over and over:
"God has forgotten the world. . . . Ay, what is ever
going to become of us !"
Don Marcelo was now tinglingly awake. Through the
open window was blowing the clear night air. The can-
nonading was still going on, prolonging the conflict way
into the night. Below the castle the soldiers were inton-
ing a slow and melodious chant that sounded like a
psalm. From the interior of the edifice rose the whoop-
ings of brutal laughter, the crash of breaking furniture,
and the mad chase of dissolute pursuit. When would
this diabolical orgy ever wear itself down? . . . For a
long time he was not at all sleepy, but was gradually
losing consciousness of what was going on around him
when he was roused with a start. Near him, on the
same floor, a door had fallen with a crash, unable to
resist a succession of formidable batterings. This was
followed immediately by the screams of a woman, weep-
ing, desperate supplications, the noise of a struggle,
reeling steps, and the thud of bodies against the wall.
He had a presentiment that it was Georgette shrieking
and trying to defend herself. Before he could put his
feet to the floor he heard a man's voice, which he was
sure was the Keeper's; she was safe.
"Ah, you villain !" . . .
Then the outbreak of a second struggle ... a shot . . .
silence !
Rushing down the hallway that ended at the stairway
Desnoyers saw lights, and many men who came trooping
up the stairs, bounding over several steps at a time. He
almost fell over a body from which escaped a groan of
agony. At his feet lay the Warden, his chest moving like
THE INVASION 345
a pair of bellows, his eyes glassy and unnaturally dis-
tended, his mouth covered with blood. . . . Near him
glistened a kitchen knife. Then he saw a man with a
revolver in one hand, and holding shut with the other a
broken door that someone was trying to open from with-
in. Don Marcelo recognized him, in spite of his greenish
pallor and wild look. It was Blumhardt — another Blum-
hardt with a bestial expression of terrifying ferocity
and lust.
Don Marcelo could see clearly how it had all hap-
pened— the debauchee rushing through the castle in
search of his prey, the anxious father in close pursuit,
the cries of the girl, the unequal struggle between the
consumptive w4th his emergency weapon and the warrior
triumphant. The fury of his youth awoke in the old
Frenchman, sweeping everything before it. What did it
matter if he did die? . . .
"Ah, you villain !'' he yelled, as the poor father had
done.
And with clenched fists he marched up to the German,
who smiled coldly and held his revolver to his eyes. He
was just going to shoot him . . . but at that instant Des-
noyers fell to the floor, knocked down by those who were
leaping up the stairs. He received many blows, the heavy
boots of the invaders hammering him with their heels.
He felt a hot stream pouring over his face. Blood! . . .
He did not know whether it was his own or that of the
palpitating mortal slowly dying beside him. Then h^
found himself lifted from the floor by many hands whiclt
pushed him toward a man. It was His Excellency, with
his uniform burst open and smelling of wine. Eyes and
voice were both trembling.
'*My dear sir," he stuttered, trying to recover thig
suave ironv, 'T warned you not to interfere in our affairs
346 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
and you have not obeyed me. You may now take the
consequences of your lack of discretion."
He gave an order, and the old man felt himself pushed
downstairs to the cellars underneath the castle. Those
conducting him were soldiers under the command of a
petty officer whom he recognized as the Socialist. This
young professor was the only one sober, but he main-
tained himself erect and unapproachable with the ferocity
of discipline.
He put his prisoner into an arched vault without any
breathing-place except a tiny window on a level with the
floor. Many broken bottles and chests with some straw
were all that was in the cave.
"You have insulted a head officer!" said the official
roughly, "and they will probably shoot you to-morrow.
Your only salvation lies in the continuance of the revels,
in which case they may forget you."
As the door of this sub-cellar was broken, like all the
others in the building, a pile of boxes and furniture was
heaped in the entrance way.
Don Marcelo passed the rest of the night tormented
with the cold — the only thing which worried him just
then. He had abandoned all hope of life; even the
images of his family seemed blotted from his memory.
He worked in the dark in order to make himself more
comfortable on the chests, burrowing down into the
straw for the sake of its heat. When the morning breeze
began to sift in through the little window he fell slowly
into a heavy, overpowering sleep, like that of criminals
condemned to death, or duellists before the fatal morn-
ing. He thought he heard shouts in German, the gallop-
ing of horses, a distant sound of tattoo and whistle such
as the battalions of the invaders made with their fifes and
drums. . , . Then he lost all consciousness of his sur-
roundings.
THE INVASION 347
On opening his eyes again a ray of sunlight, sHpping
through the window, was tracing a little golden square on
the wall, giving a regal splendor to the hanging cobwebs.
Somebody was removing the barricade before the door.
A woman's voice, timid and distressed, was calling
repeatedly :
"Master, are you here ?"
He sprang up quickly, wishing to aid the worker out-
side, and pushing vigorously. He thought that the
invaders must have left. In no otbe- way could he
imagine the Warden's wife daring to try to get him out
of his cell.
"Yes, they have gone," she said. "Nobody is left in
the castle."
As soon as he was able to get out Don Marcelo looked
inquiringly at the woman with her bloodshot eyes, dis-
hevelled hair and sorrow-drawn face. The night had
weighed her down pitilessly with the pressure of many
years. All the energy with which she had been working
to free Desnoyers disappeared on seeing him again. "Oh,
Master . . . Master," she moaned convulsively; and she
flung herself into his arms, bursting into tears.
Don Marcelo did nnt need to ask anything further; he
dreaded to know the truth. Nevertheless, he asked after
her husband. Now that he was awake and free, he
cherished the fleeting hope that what he had gone through
the night before was but another of his nightmares.
Perhaps the poor man was still living.
"They killed him, Monsieur. That man who seemed
so good murdered him. . . . And I don't know where his
body is; nobody will tell me."
She had a suspicion that the corpse was in the fosse.
The green and tranquil waters had closed mysteriously
over this victim of the night. . . . Desnoyers suspected
that another sorrow was troubling the mother still more.
348 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
but he kept modestly silent. It was she who finally spoke>
between outbursts of grief. . . . Georgette was now in
the lodge. Horror-stricken and shuddering, she had fled
there when the invaders had left the castle. They had
kept her in their power until the last minute.
"Oh, Master, don't look at her. . . . She is trembling
and sobbing at the thought that you may speak with her
about what she has gone through. She is almost out of
her mind. She longs to die! Ay, my little girl! . . .
And is there no one who will punish these monsters?"
They had come up from the cellars and crossed the
bridge, the woman looking fixedly into the silent waters.
The dead body of a swan was floating upon them. Be-
fore their departure, while their horses were being
saddled, two officers had amused themselves by chasing
with revolver shots the birds swimming in the moat. The
aquatic plants were spotted with blood ; among the leaves
were floating some tufts of limp white plumage like a bit
of washing escaped from the hands of a laundress.
Don Marcelo and the woman exchanged a compassion-
ate glance, and then looked pityingly at each other as
the sun-light brought out more strongly their aging, wan
appearance.
The passing of these people had destroyed everything.
There was no food left in the castle except some crusts
of dry bread forgotten in the kitchen. *'And we have to
live. Monsieur !" exclaimed the woman with reviving
energy as she thought of her daughter's need. *'We have
to live, if only to see how God punishes them !" . . . The
old man shrugged his shoulders in despair; God? . . .
But the woman was right ; they had to live.
With the famished audacity of his early youth, when
he was travelling over boundless tracts of land, driving
his herds of cattle, he now rushed outside the park,
hunting for some form of sustenance. He saw the valley,
THE INVASION 349
fair and green, basking in the sun ; the groups of trees,
the plots of yellowish soil with the hard spikes of stub-
ble ; the hedges in which the birds were singing — all the
summer splendor of a countryside developed and culti-
vated during fifteen centuries by dozens and dozens of
generations. And yet — here he was alone at the mercy
of chance, likely to perish with hunger — more alone than
when he was crossing the towering heights of the Andes
— those irregular slopes of rocks and snow wrapped in
endless silence, only broken from time to time by the
flapping of the condor's wings. Nobody. . . . His gaze
could not distinguish a single movable point — everything
fixed, motionless, crystallized, as though contracted with
fear before the peals of thunder which were still rum-
bling around the horizon.
He went on toward the village — a mass of black walls
with a few houses still intact, and a roofless bell tower
with its cross twisted by fire. Nobody in the streets sown
with bottles, charred chunks of wood, and soot-covered
rubbish. The dead bodies had disappeared, but a nause-
ating smell of decomposing and burned flesh assailed his
nostrils. He saw a mound of earth where the shooting
had taken place, and from it were protruding two feet
and a hand. At his approach several black forms flew
up into the air from a trench so shallow that the bodies
within were exposed to view. A whirring of stiff wings
beat the air above him, flying off with the croakings of
wrath. He explored every nook and corner, even
approaching the place where the troopers had erected
their barricade. The carts were still by the roadside.
He then retraced his steps, calling out before the least
injured houses, and putting his head through the doors
and windows that were unobstructed or but half con-
sumed. Was nobody left in Villeblanche ? . . . He
descried among the ruins something adv^-.icing on all
350 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
fours, a species of reptile that stopped its crawling with
movements of hesitation and fear, ready to retreat or
slip into its hole under the ruins. Suddenly the creature
stopped and stood up. It was a man, an old man. Other
human larvae were coming forth conjured by his shouts —
poor beings who hours ago had given up the standing
position which would have attracted the bullets of the
enemy, and had been enviously imitating the lower
organisms, squirming through the dirt as fast as they
could scurry into the bosom of the earth. They were
mostly women and children, all filthy and black, with
snarled hair, the fierceness of animal appetite in their
eyes — the faintness of the weak animal in their hanging
jaws. They were all living hidden in the ruins of their
homes. Fear had made them temporarily forget their
hunger, but finding that the enemy had gone, they were
suddenly assailed by all necessitous demands, intensified
by hours of anguish.
Desnoyers felt as though he were surrounded by a
tribe of brutalized and famished Indians like those he
had often seen in his adventurous voyages., He had
brought with him from Paris a quantity of gold pieces,
and he pulled out a coin which glittered in the sun.
Bread was needed, everything eatable was needed; he
would pay without haggling.
The flash of gold aroused looks of enthusiasm and
greediness, but this impression was short-lived, all eyes
contemplating the yellow discs with indifference. Don
Marcelo was himself convinced that the miraculous
charm had lost its power. They all chanted a chorus of
sorrow and horrors with slow and plaintive voice, as
though they stood weeping before a bier : ''Monsieur, they
have killed my husband." . . . "Monsieur, my sons ! Two
of them are missing." . . . "Monsieur, they have taken
all the men prisoners : they say it is to work the land in
THE INVASION 351
Germany." . . . ^'Monsieur, bread! . . . My little ones
are dying of hunger!"
One woman was lamenting something worse than
death. "My girl! . . . My poor girl!" Her look of
liatred and wild desperation revealed the secret tragedy;
her outcries and tears recalled that other mother who
was sobbing in the same way up at the castle. In the
depths of some cave, was lying the victim, half-dead with
fatigue, shaken with a wild delirium in which she still
saw the succession of brutal faces, inflamed with simian
passion.
The miserable group, forming themselves into a circle
around him, stretched out their hands beseechingly
toward the man whom they knew to be so very rich.
The women showed him the death-pallor on the faces of
their scarcely breathing babies, their eyes glazed with
starvation. ''Bread ! . . . bread !" they implored, as
though he could work a miracle. He gave to one mother
the gold piece that he had in his hand and distributed
more to the others. They took them without looking at
them, and continued their lament, "Bread ! . . . Bread !"
And he had gone to the village to make the same sup-
plication I . . . He fled, recognizing the uselessness of his
efforts.
CHAPTER VI
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS
Returning in desperation to his estate, Don Marcelo
Desnoyers saw huge automobiles and men on horseback,
forming a very long convoy and completely filling the
road. They were all going in his direction. At the
entrance to the park a band of Germans was putting up
the wires for a telephone line. They had just been re-
connoitring the rooms befouled with the night's satur'
nalia, and were ha-haing boisterously over Captain von
Hartrott's inscription, "Bitte, nicht pliindern!' To them
it seemed the acme of wit — truly Teutonic.
The convoy now invaded the park with its automobiles
and trucks bearing a red cross. A war hospital was going
to be established in the castle. The doctors were dressed
in grayish green and armed the same as the officers ; they
also imitated their freezing hauteur and repellent unap-
proachableness. There came out of the drays hundreds
<>f folding cots, which were placed in rows in the differ-
ent rooms. The furniture that still remained was thrown
out in a heap under the trees. Squads of soldiers were
obeying with mechanical promptitude the brief and im-
perious orders. An odor of an apothecary shop, of
concentrated drugs, now pervaded the quarters, mixed
with the strong smell of the antiseptics with which they
were sprinkling the walls in order to disinfect the filthy
remains of the nocturnal orgy.
Then he saw women clad in white, buxom girls with
352
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 353
blue eyes and flaxen hair. They were grave, bland,
austere and implacable in appearance. Several times they
pushed Desnoyers out of their way as if they did not
see him. They looked like nuns, but with revolvers
under their habits.
At midday other automobiles began to arrive, attracted
by the enormous white flag with the red cross, which was
now waving from the castle tower. They came from the
division battling beyond the Marne. Their metal fittings
were dented by projectiles, their wind-shields broken by
star-shaped holes. From their interiors appeared men
and more men ; some on foot, others on canvas stretchers
— faces pale and rubicund, profiles aquiline and snubby,
red heads and skulls wrapped in white turbans stiff with
blood ; mouths that laughed with bravado and mouths
that groaned with bluish lips ; jaws supported with
mummy-like bandages; giants in agony whose wounds
were not apparent ; shapeless forms ending in a head that
talked and smoked; legs with hanging flesh that was
dyeing the First Aid wrappings with their red moisture ;
arms that hung as inert as dead boughs ; torn uniforms
in which were conspicuous the tragic vacancies of absent
members.
This avalanche of suffering was quickly distributed
throughout the castle. In a few hours it was so com-
pletely filled that there was not a vacant bed — the last
arrivals being laid in the shadow of the trees. The tele-
phones were ringing incessantly; the surgeons In coarse
aprons were going from one side to the other, working
rapidly ; human life was submitted to savage proceedings
with roughness and celerity. Those who died under it
simply left one more cot free for the others that kept on
coming. Desnoyers saw bloody baskets filled with shape*
less masses of flesh, strips of skin, broken bones, entire
lir«n-hs. The orderlies were carrying these terrible rem-
^54 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
nants to the foot of the park in order to bury them in a
little plot which had been Chichi's favorite reading nook.
Pairs of soldiers were carrying out objects wrapped in
sheets which the owner recognized as his. These were
the dead, and the park was soon converted into a ceme-
tery. No longer was the little retreat large enough to
hold the corpses and the severed remains from the
operations. New grave trenches were being opened near
by. The Germans armed with shovels were pressing into
service a dozen of the farmer-prisoners to aid in unload-
ing the dead. Now they were bringing them down by
the cartload, dumping them in like the rubbish from
some demolished building. Don Marcelo felt an abnormal
delight in contemplating this increasing number of van-
quished enemies, yet he grieved at the same time that
this precipitation of intruders should be deposited for-
ever on his property.
At nightfall, overwhelmed by so many emotions^ he
again suffered the torments of hunger. All day long he
had eaten nothing but the crust of bread found in the
kitchen by the Warden's wife. The rest he had left for
her and her daughter. A distress as harrowing to him
as his hunger was the sight of poor Georgette's shocked
despondency. She was always trying to escape from his
presence in an agony of shame.
''Don't let the Master see me !'* she would cry, hiding
her face. Since his presence seemed to recall more
vividly the memory of her assaults, Desnoyers tried,
while in the lodge, to avoid going near her.
Desperate with the gnawings of his empty stomach, he
accosted several doctors who were speaking French, but
all In vain. They would not listen to him, and when he
repeated his petitions they pushed him roughly out of
their way. ... He was not going to perish with hunger
in the midst of his riches ! Those people were eating; the
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 355
■rtidifferent nurses had established themselves in his
kitchen. . . . But the time passed on without encountering
anybody who would take pity on this old man dragging
himself weakty from one place to another, in the misery
of an old age intensified by despair, and suffering in
every part of the body, the results of the blows of the
night before. He now knew the gnawings of a hunger
far worse than that which he had suffered when journey-
ing over the desert plains — a hunger among men, in a
civilized country, wearing a belt filled with gold, sur-
rounded with towers and castle halls which were his, but
in the control of others who would not condescend tO'
listen to him. And for this piteous ending of his life he
had amassed millions and returned to Europe ! . . . Ah,
the irony of fate ! . . .
He saw a doctor's assistant leaning up against a tree,
about to devour a slab of bread and sausage. His envious
eyes scrutinized this fellow, tall, thick-set, his jaws
bristling with a great red beard. The trembling old man
staggered up to him, begging for the food by signs and
holding out a piece of money. The German's eyes
glistened at the sight of the gold, and a beatific smile
stretched his mouth from ear to ear.
''Ya,' he responded, and grabbing the money, he
handed over the food.
Don Marcelo commenced to swallow it with avidity.
Never had he so appreciated the sheer ecstasy of eating
as at that instant — in the midst of his gardens converted
into a cemetery, before his despoiled castle where hun-
dreds of human beings were groaning in agony. A
grayish arm passed before his eyes; it belonged to the
German, who had returned with two slices of bread and
a bit of meat snatched from the kitchen. He repeated
his smirking ''Yaf . . . and after his victim had secir-«d
356 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
it by means of another gold coin, he was able to take
it to the two women hidden in the cottage.
During the night — a night of painful watching, cut
with visions of horror, it seemed to him that the roar of
the artillery was coming nearer. It was a scarcely per-
ceptible difference, perhaps the effect of the silence of
the night which always intensifies sound. The ambulances
continued coming from the front, discharging their
cargoes of riddled humanity and going back for more.
Desnoyers surmised that his castle was but one of the
many hospitals established in a line of more than eighty
miles, and that on the other side, behind the French, were
many similar ones in which the same activity v/as going
on — the consignments of dying men succeeding each other
with terrifying frequency. Many of the combatants
were not even having the satisfaction of being taken from
the battle field, but were lying groaning on the ground,
burying their bleeding members in the dust or mud, and
weltering in the ooze from their wounds. . . . And Don
Marcelo, who a few hours before had been considering
himself the unhappiest of mortals, now experienced a
cruel joy in reflecting that so many thousands of vigorous
men at the point of death could well envy him for his
hale old age, and for the tranquillity with which he was
reposing on that humble bed.
The next morning the orderly was waiting for him in
the same place, holding out a napkin filled with eatables.
Good red-bearded man, helpful and kind! . . . and he
offered him the piece of gold.
''Nein," replied the fellow, with a broad, malicious
grin. Two gleaming gold pieces appeared between Don
Marcelo's fingers. Another leering ''Nein" and a shake
of the head. Ah, the robber ! How ' he was taking
advantage of his necessity! . . . And not until he had
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 357
produced five gold coins was he able to secure the
package.
He soon began to notice all around him a silent and sly
conspiracy to get possession of his money. A giant in a
sergeant's uniform put a shovel in his hand, pushing him
roughly forward. He soon found himself in a corner of
the park that had been transformed into a graveyard,
near the cart of cadavers ; there he had to shovel dirt on
his own ground in company with the indignant prisoners.
He averted his eyes so as not to look at the rigid and
grotesque bodies piled above him at the edge of the pit,
ready to be tumbled in. The ground was sending forth an
insufferable odor, for decomposition had already set in
in the nearby trenches. The persistence with which his
overseers accosted him, and the crafty smile of the
sergeant made him see through the deep-laid scheme.
The red-beard must be at the bottom of all this. Putting
his hand in his pocket he dropped the shovel with a look
of interrogation. "Ya',' replied the sergeant. After hand-
ing over the required sum, the tormented old man was
permitted to stop grave-digging and wander around at
his pleasure ; he knew, however, what was probably in
store for him — those men were going to submit him to
a merciless exploitation.
Another day passed by, like its predecessor. In the
morning of the following day his perceptions, sharpened
by apprehension, made him conjecture that something
extraordinary had occurred. The automobiles were
arriving and departing with greater rapidity, and there
was greater disorder and confusion among the executive
force. The telephone was ringing with mad precipita-
tion; and the wounded arrivals seemed more depressed.
The day before they had been singing when taken from
the vehicles, hiding their woe with laughter and bravado,
all talking of the near victory and regretting that they
358 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
would not be able to witness the triumphal entry into
Paris. Now they were all very silent, with furrowed
brows, thinking no longer about what was going on be«
hind them, wondering only about their own fate.
Outside the park was the buzz of the approaching
throng which was blackening the roads. The invasion
was beginning again, but with a refluent movement. For
hours at a time great strings of gray trucks were puffing
by; then regiments of infantry, squadrons, rolling stock.
They were marching very slowly v/ith a deliberation that
puzzled Desnoyers, who could not make out whether thijf
recessional meant flight or change of position. The only
thing that gave him any satisfaction was the stupefied
and downcast appearance of the soldiers, the gloomy
sulks of the officers. Nobody was shouting; they all
appeared to have forgotten their "Nach Paris!" The
greenish gray monster still had its armed head stretched
across the other side of the Mame, but its tail waa
beginning to uncoil with uneasy wrigglings.
After night had settled down the troops were still con*
tinning to fall back. The cannonading was certainly
coming nearer. Some of the thunderous claps sounded
so close that they made the glass tremble in the windows.
A fugitive farmer, trying to find refuge in the park, gav^i
Don Marcelo some news. The Germans were in ful^
retreat. They had installed some of their batteries on
the banks of the Marne in order to attempt a new re-
sistance. . . . And the new arrival remained without"
attracting the attention of the invaders who, a few days
before, would have shot him on the slightest suspicion.
The mechanical workings of discipline were evidently
out of gear. Doctors and nurses were running from place
to place, shouting orders and breaking out into a volley
of curses every time a fresh ambulance load arrived.
The drivers were commanded to take their patients on
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 359
ahead to another hospital near the rear-guard. Orders
had been received to evacuate the castle that very night.
In spite ot ttiis prohibition, one of the ambulances
unloaded its relay of wounded men. So deplorable w2ls
their state that the doctors accepted them, judging it use-
less for them to continue their journey. They remained
in the garden, lying on the same stretchers that they had
occupied vt^ithin the vehicle. By the light of the lanterns
Desnoyers recognized one of the dying. It was the secre-
tary to His Excellency, the Socialist professor who had
shut him in the cellar vaults.
At the sight of the owner of the castle he smiled as
though he had met a comrade. His was the only familiar
face among all those people who were speaking his lan-
guage. He was ghastly in hue, with sunken features and
an impalpable glaze spreading over his eyes. He had na
visible wounds, but from under the cloak spread over his
abdomen his torn intestines exhaled a fatal warning. The
presence of Don Marcelo made him guess where they
had brought him, and little by little he co-ordinated his
recollections. As though the old gentleman might be
interested in the whereabouts of his comrades, he told
him all he knew in a weak and strained voice. . . . Bad
luck for their brigade ! They had reached the front at a
critical moment for the reserve troops. Commandant
Blumhardt had died at the very first, a shell from a "75"
taking off his head. Dead, too, were all the officers who
had lodged in the castle. His Excellency had had his jaw
bone torn off by a fragment of shell. He had seen him
on the ground, howling with pain, drawing a portrait
from his breast and trying to kiss it with his broken
mouth. He had himself been hit in the stomach by the
same shell. He had lain forty-two hours on the field
before he was picked up by the ambulance corps. . . ,
And with the mania of the University man, whose
36o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
hobby is to see everything reasoned out and logically
explained, he added in that supreme moment, with the
tenacity of those who die talking:
"Sad war, sir. . . . Many premises are lacking in order
to decide who is the culpable party. . . . When the war
is ended they will have to . . . will have to . . ." And he
closed his eyes overcome by the effort. Desnoyers left
the dead man, thinking to himself. Poor fellow! He
was placing the hour of justice at the termination of the
war, and meanwhile hundreds like him were dying, dis-
appearing with all their scruples of ponderous and dis-
ciplined reasoning.
That night there was no sleep on the place. The walls
of the lodge were creaking, the glass crashing and break-
ing, the two women in the adjoining room crying out
nervously. The noise of the German fire was beginning
to mingle with that of other explosives close at hand. He
surmised that this was the smashing of the French
projectiles which were coming in search of the enemy's
artillery above the Marne.
For a few minutes his hopes revived as the possibility
of victory flashed into his mind, but he was so depressed
by his forlorn situation that such a hope evaporated as
quickly as it had come. His own troops were advancmg,
but this advance did not, perhaps, represent more than a
local gain. The line of battle was so extensive! ... It
was going to be as in 1870; the French would achieve
partial victories, modified at the last moment by the
strategy of the enemies until they were turned into com-
plete defeat.
After midnight the cannonading ceased, but silence was
by no means re-established. Automobiles were rolling
around the lodge midst hoarse shouts of command. It
must be the hospital convoy that was evacuating the
castle. Then near daybreak the thudding of horses' hoofvS
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 361
and the wheels of chugging machines thundered through
the gates, making the ground tremble. Half an hour
afterwards sounded the tramp of multitudes moving at
a quick pace, dying away in the depths of the park.
At dawn the old gentleman leaped from his bed, and
the first thing he spied from the cottage window was the
flag of the Red Cross still floating from the top of the
castle. There were no more cots under the trees. On the
bridge he met one of the doctors and several assistants.
The hospital force had gone with all its transportable
patients. There only remained in the castle, under the
care of a company, those most gravely wounded. The
Valkyries of the health department had also disappeared.
The red-bearded Shylock was among those left behind,
and on seeing Don Marcelo afar off, he smiled and
immediately vanished. A few minutes after he returned
with full hands. Never before had he been so generous.
Foreseeing pressing necessity, the hungry man put his
hands in his pockets as usual, but was astonished to learn
from the orderly's emphatic gestures that he did not wish
any money.
''Nein Nein!"
What generosity was this ! . . . The German persisted
in his negatives. His enormous mouth expanded in an
ingratiating grin as he laid his heavy paws on Marcelo's
shoulders. He appeared like a good dog, a meek dog,
fawning and licking the hands of the passer-by, coaxing
to be taken along with him. "Franzosen. . . . Franzosen!'
He did not know how to say any more, but the French-
man read in his words the desire to make him understand
that he had always been in great sympathy with the
French. Something very important was evidently tran-
spiring— the ill-humored air of those left behind in the
castle, and the sudden servility of this plowman in uni-
form, made it very apparent. . . .
362 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE:
Some distance beyond the castle he saw soldiers, many
soldiers. A battalion of infantry had spread itself along
the walls with trucks, draught horses and swift mounts.
With their pikes the soldiers were making small openings
in the mud walls, shaping them into a border of little
pinnacles. Others were kneeling or sitting near the
apertures, taking off their knapsacks in order that they
might be less hampered. Afar off the cannon were
booming, and in the intervals between their detonations
could be heard the bursting of shrapnel, the bubbling of
frying oil, the grinding of a coffee-mill, and the incessant
crackling of rifle-fire. Fleecy clouds were floating over
the fields, giving to near objects the indefinite lines of
unreality. The sun was a faint spot se^n between cur-
tains of mist. The trees were weeping fog moisture from
all the cracks in their bark.
A thunderclap rent the air so forcibly that it seemed
very near the castle. Desnoyers trembled, believing that
he had received a blow in the chest. The other men
remained impassive with their customary indifference. A
cannon had just been discharged but a few feet away
from him, and not till then did he realize that two bat-
teries had been installed in the park. The pieces of
artillery were hidden under mounds of branches, the
gunners having felled trees in order to mask their mon-
sters more perfectly. He saw then arranging the last;
with shovels, they were forming a border of earth, a
foot in width, around each piece. This border guarded
the feet of the operators whose bodies were protected by
steel shields on both sides of them. Then they raised a
breastwork of trunks and boughs, leaving only the mouth
of the cylindrical mortar visible.
By degrees Don Marcelo became accustomed to the
firing which seemed to be creating a vacuum within his
cranium. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists al
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 363
every detonation, but stood stock-still with no desire to
leave, dominated by the violence of the explosions, ad-
miring the serenity of these men who were giving orders,
erect and coolly, or moving like humble menials around
their roaring metal beasts.
All his ideas seemed to have been snatched away by
that first discharge of cannon. His brain was living in
the present moment only. He turned his eyes insistently
toward the white and red banner which was waving from
the mansion.
"That is treachery," he thought, *'a breach of faith."
Far away, on the other side of the Marne, the French
artillery were belching forth their deadly fire. He could
imagine their handiwork from the little yellowish clouds
that were floating in the air, and the columns of smoke
which were spouting forth at various points of the land-
scape where the German troops were hidden, forming a
line which appeared to lose itself in Infinity. An
atmosphere of protection and respect seemed to be
enveloping the castle.
The morning mists had dissolved; the sun was finally
showing its bright and limpid light, lengthening the
shadows of men and trees to fantastic dimensions. Hills
and woods came forth from the haze, fresh and dripping
after their morning bath. The entire valley was now
completely exposed, and Desnoyers was surprised to see
the river from the spot to which he had been rooted — •
the cannon having opened great windows in the woods
that had hid it from view. What most astonished him in
looking over this landscape, smiling and lovely in the
morning light, was that nobody was to be seen — abso-
lutely nobody. Mountain tops and forests were bellowing
without anyone's being in evidence. There must be more
than a hundred thousand men in the space swept by his
piercing gaze, and yet not a human being was visible.
364 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
The deadly boom of arms was causing the air to vibrate
without leaving any optical trace. There was no other
smoke but that of the explosions, the black spirals that
were flinging their great shells to burst on the ground.
These were rising on all sides, encircling the castle like
a ring of giant tops, but not one of that orderly circle
ventured to touch the edifice. Don Marcelo again stared
at the Red Cross flag. "It is treachery !" he kept repeat-
ing; yet at the same time he was selfishly rejoicing in the
base expedient, since it served to defend his property.
The battalion was at last completely installed the entire
length of the wall, opposite the river. The soldiers,
kneeling, were supporting their guns on the newly made
turrets and grooves, and seemed satisfied with this rest
after a night of battling retreat. They all appeared sleep-
ing with their eyes open. Little by little they were letting
themselves drop back on their heels, or seeking the sup-
port of their knapsacks. Snores were heard in the brief
spaces between the artillery fire. The officials standing
behind them were examining the country with their field
glasses, or talking in knots. Some appeared disheartened,
others furious at the backward flight that had been going
on since the day before. The majority appeared calm,
with the passivity of obedience. The battle front was
immense; who could foresee the outcome? . . . There
they were in full retreat, but in other places, perhaps,
their comrades might be advancing with decided gains.
Until the very last moment, no soldier knows certainly
the fate of the struggle. What was most grieving this
detachment was the fact that it was all the time getting
further away from Paris.
Don Alarcelo's eye was caught by a sparkling circle oi
glass, a monocle fixed upon him with aggressive insist'
ence. A lank lieutenant with the corseted waist of th(i
officers that he had seen in Berlin, a genuine Junker, wai
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 365
a few feet away, sword In hand behind his men, like a
wrathful and glowering shepherd.
"What are you doing here ?" he said gruffly.
Desnoyers explained that he was the owner of the
castle. "French?" continued the lieutenant. "Yes,
French." . . . The official scowled in hostile meditation,
feeling the necessity of saying something against the
enemy. The shouts and antics of his companions-at-
arms put a summary end to his reflections. They were
all staring upward, and the old man followed their gaze.
For an hour past, there had been streaking through
the air frightful roarings enveloped in yellowish vapors,
strips of cloud which seemed to contain wheels revolving
with frenzied rotation. They were the projectiles of the
heavy German artillery which, fired from various dis-
tances, threw their great shells over the castle. Certainly
that could not be what was interesting the officials !
He half shut his eyes in order to see better, and finally
near the edge of a cloud he distinguished a species of
mosquito flashing in the sunlight. Between brief intervals
of silence, could be heard the distant, faint buzz an-
nouncing its presence. The officers nodded their heads.
"Franzosen!" Desnoyers thought so, too. He could not
believe that the enemy's two black crosses were between
those wings. Instead he saw with his mind's eye, two
tricolored rings like the circular spots which color the
fluttering wings of butterflies.
This explained the agitation of the Germans. The
French air-bird remained motionless for a few seconds
over the castle, regardless of the white bubbles exploding
underneath and around it. In vain the cannon nearest
hurled their deadly fire. It wheeled rapidly, and returned
to the place from which it came.
"It must have taken in the whole situation," thought
366 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the old Frenchman. ''It has found them out; it knows
what is going on here."
He guessed rightly that this information would swiftly
change the course of events. Everything which had been
happening in the early morning hours was going to sink
into insignificance compared with what was coming now.
He shuddered with fear, the irresistible fear of the un-
known, and yet at the same time he was filled with
curiosity, impatience and nervous dread before a danger
that threatened and would not stay its relentless course.
Outside the park, but a short distance from the mud
wall, sounded a strident explosion like a stupendous blow
from a gigantic axe — an axe as big as his castle. There
began flying through the air entire treetops, trunks split
in two, great chunks of earth with the vegetation still
clinging, a rain of dirt that obscured the heavens. Some
stones fell down from the wall. The Germans crouched
but with no visible emotion. They knew what it meant ;
they had been expecting it as something inevitable after
seeing the French aeroplane. The Red Cross flag could
no longer deceive the enemy's artillery.
Don Marcelo had not time to recover from his surprise
before there came a second explosion nearer the mud
Wall ... a third inside the park. It seemed to him that he
had been suddenly flung into another world from which
he was seeing men and things across a fantastic atmos-
phere which roared and rocked and destroyed with the
violence of its reverberations. He was stunned with the
awfulness of it all, and yet he was not afraid. Until
then, he had imagined fear in a very different form. He
felt an agonizing vacuum in his stomach. He staggered
violently all the time, as though some force were pushing
him about, giving him first a blow on the chest, and then
another on the back to straighten him up.
A strong smell of acids penetrated the atmosphere.
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 367^
making respiration very difficult, and filling his eyes with
smarting tears. On the other hand, the uproar no longer
disturbed him, it did not exist for him. He supposed it
was still going on from the trembling air, the shaking
of things around him, in the whirlwind which was bend-
ing men double but was not reacting within his body. He
had lost the faculty of hearing; all the strength of his
senses had concentrated themselves in looking. His eyes
appeared to have acquired multiple facets like those o£
certain insects. He saw what was happening before, be-
side, behind him, simultaneously witnessing extraordinary
things as though all the laws of life had been capriciously
overthrown.
An official a few feet away suddenly took an in-
explicable flight. He began to rise without losing his
military rigidity, still helmeted, with furrowed brow,
moustache blond and short, mustard-colored chest, and
gloved hands still holding field-glasses and map — but
there his individuality stopped. The lower extremities,
in their grayish leggings remained on the ground, inani-
mate as reddeiiing, empty moulds. The trunk, in its
violent ascent, spread its contents abroad like a bursting
rocket. Further on, some gunners, standing upright,
were suddenly stretched full length, converted into a
motionless row, bathed in blood.
The line of infantry was lying close to the ground.
The men had huddled themselves together near the loop-
holes through which they aimed their guns, trying to
make themselves less visible. Many had placed their
knapsacks over their heads or at their backs to defend
themselves from the flying bits of shell. If they moved
at all, it was only to worm their way further into the
earth, trying to hollow it out with their stomachs. Many
of them had changed position with mysterious rapidity,
now lying stretched on their backs as though asleep.
368 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
One had his uniform torn open across the abdomen,
showing between the rents of the cloth, slabs of flesh,
blue and red that protruded and swelled up with a bub-
bling expansion. Another had his legs shot away, and
was looking around with surprised eyes and a black
mouth rounded into an effort to howl, but from which no
sound ever came.
Desnoyers had lost all notion of time. He could not
tell whether he had been rooted to that spot for many
hours or for a single moment. The only thing that
caused him anxiety was the persistent trembling of his
legs which were refusing to sustain him. . . .
Something fell behind him. It was raining ruin. Turn-
ing his head, he saw his castle completely transformed.
Half of the tower had just been carried off. The pieces
of slate were scattered everywhere in tin> chips; the
walls were crumbling; loose window frames were bal-
ancing on edge like fragments of stage scenery, and the
old wood of the tower hood was beginning to burn like
a torch.
The spectacle of this instantaneous change in his prop-
erty impressed him more than the ravages of death,
making him realize the Cyclopean power of the blind,
avenging forces raging around him. The vital force that
had been concentrated in his eyes, now spread to his
feet . . . and he started to run without knowing whither,
feeling the same necessity to hide himself as had those
men enchained by discipline who were trying to flatten
themselves into the earth in imitation of the reptile's
pliant invisibility.
His instinct was pushing him toward the lodge, but
half way up the avenue, he was stopped by another lot of
astounding transformations. An unseen hand had just
snatched away half of the cottage roof. The entire side
wall doubled over, forming a cascade of bricks and dust.
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 369
The interior rooms were now exposed to view like a
theatrical setting — the kitchen where he had eaten, the
upper floor with the room in which he descried his still
unmade bed. The poor women! . . .
He turned around, running now toward the castle, try-
ing to make the sub-cellar in which he had been fastened
for the night; and when he finally found himself under
those dusty cobwebs, he felt as though he were in the
most luxurious salon, and he devoutly blessed the good
workmanship of the castle builders.
The subterranean silence began gradually to bring back
his sense of hearing. The cannonading of the Germans
and the bursting of the French shells sounded from his
retreat like a distant tempest. There came into his mind
the eulogies which he had been accustomed to lavish upon
the seventy-fives without knowing anything about it ex-
cept by hearsay. Now he had witnessed its effects. 'Tt
shoots too well !" he muttered. In a short time it would
finish destroying his castle — he was finding such perfec-
tion excessive.
But he soon repented of these selfish lamentations. An
idea, tenacious as remorse, had fastened itself in his
brain. It now seemed to him that all he was passing
through was an expiation for the great mistake of his
youth. He had evaded the service of his country, and
now he was enveloped in all the horrors of war, with the
humiHation of a passive and defenseless being, without
any of the soldier's satisfaction of being able to return
the blows. He was going to die — he was sure of that — •
but a shameful death, unknown and inglorious. The
ruins of his mansion were going to become his sepulchre.
. . . And the certainty of dying there in the darkness, like
a rat that sees the openings of his hole being closed up,
made this refuge intolerable.
Above him the tornado was still raging. A peal like
370 FOUR HORSEMEN OF TTIE APOCAI.YPSE
thunder boomed above his head, and then came the crash
of a landslide. Another projectile must have fallen upon
the building. He heard shrieks of agony, yells and pre-
cipitous steps on the floor above him. Perhaps the shell,
in its blind fury, had blown to pieces many of the dying
in the salons.
Fearing to remain buried in his retreat, he bounded up
the cellar stairs two steps at a time. As he scudded across
the first floor, he saw the sky through the shattered roofs.
Along the edges were hanging sections of wood, frag-
ments of swinging tile and furniture stopped halfway in
its flight. Crossing the hall, he had to clamber over
much rubbish. He stumbled over broken and twisted
iron, parts of beds rained from the upper rooms into the
mountain of debris in which he saw convulsed limbs and
heard anguished voices that he could not understand.
He leaped as he ran, feeling the same longing for light
and free air as those who rush from the hold to the deck
of a shipwreck. While sheltered in the darkness more
time had elapsed than he had supposed. The sun was
now very high. He saw in the garden more corpses
in tragic and grotesque postures. The wounded were
doubled over with pain or lying on the ground or prop-
ping themselves against the trees in painful silence. Some
had opened their knapsacks and drawn out their sanitary
kits and were trying to care for their cuts. The infantry
was now firing incessantly. The number of riflemen had
increased. New bands of soldiers were entering the
park — some with a sergeant at their head, others fol-
lowed by an oflicer carrying a revolver at his breast as
though guiding his men with it. This must be the in-
fantry expelled from their position near the river which
had come to reinforce the second line of defense. The
mitrailleuses were adding their tac-tac to the cracks of
the fusileers.
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 371'
The hum of the invisible swarms was buzzing inces-
santly. Thousands of sticky horse-flies were droning
around Desnoyers without his even seeing them. The
bark of the trees was being stripped by unseen hands ;
the leaves were falling in torrents; the boughs were
shaken by opposing forces, the stones on the ground were
being crushed by a mysterious foot. All inanimate objects
seemed to have acquired a fantastic life. The zinc spoons
of the soldiers, the metallic parts of their outfit, the pails
of the artillery were all clanking as though in an imper-
ceptible hailstorm. He saw a cannon lying on its side
with the wheels broken and turned over among many
men who appeared asleep ; he saw soldiers who stretched
themselves out without a contraction, without a sound,
as though overcome by sudden drowsiness. Others were
howling and dragging themselves forward in a sitting
position.
The old man felt an extreme sensation of heat. The
pungent perfume of explosive drugs brought the tears
to his eyes and clawed at his throat. At the same time
he was chilly and felt his forehead freezing in a glacial
sweat.
He had to leave the bridge. Several soldiers were
passing bearing the wounded to the edifice in spite of the
fact that it was falling in ruins. Suddenly he was
sprinkled from head to foot, as if the earth had opened
to make way for a water-spout. A shell had fallen into
the moat, throwing up an enormous column of water,
making the carp sleeping in the mud fly into fragments^
breaking a part of the edges and grinding to powder the
white balustrades with their great urns of flowers.
He started to run on with the blindness of terror, wh^
he suddenly saw before him the same little round cr3^stal,
examining him coolly. It was the Junker, the officer oi
the monocle. . . . With the end of his revolver, the Ger-
372 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
man pointed to two pails a short distance away, ordering
Desnoyers to fill them from the lagoon and give the
water to the men overcome by the sun. Although the
imperious tone admitted of no reply, Don Marcelo tried,
nevertheless, to resist. He received a blow from the
revolver on his chest at the same time that the lieutenant
slapped him in the face. The old man doubled over,
longing to weep, longing to perish; but no tears came,
nor did life escape from his body under this affront, as
he wished. . . . With the two buckets in his hands, he
found himself dipping up water from the canal, carrying
it the length of the file, giving it to men who, each in his
turn, dropped his gun to gulp the liquid with the avidity
of panting beasts.
He was no longer afraid of the shrill shrieks of in-
visible bodies. His one great longing was to die. He was
strongly convinced that he was going to die ; his suffer-
ings were too great ; there was no longer any place in the
world for him.
He had to pass by breaches opened in the wall by the
bursting shells. There was no natural object to arrest
the eye looking through these gaps. Hedges and groves
had been swept away or blotted out by the fire of the
artillery. He descried at the foot of the highway near
his castle, several of the attacking columns which had
crossed the Marne. The advancing forces were coming
doggedly on, apparently unmoved by the steady, deadly
fire of the Germans. Soon they were rushing forward
with leaps and bounds, by companies, shielding them-
selves behind bits of upland in bends of the road, ia
order to send forth their blasts of death.
The old man was now fired with a desperate resolu-
tion;— since he had to die, let a French ball kill him'
And he advanced very erect with his two pails among
those men shooting, lying down. Then, with a suddei
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 373
fear, he stood still hanging his head; a second thought
had told him that the bullet which he might receive
would be one danger less for the enemy. It would be
better for them to kill the Germans . . . and he began to
cherish the hope that he might get possession of some
weapon from those dying around him, and fall upon that
Junker who had struck him.
He was filling his pails for the third time, and murder-
ously contemplating the lieutenant's back when some-
thing occurred so absurd and unnatural that it reminded
him of the fantastic flash of the cinematograph ; — the
oflicer's head suddenly disappeared; two jets of blood
spurted from his severed neck and his body collapsed
like an empty sack.
At the same time a cyclone was sweeping the length of
the wall, tearing up groves, overturning cannon and
carrying away people in a whirlwind as though they were
dry leaves. He inferred that Death was now blowing
from another direction. Until then, it had come from
the front on the river side, battling with the enemy's line
ensconced behind the walls. Now, with the swiftness of
an atmospheric change, it was blustering from the depths
of the park. A skillful manoeuvre of the aggressors, the
use of a distant road, a chance bend in the German line
had enabled the French to collect their cannon in a new
position, attacking the occupants of the castle with a
flank movement.
It was a lucky thing for Don Marcelo that he had
lingered a few moments on the bank of the fosse, shel-
tered by the bulk of the edifice. The fire of the hidden
battery passed the length of the avenue, carrying oflf the
living, destroying for a second time the dead, killing
horses, breaking the wheels of vehicles and making the
gun carriages fly through the air with the flames of a
volcano in whose red and bluish depths black bodies
374 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
were leaping. He saw hundreds of fallen men ; he saw
-disembowelled horses trampling on their entrails. The
death harvest was not being reaped in sheaves ; the entire
field was being mowed down with a single flash of the
sickle. And as though the batteries opposite divined the
catastrophe, they redoubled their fire, sending down a
torrent of shells. They fell on all sides. Beyond the
castle, at the end of the park, craters were opening in the
woods, vomiting forth the entire trunks of trees. The
projectiles were hurling from their pits the bodies in-
terred the night before.
Those still alive were firing through the gaps in the
walls. Then they sprang up with the greatest haste.
Some grasped their bayonets, pale, with clamped lips and
a mad glare in their eyes ; others turned their backs, run-
ning toward the exit from the park, regardless of the
shouts of their ofiicers and the revolver shots sent after
the fugitives.
All this occurred with dizzying rapidity, like a night"
mare. On the other side of the wall came a murmur,
swelling in volume, like that of the sea. Desnoyers heard
shouts, and it seemed to him that some hoarse, discord*
ant voices were singing the Marseillaise. The machine*,
guns were working with the swift steadiness of sewing
machines. The attack was going to be opposed with
furious resistance. The Germans, crazed with fury,
shot and shot. In one of the breaches appeared a red
kepis followed by legs of the same color trying to
clamber over the ruins. But this vision was instantly
blotted out by the sprinkling from the machine guns,
making the invaders fall in great heaps on the other side
of the wall. Don Marcelo never knew exactly how the
change took place. Suddenly he saw. the red trousers
within the park. With irresistible bounds they were
springing over the wall, slipping through the yawning
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 375
gaps, and darting out from the depths of the woods by
invisible paths. They were Httle soldiers, husky, panting^
perspiring, with torn cloaks ; and mingled with them, in
the disorder of the charge, African marksmen with devil-
ish eyes and foaming mouths. Zouaves in wide breeches
and chasseurs in blue uniforms.
The German officers wanted to die. With upraised
swords, after having exhausted the shots in their re-
volvers, they advanced upon their assailants followed by
the soldiers who still obeyed them. There was a scuffle,
a wild melee. To the trembling spectator, it seemed as
though the world had fallen into profound silence. The
yells of the combatants, the thud of colliding bodies, the
clang of arms seemed as nothing after the cannon had
quieted down. He saw men pierced through the middle
by gun points whose reddened ends came out through
their kidneys ; muskets raining hammer-like blows, ad-
versaries that grappled in hand-to-hand tussles, rolling
over and over on the ground, trying to gain the advantage
by kicks and bites.
The mustard-colored fronts had entirely disappeared,
and he now saw only backs of that color fleeing toward
the exit, filtering among the trees, falling midway in theii
flight when hit by the pursuing balls. Many of the in-
vaders were unable to chase the fugitives because they
were occupied in repelling with rude thrusts of their
bayonets the bodies falling upon them in agonizing
convulsions.
Don Marcelo suddenly found himself in the very thick
of these mortal combats, jumping up and down like a
child, waving his hands and shouting with all his might.
When he came to himself again, he was hugging the
grimy head of a young French officer who was looking
at him in astonishment. He probably thought him crazy
on receiving his kisses, on hearing his incoherent torrent
376 FOUR HORSEMEI^ OF THE APOCALYPSE
of words. Emotionally exhausted, the worn old man
continued to weep after the officer had freed himself with
a jerk. . . . He needed to give vent to his feelings
after so many days of anguished self-control. Vive la
France! . . .
His beloved French were already within the park gates.
They were running, bayonets in hand, in pursuit of the
last remnants of the German battalion trying to escape
toward the village. A group of horsemen passed along
the road. They were dragoons coming to complete the
rout. But their horses were fagged out ; nothing but the
fever of victory transmitted from man to beast had
sustained their painful pace. One of the equestrians
came to a stop near the entrance of the park, the fam-
ished horse eagerly devouring the herbage while his rider
settled down in the saddle as though asleep. Desnoyers
touched him on the hip in order to waken him, but he
immediately rolled off on the opposite side. He was
dead, with his entrails protruding from his body, but
swept on with the others, he had been brought thus far
on his steady steed.
Enormous tops of iron and smoke now began falling
in the neighborhood. The German artillery was opening
a retaliatory fire against its lost positions. The advance
continued. There passed toward the North battalions,
squadrons and batteries, worn, weary and grimy, covered
with dust and mud, but kindled with an ardor that gal-
vanized their flagging energy.
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 surg-
ing forth men dressed in greenish gray and pointed
helmets. They all threw up their arms, extending their
THE BANNER OF TaIE RED CROSS 377
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 chil
dren, 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 Red-
beard. 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 pro-
tector.
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
%o 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 hun-
dreds, 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 every-
wiu^r^., but they were not all the gray-green uniform.
378 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Many of his countrymen had fallen in the gallant offen-
sive. 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, scat-
tered 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 be-
fore 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.
In spite of these barbarian holocausts corpses were
everywhere in infinite numbers. There seemed to be no
end to their number; it seemed as though the earth had
expelled all the bodies that it had received since the be-
ginning of the world. The sun was impassively flooding
the fields of death with its waves of light. In its yellowish
glow, the pieces of the bayonets, the metal plates, the
fittings of the guns were sparkling like bits of crystal.
The damp night, the rain, the rust of time had not yet
modified with their corrosive action these relics of
combat.
But decomposition had begun to set in. Graveyard
odors were all along the road, increasing in intensity as
Desnoyers plodded on toward Paris. Every half hour,
the evidence of corruption became more pronounced —
tnany cf the dead on this side of the river having lain
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 379
there for three or four days. Bands of crows, at the
sound of his footsteps, rose up, lazily flapping their
wings, but returning soon to blacken the earth, surfeited
but not satisfied, having lost all fear of mankind.
From time to time, the sad pedestrian met living bands
of men — platoons of cavalry, gendarmes, Zouaves and
chasseurs encamped around the ruined farmsteads, ex-
ploring the country in pursuit of German fugitives.
Don Marcelo had to explain his business there, showing
the passport that Lacour had given him in order to make
his trip on the military train. Only in this way could he
continue his journey. These soldiers — many of them
slightly wounded — were still stimulated by victory.
They were laughing, telling stories, and narrating the
great dangers which they had escaped a few days before,
always ending with, "We are going to kick them across
the frontier!" . . .
Their indignation broke forth afresh as they looked
around at the blasted towns — farms and single houses,
all burned. Like skeletons of prehistoric beasts, many
steel frames twisted by the flames were scattered over
the plains. The brick chimneys of the factories were
either leveled to the ground or, pierced with the round
holes made by shells, were standing up like giant pastoral
flutes forced into the earth.
Near the ruined villages, the women were removing
the earth and trying to dig burial trenches, but their
labor was almost useless because it required an immense
force to inter so many dead. *'We are all going to die
after gaining the victory," mused the old man. "The
plague is going to break out among us."
The water of the river must also be contaminated bj
this contagion; so when his thirst became intolerable hf
drank, in preference, from a nearby pond. . . . But
alas, on raising his head, he saw some greenish legs or
38o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the surface of the shallow water, the boots sunk in the
muddy banks. The head of the German was in the
depths of the pool.
He had been trudging on for several hours when he
stopped before a ruined house which he believed that
he recognized. Yes, it was the tavern where he had
lunched a few days ago on his way to the castle. He
forced his way in among the blackened walls where
a persistent swarm of flies came buzzing around him.
The smell of decomposing flesh attracted his attention; a
leg which looked like a piece of charred cardboard was
wedged in the ruins. Looking at it bitterly he seemed
to hear again the old woman with her grandchildren
clinging to her skirts — "Monsieur, why are the people
fleeing? War only concerns the soldiers. We country-
folk have done no wrong to anybody, and we ought not
to be afraid."
Half an hour later, on descending a hilly path, the
traveller had the most unexpected of encounters. He
saw there a taxicab, an automobile from Paris. The
chauffeur was walking tranquilly around the vehicle as
if it were at the cab stand, and he promptly entered into
conversation with this gentleman who appeared to him
as downcast and dirty as a tramp, with half of his livid
face discolored from a blow. He had brought out here
in his machine some Parisians who had wanted to see
the battlefield ; they were reporters ; and he was wait-
ing there to take them back at nightfall.
Don Marcelo buried his right hand in his pocket.
Two hundred francs if the man would drive him to
Paris. The chauffeur declined with the gravity of a man
faithful to his obligations. . . . 'Tive hundred?" . . .
and he showed his fist bulging with ^old coins. The
man's only response was a twirl of the handle which
started the machine to snorting, and away they sped
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 381
There was not a battle in the neighborhood of Paris
every day in the year! His other cHents could just wait.
And settling back into the motor-car, Desnoyers saw
the horrors of the battle field flying past at a dizzying
speed and disappearing behind him. He was rolling
toward human life ... he was returning to civilization !
As they came into Paris, the nearly empty streets
seemed to him to be crowded with people. Never had
he seen the city so beautiful. He whirled through the
avenue de I'Opera whizzed past the place de la Con-
corde, and thought he must be dreaming as he realized
the gigantic leap that he had taken within the hour. He
compared all that was now around him with the sights
on that plain of death but a few miles away. No; no,
it was not possible. One of the extremes of this con-
trast must certainly be false!
The automobile was beginning to slow down ; he must
be now in the avenue Victor Hugo. . . . He couldn't
wake up. Was that really his home? . . .
The majestic concierge, unable to understand his for-
\oTn appearance, greeted him with amazed consternation.
"Ah Monsieur! . . . Where has Monsieur been?" . . .
"In hell!" muttered Don Marcelo.
His wonderment continued when he found himself
actually in his own apartment, going through its various
rooms. He was somebody once more. The sight of
the fruits of his riches and the enjoyment of home com-
forts restored his self-respect at the same time that
the contrast recalled to his mind the recollection of all
the humiliations and outrages that he had suffered. . . .
Ah, the scoundrels ! . . .
Two mornings later, the door bell rang. A visitor!
There came toward him a soldier — a little soldier of
the infantry, timid, with his kepis in his hand, stuttering
excuses in Spanish : —
382 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSl^
*'I knew that you were here ... I come to . . ;*
That voice? . . . Dragging him from the dark hall-
way, Don Marcelo conducted him to the balcony. . , ,
How handsome he looked ! . . . The kepis was red, but
darkened with wear; the cloak, too large, was torn ancf
darned; the great shoes had a strong smell of leather.
Yet never had his son appeared to him so elegant, so
distinguished-looking as now, fitted out in these rough
ready-made clothes.
"You! . . . You! . . r
The father embraced him convulsively, crying like a
child, and trembling so that he could no longer oStand.
He had always hoped that they would finally under-
stand each other. His blood was coursing through the
boy's veins; he was good, with no other defect than a
certain obstinacy. He was excusing him now for all
the past, blaming himself for a great part of it. He
had been too hard.
"You a soldier!" he kept exclaiming over and over.
"You defending my country, when it is not yours!" . . .
And he kissed him again, receding a few steps so as
to get a better look at him. Deciderly he was more
fascinating now in his grotesque uniform, than when
he was so celebrated for his skill as a dancer and
idolized by the women.
When the delighted father was finally able to control
his emotion, his eyes, still filled with tears, glowed with
a malignant light. A spasm of hatred furrowed his
face.
"Go," he said simply. "You do not know what war
is; I have just come from it; I have seen it close by.
This is not a war like other wars, with rational enemies
it is a hunt of wild beasts. . . . Shoot without a scruplf
against them all. . . . Every one that you overcome,
rids humanity of a dangerous menace."
THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 383
He hesitated a few seconds, and then added with
tragic calm:
^'Perhaps you may encounter famihar faces. Family
ties are not always formed to our tastes. Men of your
blood are on the other side. If you see any one of them
. . . do not hesitate. Shoot! He is your enemy. Kill
him! . . . Kill him!"
t
Part III
CHAPTER r
AFTER THE MARNE
At the ena of October, the Desnoyers family returned
to Paris. Dona Luisa could no longer live in Biarritz,
so far from her husband. In vain la Romantica dls-
coursed on the dangers of a return. The Government
v^ras still in Bordeaux, the President of the Republic and
the Ministry making only the most hurried apparitions
in the Capital. The course of the war might change
at any minute; that little affair of the Marne was but
a momentary relief. . . . But ihe good sefiora, after
having read Don Marcelo's letters, opposed an adaman-
tine will to all contrary suggestions. Besides, she was
thinking of her son, her Julio, now a soldier. . . . She
believed that, by returning to Paris, she might in some
ways be more in touch with him than at this seaside
resort near the Spanish frontier.
Chichi also wished to return because Rene was now
filling the greater part of her thoughts. Absence had
shown her that she was really in love with him. Such
a long time without seeing her little sugar soldier! . . •
So the family abandoned their hotel life and returned
to the avenue Victor Hugo.
Since the shock of the first September days, Paris
had been gradually changing its aspect. The nearly two
million inhabitants who had been living quietly in their
homes without letting themselves be drawn into the panic,
had accepted the victory with grave serenity. None
?87
388 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
of them could explain the exact course of the battle;
they would learn all about it when it was entirely
finished.
One September Sunday, at the hour when the Pari-
sians are accustomed to take advantage of the lovely
twilight, they had learned from the newspapers of the
great triumph of the Allies and of the great danger
which they had so narrowly escaped. The people were
delighted, but did not, however, abandon their calm de-
meanor. Six weeks of war had radically changed the
temperament of turbulent and impressionable Paris.
The victory was slowly restoring the Capital to its
former aspect. A street that was practically deserted
a few weeks before was now filled with transients.
The shops were reopening. The neighbors accustomed
to the conventional silence of their deserted apartment
houses, again heard sounds of returning life in the
homes above and below them.
Don Marcelo's satisfaction in welcoming his family
home was considerably clouded by the presence of Doiia
Elena. She was Germany returning to the encounter,
the enemy again established within his tents. Would
he never be able to free himself from this bondage? . . «
She was silent in her brother-in-law's presence because
recent events had rather bewildered her. Her coun-
tenance was stamped with a wondering expression as
though she were gazing at the upsetting of the most
elemental physical laws. In reflective silence she was
puzzling over the Marne enigma, unable to understand
how it was that the Germans had not conquered the
ground on which she was treading; and in order to
explain this failure, she resorted to the most absurd
suppositions.
One especially engrossing matter was increasing mt
sadness. Her sons. . . . What would become of her
AFTER THE MARNE 389
sons! Don Marcelo had never told her of his meeting
with Captain von Hartrott. He was maintaining abso-
lute silence about his sojourn at Villeblanche. He had
no desire to recount his adventures at the battle of the
Marne. What was the use of saddening his loved ones
with such miseries? , . . He simply told Dona Luisa,
who was alarmed about the possible fate of the castle,
that they would not be able to go there for many years
to come, because the hostilities had rendered it unin-
habitable. A covering of zinc sheeting had been sub-
stituted for the ancient roof in order to prevent further
injury from wind and rain to the wrecked interior.
Later on, after peace had been declared, they would
think about its renovation. Just now it had too many
inhabitants. And all the ladies, including Dona Elena,
shuddered in imagining the thousands of buried bodies
forming their ghastly circle around the building. This
vision made Frau von Hartrott again groan, "Ay, my
sons !"
Finally, for humanity's sake, her brother-in-law set
her mind at rest regarding the fate of one of them,
the Captain von Hartrott. He was in perfect health at
the beginning of the battle. He knew that this was so
from a friend who had conversed with him . . . and
he did not wish to talk further about him.
Dona Luisa was spending a part of each day in the
churches, trying to quiet her uneasiness with prayen
These petitions were no longer vague and generous for
the fate of millions of unknown men, for the victory of
an entire people. With maternal self-centredness they
were focussed on one single person — her son, who was
a soldier like the others, and perhaps at this very moment
was exposed to the greatest danger. The tears that he
had cost her! . . . She had implored that he and his
father might come to understand each other, and finally
390 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
just as God was miraculously granting her supplication
Julio had taken himself off to the field of death.
Her entreaties never went alone to the throne of
grace. Someone was praying near her, formulating iden-
tical requests. The tearful eyes of her sister were
raised at the same time as hers to the figure of the
crucified Savior. . . . "Lord, save my son!" . . . When
uttering these words. Dona Luisa always saw Julio as he
looked in a pale photograph which he had sent his
father from the trenches — with kepis and military cloak,
a gun in his right hand, and his face shadowed by a
growing beard. *'0 Lord have mercy upon us!" . . .
and Doiia Elena was at the same time contemplating a
group of officers with helmets and reseda uniforms rein-
forced with leather pouches for the revolver, field glasses
and maps, with sword-belt of the same material.
Oftentimes when Don Marcelo saw them setting forth
together toward Saint Honore d'Eylau, he would wax
very indignant.
"They are juggling with God. . . . This is most un^
reasonable! How could He grant such contrary peti-
tions? . . . Ah, these women!"
And then, with that superstition which danger awak-
ens, he began to fear that his sister-in-law might cause
some grave disaster to his son. Divinity, fatigued with
so many contradictory prayers was going to turn His
back and not listen to any of them. Why did not this
fatal woman take herself off? . . .
He felt as exasperated at her presence in his home
as he had at the beginning of hostilities Dona Luisa
was still innocently repeating her sister's statements,
submitting them to the superior criticism of her husband.
In this way, Don Marcelo had learned that the victory of
the Marne had never really happened; it was an inven-
tion of the allies. The German generals had deemed it
AFTER THE MARNE 391
prudent to retire through profound strategic foresight,
deferring till a little later the conquest of Paris, and
the French had done nothing but follow them over the
ground which they had left free. That was all. She
knew the opinions of military men of neutral countries;
she had been talking in Biarritz with some people of un-
usual intelligence; she knew what the German papers
were saying about it. Nobody over there believed that
yarn about the Marne. The people did not even know
that there had been such a battle.
"Your sister said that?" interrupted Desnoyers, pale
with wrath and amazement.
But he could do nothing but keep on longing for the
bodily transformation of this enemy planted under his
roof. Ay, if she could only be changed into a man!
If only the evil genius of her husband could but take
her place for a brief half hour ! . . .
*'But the war still goes on," said Dona Luisa in art^
less perplexity. "The enemy is still in France. . . .
What good did the battle of the Marne do?"
She accepted his explanations with intelligent noddings
of the head, seeming to take them all in, and an hour
"ifterwards would be repeating the same doubts.
She, nevertheless, began to evince a mute hostility
toward her sister. Until now, she had been tolerating
her enthusiasms in favor of her husband's country be-
cause she always considered family ties of more im-
portance than the rivalries of nations. Just because
Desnoyers happened to be a Frenchman and Karl a Ger-
man, she was not going to quarrel with Elena. But
suddenly this forbearance had vanished. Her son was
now in danger. . . . Better that all the von Hartrotts
should die than that Julio should receive the most in-
significant wound ! . . . She began to share the bellicose
sentiments of her daughter, recognizing in her an ex-
392 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ceptional talent for appraising events, and now desiring
all of Chichi's dagger thrusts to be converted into
reality.
Fortunately La Romantica took herself off before this
antipathy crystallized. She v^as accustomed to pass
the afternoons somewhere outside, and on her return
would rep**.at tlie news gleaned from friends unknown
to the rest of the family.
This mj^de Don Marcelo wax very indignant because
of the spies still hidden in Paris. What mysterious
world was his sister-in-law frequenting? . . .
Sudde»^ly she announced that she was leaving the
following.; morning; she had obtained a passport tc
Switzerk^'jid, and from there she would go to Germany
It was h^i^h time for her to be returning to her own?
she was t&ost appreciative of the hospitality shown her
by the family. . . . And Desnoyers bade her good-bye
with aggressive irony. His regards to von Hartrott;
he was hoping to pay him a visit in Berlin as soon as
possible.
One morning Dona Luisa, instead of entering the
neighboring church as usual, continued on to the rue de la
Ponife, pleased at the thought of seeing the studio once
more. It seemed to her that in this way she might put
herself more closely in touch with her son. This would
be a new pleasure, even greater than poring over his
photograph or re-reading his last letter.
She was hoping to meet Argensola, the friend of good
counsels, for she knew that he was still living in the
studio. Twice he had come to see her by the service
stairway as in the old days, but she had been out.
As she went up in the elevator, her heart was palpi-
tating with pleasure and distress. It occurred to the
good lady that the ''foolish virgins" must have had feeJ-
- AFTER THE MARNE 393
ings like this when for the first time they fell from the
heights of virtue.
The tears came to her eyes when she beheld the room
whose furnishings and pictures so vividly recalled the
absent. Argensola hastened from the door at the end
of the room, agitated, confused, and greeting her with
expressions of welcome at the same time that he was
putting sundry objects out of sight. A woman's sweater
lying on the divan, he covered with a piece of Oriental
drapery — a hat trimmed with flowers, he sent flying
into a far-away corner. Dona Luisa fancied that she
saw a bit of gauzy feminine negligee embroidered in
pink, flitting past the window frame. Upon the divan
were two big coffee cups and bits of toast evidently
left from a double breakfast. These artists! . . . The
same as her son! And she was moved to compassion
over the bad life of Julio's counsellor.
"My honored Dona Luisa. . . . My dear Madame
Desnoyers. . . /'
He was speaking in French and at the top of his
voice, looking frantically at the door through which
the white and rosy garments had flitted. He was
trembling at the thought that his hidden companion, not
understanding the situation, might in a jealous fit, com-
promise him by a sudden apparition.
Then he spoke to his unexpected guest about the
soldier, exchanging news with her. Dona Luisa re-
peated almost word for word the paragraphs of his
letters so frequently read. Argensola modestly re-
frained from displaying his ; the two friends were ac-
customed to an epistolary style which would have made
.^he good lady blush.
*'A valiant man !" affirmed the Spaniard proudly, look-
ing upon the deeds of his comrade as though they were
Ms own. "A true hero! and I, Madame Desnoyers*
394 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE'
know something about what that means. . . . His chiefs
know how to appreciate him." ...
Julio was a sergeant after having been only two months
in the campaign. The captain of his company and the
other officials of the regiment belonged to the fencing
club in which he had had so many triumphs.
"What a career!" he enthused. "He is one of those
who in youth reach the highest ranks, like the Generals
of the Revolution. . . . And what wonders he has ac-
complished !"
The budding officer had merely referred in the most
casual way to some of his exploits, with the indifference
of one accustomed to danger and expecting the same atti-
tude from his comrades ; but his chum exaggerated them,
enlarging upon them as though they were the culminating
events of the war. He had carried an order across an
infernal fire, after three messengers, trying to accomplish
the same feat, had fallen dead. He had been the first to
attack many trenches and had saved many of his
comrades by means of the blows from his bayonet and
hand to hand encounters. Whenever his superior offi-
cers needed a reliable man, they invariably said, "Let
Sergeant Desnoyers be called!"
He rattled off all this as though he had witnessed it,
as if he had just come from the seat of war, making
Dona Luisa tremble and pour forth tears of joy mingled
with fear over the glories and dangers of her son. That
Argensola certainly possessed the gift of affecting his
hearers by the realism with which he told his stories !
In gratitude for these eulogies, she felt that she ought
^o show some interest in his affairs. . . . What had he
t)een doing of late?
"I, Madame, have been where I ought to be. I have
not budged from this spot. I have witnessed the siege
of Paris."
AFTER THE MARNE 395
In vain, his reason protested against the inexactitude
of that word, "siege." Under the influence of his read-
ings about the war of 1870, he had classed as a siege
all those events which had developed near Paris during
the course of the battle of the Marne.
He pointed modestly to a diploma in a gold frame
hanging above the piano against a tricolored flag. It
was one of the papers sold in the streets, a certificate
of residence in the Capital during the week of danger.
He had filled in the blanks with his name and description
of his person ; and at the foot w^ere very conspicuous the
signatures of two residents of the rue de la Pompe — a
tavern-keeper, and a friend of the concierge. The dis-
trict Commissary of Police, with stamp and seal, had
guaranteed the respectability of these honorable wit-
nesses. Nobody could remain in doubt, after such pre-
cautions, as to whether he had or had not witnessed the
siege of Paris. He had such incredulous friends ! . . .
In order to bring the scene more dramatically before
his amiable listener, he recalled the most striking of
his impressions for her special benefit. Once, in broad
daylight, he had seen a flock of sheep in the boulevard
near the Madeleine. Their tread had resounded through
the deserted streets like echoes from the city of the dead.
He was the only pedestrian on the sidewalks thronged
with cats and dogs.
His military recollections excited him like tales of
glory.
'T have seen the march of the soldiers from Mo*
rocco. ... I have seen the Zouaves in automobiles !"
The very night that Julio had gone to Bordeaux, he
had wandered around till sunrise, traversing half of
Paris, from the Lion of Belfort, to the Gave de VEst
Twenty thousand men, with all their campaign outfitf
coming from Morocco, had disembarked at Marseilles
396 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
and arrived at the Capital, making part of the trip by rail
and the rest afoot. They had come to take part in the
great battle then beginning. They were troops com-
posed of Europeans and Africans. The vanguard, on
entering through the Orleans gate, had swung into
rhythmic pace, thus crossing half Paris toward the
Gare de I'Est where the trains were waiting for them.
The people of Paris had seen squadrons from Tunis
with theatrical uniforms, mounted on horses, nervous
and fleet. Moors with yellow turbans, Senegalese with
black faces and scarlet caps, colonial artillerymen, and
light infantry from Africa. These were professional
warriors, soldiers who in times of peace, led a life of
continual fighting in the colonies — men with energetic
profiles, bronzed faces and the eyes of beasts of prey.
They had remained motionless in the streets for hours
at a time, until room could be found for them in the
military trains. . . . And Argensoia had followed this
armed, impassive mass of humanity from the boulevards,
talking with the officials, and listening to the primitive
cries of the African warriors who had never seen Paris,
and who passed through it v/ithout curiosity, asking
where the enemy was.
They had arrived in time to attack von Kluck on the
banks of the Ourq, obliging him to fall back or be com-
pletely overwhelmed.
A fact which Argensoia did not relate to his sympa-
thetic guest was that his nocturnal excursion the entire
length of this division of the army had been accom-
panied by the amiable damsel within, and two other
friends — an enthusiastic and generous coterie, distribut-
ing flowers and kisses to the swarthy soldiers, and laugh-
ing at their consternation and gleaming^ white teeth.
Another day he had seen the most extraordinary of
all the spectacles of the war. All the taxicabs, some two
AFTER THE MARNE 397
thousand vehicles, conveying battalions of Zouaves, eight
men to a motor car, had gone rolling past him at full
speed, bristling with guns and red caps. They had pre-
sented a most picturesque train in the boulevards, like
a kind of interminable wedding procession. And these
soldiers got out of the automobiles on the very edge of
the battle field, opening fire the instant that they leaped
from the steps. Gallieni had launched all the men who
knew how to handle a gun against the extreme right of
the adversary at the supreme moment when the most
insignificant weight might tip the scales in favor of the
victory which was hanging in the balance. The clerks
and secretaries of the military offices, the orderlies of
the government and the civil police, all had marched to
give that final push, forming a mass of heterogeneous
colors.
And one Sunday afternoon when, with his three com-
panions of the "siege" he was strolling with thousands
of other Parisians through the Bois de Boulogne, he had
learned from the extras that the combat which had
developed so near to the city was turning into a great
battle, a victory.
*T have seen much, Madame Desnoyers. ... I can
relate great events."
And she agreed with him. Of course Argensola had
seen much ! . . . And on taking her departure, she
offered him all the assistance in her power. He was
the friend of her son, and she was used to his petitions.
Times had changed ; Don Marcelo's generosity now knew
no bounds . . . but the Bohemian interrupted her with
a lordly gesture ; he was living in luxury. Julio had
made him his trustee. The draft from America had
been honored by the bank as a deposit, and he had the
use of the interest in accordance with the regulations of
the moratorium. His friend was sending him regularly
398 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
whatever money was needed for household expenses
Never had he been in such prosperous condition. War
had its good side, too . . . but not wishing to break
away from old customs, he announced that once more he
would mount the service stairs in order to bear away a
basket of bottles.
After her sister's departure, Dona Luisa went alone to
the churches until Chichi in an outburst of devotional
ardor, suddenly surprised her with the announcement :
*'Mama, I am going with you!"
The new devotee was no longer agitating the house-
hold by her rollicking, boyish joy; she was no longer
threatening the enemy with imaginary dagger thrusts.
She was pale, and with dark circles under her eyes. Her
head was drooping as though weighed down with a set of
serious, entirely new thoughts on the other side of her
forehead.
Dona Luisa observed her in the church with an almost
indignant jealousy. Her headstrong child's eyes were
moist, and she was praying as fervently as the mother
. . . but it was surely not for her brother. Julio had
passed to second place in her remembrance. Another
man was now completely filling her thoughts.
The last of the Lacours was no longer a simple soldier,
nor was he now in Paris. Upon her return from Biar-
ritz, Chichi had listened anxiously to the reports from
her little sugar soldier. Throbbing with eagerness, she
wanted to know all about the dangers which he had
been experiencing; and the young warrior '*in the aux-
iliary service" told her of his restlessness in the office
during the interminable days in which the troops were
battling around Paris, hearing afar off the boom of
the artillery. His father had wished to^ take him with
him to Bordeaux, but the administrative confusion of
the last hour had kept him in the capital.
AFTER THE MARNE 399
He had done something more. On the day of the
great crisis, when the acting governor had sent out all
the available men in automobiles, he had, unasked,
seized a gun and occupied a motor v^ith others from his
office. He had not seen anything more than smoke,
burning houses, and wounded men. Not a single Ger-
man had passed before his eyes, excepting a band of
Uhlan prisoners, but for some hours he had been shoot-
ing on the edge of the road . . . and nothing more.
For a while, that was enough for Chichi. She felt
very proud to be the betrothed of a hero of the Marne,
even though his intervention had lasted but a few hours.
In a few days, however, her enthusiasm became rather
clouded.
It was becoming annoying to stroll through the streets
with Rene, a simple soldier and in the auxiliary service,
besides. . . . The women of the town, excited by the
recollection of their men fighting at the front, or clad
in mourning because of the death of some loved one,
would look at them with aggressive insolence. The re-
finement and elegance of the Republican Prince seemed
to irritate them. Several times, she overheard uncom-
plimentary words hurled against the ''emhusques."
The fact that her brother who was not French was
in the thick of the fighting, made the Lacour situation
still more intolerable. She had an '^emhusque" for a
lover. How her friends would laugh at her! . . .
The senator's son soon read her thoughts and began
to lose some of his smiling serenity. For three days
he did not present himself at the Desnoyers' home,
and they all supposed that he was detained by work at
the office.
One morning as Chichi was going toward the Bois de
Boulogne, escorted by one of the nut-brown maids, she
noticed a soldier coming toward her. He was wearing
400 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
a bright uniform of the new gray-blue, the ''horizon
blue" just adopted by the French army. The chin strap
of his kepi was gilt, and on his sleeve there was a little
strip of gold. His smile, his outstretched hands, the
confidence with which he advanced toward her made
her recognize him. Rene an officer! Her betrothed a
sub-lieutenant !
"Yes, of course ! I could do nothing else. ... I had
heard enough!"
Without his father's knowledge, and assisted by his
friends, he had in a few days, wrought this wonderful
transformation. As a graduate of the Ecole Centrale,
he held the rank of a sub-lieutenant of the Reserve
Artillery, and he had requested to be sent to the front.
Good-bye to the auxiliary service! . . . Within two
days, he was going to start for the war.
"You have done this !" exclaimed Chichi. "You have
done this !"
Although very pale, she gazed fondly at him with her
great eyes — eyes that seemed to devour him with admira-
tion.
"Come here, my poor boy. . . . Come here, my sweet
little soldier ! . . . I owe you something."
And turning her back on the maid, she asked him to
come with her round the corner. It was just the same
there. The cross street was just as thronged as tbe
avenue. But what did she care for the stare of the
curious ! Rapturously she flung her arms around his
neck, blind and insensible to everything and everybody
but him.
"There. . . . There!" And she planted on his face
two vehement, sonorous, aggressive kisses.
Then trembling and shuddering, she suddenly weak-
ened, and fumbling for her handkerchief, broke down in
desperate weeping.
CHAPTER II
IN THE STUDIO
Upon opening the studio door one afternoon, Argen*'
sola stood motionless with surprise, as though rooted to
the ground.
An old gentleman was greeting him with an amiable
smile.
*'I am the father of Julio."
And he walked into the apartment with the confidence
of a man entirely familiar with his surroundings.
By good luck, the artist was alone, and was not obliged
to tear frantically from one end of the room to the other,
hiding the traces of convivial company; but he was a
little slow in regaining his self-control. He had heard
so much about Don Marcelo and his bad temper, that
he was very uncomfortable at this unexpected appearance
in the studio. . . . What could the fearful man want?
His tranquillity was restored after a furtive, apprais-
ing glance. His friend's father had aged greatly since
the beginning of the war. He no longer had that air of
tenacity and ill-humor that had made him unapproach-
able. His eyes were sparkling with childish glee; his
hands were trembling slightly, and his back was bent.
Argensola, who had always dodged him in the street and
had thrilled with fear when sneaking up the stairway
in the avenue home, now felt a sudden confidence. The
transformed old man was beaming on him like a com-
rade, and making excuses to justify his visit.
402 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYl^E
He had wished to see his son's home. Poor old man!
He was drawn thither by the same attraction which
leads the lover to lessen his solitude by haunting the
places that his beloved has frequented. The letters from
Julio were not enough ; he needed to see his old abode,
to be on familiar terms with the objects which had
surrounded him, to breathe the same air, to chat with
the young man who was his boon companion.
His fatherly glance now included Argensola. . . . ''A
very interesting fellow, that Argensola!" And as he
thought this, he forgot completely that, without know-
ing him, he had been accustomed to refer to him as
"shameless," just because he was sharing his son's
prodigal life.
Desnoyers' glance roamed delightedly around the stu-
dio. He knew well these tapestries and furnishings,
all the decorations of the former owner. He easily re-
membered everything that he had ever bought, in spite
of the fact that they were so many. His eyes then
sought the personal effects, everything that would call the
absent occupant to mind; and he pored over the miser-
ably executed paintings, the unfinished dabs which filled
all the corners.
Were they all Julio's? . . . Many of the canvases be-
longed to Argensola, but affected by the old man's emo-
tion, the artist displayed a marvellous generosity, ^es,
everything was Julio's handiwork . . . and the father
went from canvas to canvas, halting admiringly before
the vaguest daubs as though he could almost detect signs
of genius in their nebulous confusion.
"You think he has talent, really?" he asked in a tone
that implored a favorable reply. 'T always thought him
very intelligent ... a little of the diahle, perhaps, but
character changes with years. . . . Now he is an alto-
gether different man."
IN THE STUDIO 403
And he almost wept at hearing the Spaniard, with his
ready, enthusiastic speech, lauding the departed "diable,"
graphically setting forth the way in which his great
genius was going to take the world when his turn should
come.
The painter of souls finally worked himself up into
feeling as much affected as the father, and began to
admire this old Frenchman with a certain remorse, not
wishing to remember how he had ranted against him
■not so very long ago. What injustice 1 . . .
Don Marcelo clasped his hand like an old comrade.
All of his son's friends were his friends. He knew the
life that young men lived If at any time, he
should be in any difficulties, if he needed an allowance
so as to keep on with his painting — there he was, anxious
to help him! He then and there invited him to dine
at his home that very night, and if he would care to come
every evening, so much the better. He would eat a
family dinner, entirely informal. War had brought
about a great many changes, but he would always be as
welcome to the intimacy of the hearth as though he
were in his father's home.
Then he spoke of Spain, in order to place himself on
a more congenial footing with the artist. He had never
been there but once, and then only for a short time ; but
after the war, he was going to know it better. His
father-in-law was a Spaniard, his wife had Spanish
blood, and in his home the language of the family was
always Castilian. Ah, Spain, the country with a noble
past and illustrious men ! . . . .
Argensola had a strong suspicion that if he had been
a native of any other land, the old gentleman would have
praised it in the same way. All this affection was but ^
reflex of his love for his absent son, but [t so pleased
404 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the impressionable fellow that he almost embraced Don
Marcelo when he took his departure.
After that, his visits to the studio were very frequent.
The artist was obliged to recommend his friends to take
a good long walk after lunch, abstaining from reappear-
ing in the rue de la Pompe until nightfall. Sometimes,
however, Don Marcelo would unexpectedly present him-
self in the morning, and then the soulful impressionist
would have to scurry from place to place, hiding here,
concealing there, in order that his workroom should pre-
serve its appearance of virtuous labor.
"Youth. . . youth!" the visitor would murmur with a
smile of tolerance.
And he actually had to make an effort to recall the
dignity of his years, in order not to ask Argensola to
present him to the fair fugitives whose presence he
suspected in the interior rooms. Perhaps they had been
his boy's friends, too. They represented a part of his
past, anyway, and that was enough to make him pre-
sume that they had great charms which made them in-
teresting.
These surprises, with their upsetting consequences,
finally made the painter rather regret this new friend-
ship; and the invitations to dinner which he was con-
stantly receiving bored him, too. He found the Des-
noyers table most excellent, but too tedious — for the
f-^ther and mother could talk of nothing but their absent
^^, Chichi scarcely looked at her brother's friend.
O^er a;itention was entirely concentrated on the war.
The irregularity in the mails was exasperating her so
that she began composing protests to the government
whenever a few days passed ^v without bringing any
letter from sub-Lieutenant Lacour.
Argensola excused himself on various pretexiLs ita?JI
continuing to dine in the avenue Victor Hugo, li
IN THE STUDIO 405
pleased him far more to haunt the cheap restaurants with
his female flock. His host accepted his negatives with
good-natured resignation.
''Not to-day, either?"
And in order to compensate for his guest's non-appear-
ance, he would present himself at the studio earlier
than ever on the day following.
It was an exquisite pleasure for the doting father to
let the time slip by seated on the divan which still
seemed to guard the very hollow made by Julio's body,
gazing at the canvases covered with color by his brush,
toasting his toes by the heat of a stove which roared
so cosily in the profound, conventual silence. It cer-
tainly was an agreeable refuge, full of memories in the
midst of monotonous Paris so saddened by the war that
he could not meet a friend who was not preoccupied
with his own troubles.
His former purchasing dissipations had now lost all
charm for him. The Hotel Drouot no longer tempted
him. At that time, the goods of German residents,
seized by the government, were being auctioned off; —
a felicitous retaliation for the enforced journey which
the fittings of the castle of Villeblanche had taken on
the road to Berlin; but the agents told him in vain of
the few competitors which he would now meet. He no
longer felt attracted by these extraordinary bargains.
Why buy anything more? . . . Of what use was such
useless stuff? Whenever he thought of the hard life
of millions of men in the open field, he felt a longing
to lead an ascetic life. He was beginning to hate the
ostentatious splendors of his home on the avenue Victor
Hugo. He now recalled without a regretful pang, the
destruction of the castle. No, he was far better off
there . . . and "there" was always the studio of Julio.
Argensola began to form the habit of working in the
4o6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
presence of Don Marcelo. He knew that the resolute
soul abominated inactive people, so, under the conta-
gious influence of dominant will-power, he began sev-
eral new pieces. Desnoyers would follow with interest
the motions of his brush and accept all the explanations
of the soulful delineator. For himself, he always pre-
ferred the old masters, and in his bargains had acquired
the work of many a dead artist; but the fact that Julio
had thought as his partner did was now enough for the
devotee of the antique and made him admit humbly all
the Spaniard's superior theories.
The artist's laborious zeal was always of short dura-
tion. After a few moments, he always found that he
preferred to rest on the divan and converse with his
guest.
The first subject, of course, was the absentee. They
would repeat fragments of the letters they had received,
and would speak of the past with the most discreet
allusions. The painter described Julio's life before the
war as an existence dedicated completely to art. The
father ignored the inexactitude of such words, and
gratefully accepted the lie as a proof of friendship.
Argensola was such a clever comrade, never, in his
loftiest verbal flights, making the slightest reference to
Madame Laurier.
The old gentleman was often thinking about her now-
adays, for he had seen her in the street giving her arm
to her husband, now recovered from his wounds. The
illustrious Lacour had informed him with great satis-
faction of their reconciliation. The engineer had lost
but one eye. Now he was again at the head of his
factory requisitioned by the government for the manu-
facture of shells. He was a Captain, ^nd was wearing
two decorations of honor. The senator did not know
exactly how this unexpected agreement had come about.
IN THE STUDIO 407
He had one day seen them coming home together, look-
ing affectionately at each other, in complete oblivion of
the past.
"Who remembers things that happened before the
war?" said the politic sage. ''They and their friends
have completely forgotten all about their divorce. Now-
adays we are all living a new existence. ... I believe
that the two are happier than ever before/'
Desnoyers had had a presentiment of this happiness
when ne saw them together. And the man of inflexible
morality who was, the year before, anathematizing his
sen's behavior toward Laurier, considering it the most
unpardonable of his adventures, now felt a certain indig-
nation in seeing Marguerite devoted to her husband,
and talking to him with such affectionate interest. This
matrimonial felicity seemed to him like the basest ingrati-
tude. A woman who had had such an influence over the
life of Julio ! . . . Could she thus easily forget her
love! . . .
The two had passed on as though they did not recog-
nize him. Perhaps Captain Laurier did not see very
clearly, but she had looked at him frankly and then
hastily averted her eyes so as to evade his greeting. . . .
The old man felt sad over such indifference, not on his
own account, but on his son's. Poor Julio ! . . . The
unbending parent, in complete mental immorality, found
himself lamenting this indifference as something mon-
strous.
The war was the other topic of conversation during
the afternoons passed in the studio. Argensola was not
now stuffing his pockets with printed sheets as at the
beginning of hostilities. A serene and resigned calm had
succeeded the excitement of those first moments when
the people were daily looking for miraculous interven-
tinns. All the periodicals were saying about the same
4o8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
thing. He was content with the official report, and he
had learned to wait for that document without impa-
tience, foreseeing that with but few exceptions, it would
say the same thing as the day before.
The fever of the first months, with its illusions and
optimisms, now appeared to Argensola somewhat chi-
merical. Those not actually engaged in the war were
returning gradually to their habitual occupations. Life
had recovered its regular rhythm. "One must live!"
said the people, and the struggle for existence filled their
thoughts with its immediate urgency. Those whose rela-
tives were in the army, were still thinking of them,
but their occupations were so blunting the edge of mem-
ory, that they were becoming accustomed to their ab-
sence, regarding the unusual as the normal condition.
At first, the war made sleep out of the question, food
impossible to swallow, and embittered every pleasure
with its funereal pall. Now the shops were slowly
opening, money was in circulation, and people were
able to laugh ; they talked of the great calamity, but only
at certain hours, as something that was going to be long,
very long and would exact great resignation to its in-
evitable fatalism.
"Humanity accustoms itself easily to trouble," said
Argensola, "provided that the trouble lasts long enough.
... In this lies our strength."
Don Marcelo was not in sympathy with the general
resignation. The war was going to be much shorter
than they were all imagining. His enthusiasm had set-
tled on a speedy termination; — within the next three
months, the next Spring probably; if peace were not
declared in the Spring, it surely would be in the Summer.
A new talker took part in these conversations. Des-
noyers had become acquainted with the Russian neighbor
of whom Argensola had so frequently spoken. Since
IN THE STUDIO 40C)
this odd personage had also known his s n, that was
enough to make Tchernoff arouse his interest.
In normal times, he would have kept him at a distance.
The millionaire was a great believer in law and order.
He abominated revolutionists, with the instinctive fear of
all the rich who have built up a fortune and remember
their humble beginnings. Tchernoff's socialism and
nationality brought vividly to his mind a series of fever-
ish images — bombs, daggers, stabbings, deserved expia-
tions on the gallows, and exile to Siberia. No, he was
not desirable as a friend. . . .
But now Don Marcelo was experiencing an abrupt
reversal of his convictions regarding alien ideas. He
had seen so much! . . . The revolting proceedings of
the invasion, the unscrupulous methods of the German
chiefs, the tranquillity with which their submarines were
sinking boats filled with defenseless passengers, the deeds
of the aviators who were hurling bombs upon unguarded
cities, destroying women and children — all this was caus-
ing the events of revolutionary terrorism which, years
ago, used to arouse his wrath, to sink inco relative
iinimportance.
"And to think," he said, "that we used to be as infuri-
ated as though the world were coming to an end, just
because someone threw a bomb at a grandee !"
Those titled victims had had certain reprehensible
qualities which had justified their execution. They had
died in consequence of acts which they undertook, know-
ing well what the punishment would be. They had
brought retribution on themselves without trying to
evade it, rarely taking any precautions. While the ter-
rorists of this war! . . .
With the violence of his imperious character, the old
conservative now swung to the opposite extreme.
"The true anarchists are ytt on top/' he said with an
410 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ironical laugh. "Those who terrified us formerly, all
put together, were but a few miserable creatures. . . .
In a few seconds, these of our day kill more innocent
people than those others did in thirty years."
The gentleness of Tchernoff, his original ideas, his
incoherencies of thought, bounding from reflection to
word without any preparation, finally won Don Marcelo
so completely over that he formed the habit of con-
sulting him about all his doubts. His admiration made
him, too, overlook the source of certain bottles with
which Argensola sometimes treated his neighbor. He
was delighted to have Tchernoff consume these sou-
venirs of the time when he was living at swords' points
with his son.
After sampling the wine from the avenue Victor Hugo,
the Russian would indulge in a visionary loquacity
similar to that of the night when he evoked the fan-
tastic cavalcade of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
What his new convert most admired was his facility
for making things clear, and fixing them in the imagina-
tion. The battle of the Marne with its subsequent com-
bats and the course of both armies were events easily
explained. ... If the French only had not been so
fatigued after their triumph of the Marne! . . .
. . . "But human powers," continued Tchernoff, "have
their limits, and the French soldier, with all his enthusi-
asm, is a man like the rest. In the first place, the most
rapid of marches from the East to the North, in order
to resist the invasion of Belgium; then the combats;
then the swift retreat that they might not be surrounded ;
finally a seven days' battle — and all this in a period of
three weeks, no more. ... In their moment of triumph,
the victors lacked the legs to follow up their advantage,
and they lacked the cavalry to pursue the fugitives.
Their beasts were even more exhausted than the men.
IN THE STUDIO 411
When those who were retreating found that they were
being spurred on with lessening tenacity, they had
stretched themselves, half-dead Avith fatigue, on the field,
excavating the ground and forming a refuge for them-
selves. The French also flung themselves down, scrap-
ing the soil together so as not to lose what they had
gaincvi. . . . And in this way began tiie war of the
trenches."
Then each line, with the intention of wrapping itself
arouad that of the enemy, had gone on prolonging itself
towjwrd the Northeast, and from these successive stretch-
ings had resulted the double course toward the sea — ■
forming the greatest battle front ever known to history.
When Don Marcelo with optimistic enthusiasm an-
nounced the end of the war in the following Spring or
Summer — in four months at the outside — the Russian
shook his head.
'Tt will be long . . . very long. It is a new war, the
j^enuine modern warfare. The Germans began hostili-
ties in the old way as though they had observed nothing
since 1870 — a war of involved movements, of battles
in the open field, the same as Moltke might have planned,
imitating Napoleon. They were desirous of bringing
it to a speedy conclusion, and were sure of triumph.
Why employ new methods? . . . But the encounter of
iht Marne twisted their plans, making them shift from
the aggressive to the defensive. They then brought into
service all that the war staff had learned in the cam-
paigns of the Japanese and Russians, beginning the
war of the trenches, the subterranean struggle which is
the logical outcome of the reach and number of shots
of the modern armament. The conquest of half a mile
of territory to-day stands for more than did the assault
of a stone fortress a century ago. Neither side is going
to make any headway for a long time- Perhaps they
412 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
may never make a definite advance. The war is bound
to be long and tedious, like the athletic conquests be-
tween opponents who are equally matched."
"But it will have to come to an end, sometime," inter-
polated Desnoyers.
"Undoubtedly, but who knows when? . . . And
in what condition will they both be when it is all
over?" . . .
He was counting upon a rapid finale when it was
least expected, through the exhaustion of one of the
contestants, carefully dissimulated until the last moment.
"Germany will be vanquished," he added with firm
conviction. "I do not know when nor how, but she will
fall logically. She failed in her master-stroke in not
entering Paris and overcoming its opposition. All the
trumps in her pack of cards were then played. She
did not win, but continues playing the game because she
holds many cards, and she will prolong it for a long
time to come. . . . But what she could not do at first, she
will never be able to do."
For Tchemoff, the final defeat did not mean the de-
struction of Germany nor the annihilation of the German
people.
"Excessive patriotism irritates me," he pursued.
"Hearing people form plans for the definite extinction
of Germany seems to me like listening to the Pan-
Germanists of Berlin when they talk of dividing up the
continents."
Then he summed up his opinion.
"Imperialism will have to be crushed for the sake of
the tranquillity of the world; the great war machine
which menaces the peace of nations will have to be sup-
pressed. Since 1870, we have all been Jiving in dread
of it. For forty years, the war has been averted, but in
all that time, what apprehension!" ... '
IN THE STUDIO 413
What was most irritating Tchernoff was the moral
lesson born of thi? situation which had ended by over-
whelming the world — the glorification of power, the
sanctification of success, the triumph of materialism, the
respect for the accomplished fact, the mockery of the
noblest sentiments as though they were merely sonorous
and absurd phrases, the reversal of moral values ... a
philosophy of bandits which pretended to be the last
word of progress, and was no more than a return to
despotism, violence, and the barbarity of the most primi-
tive epochs of history.
While he was longing for the suppression of the repre-
sentatives of this tendency, he would not, therefore, de-
mand the extermination of the German people.
*'This nation has great merits jumbled with bad con-
ditions inherited from a not far-distant, barbarous past.
It possesses the genius of organization and work, and is
able to lend great service to humanity. . . . But first it is
necessary to give it a douche — the douche of downfall.
The Germans are mad with pride and their madness
threatens the security of the world. When those who
have poisoned them with the illusion of universal
hegemony have disappeared, when misfortune has fresh-
ened their imagination and transformed them into a
community of humans, neither superior nor inferior to
the rest of mankind, they will become a tolerant people,
useful . . . and who knows but they may even prove
sympathetic !"
According to Tchemoff, there was not in existence
to-day a more dangerous nation. Its political organiza-
tion was converting it into a warrior horde, educated by
kicks and submitted to continual humiliations in order
that the will-power which always resists discipline might
h^ completely nullified.
*It is a nation where all receive blows and desire to
414 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
give them to those lower down. The kick that the Kaiser
gives is transmitted from back to back down to the lowest
rung of the social ladder. The blows begin in the school
and are continued in the barracks, forming part of the
education. The apprenticeship of the Prussian Crown
Princes has always consisted in receiving fisticuffs and
cowhidings from their progenitor, the king. The Kaiser
beats his children, the officer his soldiers, the father his
wife and children, the schoolmaster his pupils, and when
the superior is not able to give blows, he subjects those
tinder him to the torment of moral insult."
On this account, when they abandoned their ordinary
avocations, taking up arms in order to fall upon another
human group, they did so with implacable ferocity.
"Each one of them," continued the Russian, ''carries
on his back the marks of kicks, and when his turn comes,
he seeks consolation in passing them on to the unhappy
creatures whom war puts into his power. This nation of
war-lords, as they love to call themselves, aspires to lord-
ship, but outside of the country. Within it, are the ones
who least appreciate human dignity and, therefore, long
vehemently to spread their dominant will over the face
of the earth, passing from lackeys to lords."
Suddenly Don Marcelo stopped going with such fre-
quency to the studio. He was now haunting the home
and office of the senator, because this friend had upset
his tranquillity. Lacour had been much depressed since
the heir to the family glory had broken through the pro-
tecting paternal net in order to go to war.
One night, while dining with the Desnoyers family, an
idea popped into his head which filled him with delight.
"Would you like to see your son?" He needed to see
Ren6 and had begun negotiating for a permit from head-
quarters which would allow him to visit the front. His
son belonged to the same army division as Julio ; perhaps
IN THE STUDIO 415
their camps were rather far apart, but an automobila
makes many revolutions before it reaches the end of it3
journey.
It was not necessary to say more. Desnoyers instantly
felt the most overmastering desire to see his boy, since,
for so many months, he had had to content himself with
reading his letters and studying the snap shot which one
of his comrades had made of his soldier son.
From that time on, he besieged the senator as though
he were a political supporter desirmg an office. He
visited him in the mornings in his home, invited him to
dinner every evening, and hunted him down in the salons
of the Luxembourg. Before the first word of greeting
could be exchanged, his eyes were formulating the same
interrogation. . . . "When will you get that permit ?''
The great man could only reply by lamenting the indif-
ference of the military department toward the civilian
element; it always had been inimical toward parliamen-
tarism.
"Besides, Joffre is showing himself most unapproach-
able ; he does not encourage the curious. . . . To-morrow
I will see the President."
A few days later, he arrived at the house in the avenue
Victor Hugo, with an expression of radiant satisfaction
that filled Don Marcelo with joy.
"It has come ?"
*Tt has come. . . . We start the day after to-morrow.**
Desnoyers went the following afternoon to the studio
in the rue de la Ponipe.
"I am going to-morrow!"
The artist was very eager to accompany him. Would
it not be possible for him to go, too, as secretary to the
senator? . . . Don Marcelo smiled benevolently. The
authorization was only for Lacour and one companion.
4i6 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE-
He was the one who was going to pose as secretary, valet
or utility man to his future relative-in-law.
At the end of the afternoon, he left the studio, accom-
panied to the elevator by the lamentations of Argensola.
To think that he could not join that expedition! . . . He
believed that he had lost the opportunity to paint his
masterpiece.
Just outside of his home, he met Tchernoff. Don Mar-
celo was in high good humor. The certainty that he was
soon going to see his son filled him with boyish good
spirits. He almost embraced the Russian in spite of his
slovenly aspect, his tragic beard and his enormous hat
which made every one turn to look after him.
At the end of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe stood
forth against a sky crimsoned by the sunset. A red cloud
was floating around the monument, reflected on its white-
ness with purpling palpitations.
Desnoyers recalled the four horsemen, and all that
Argensola had told him before presenting him to the
Russian.
"Blood !" he shouted jubilantly. ''All the sky seems to
be blood-red. ... It is the apocalyptic beast who has re-
ceived his death-wound. Soon we shall see him die."
Tchernoff smiled, too, but his was a melancholy smile.
*'No; the beast does not die. It is the eternal com-
panion of man. It hides, spouting blood, forty . . . sixty
... a hundred years, but eventually it reappears. All that
we can hope is that its wound may be long and deep, that
it may remain hidden so long that the generation that
now remembers it may never see it again."
CHAPTER III
WAR
Don Marcelo was climbing up a mountain covered
jvith woods.
The forest presented a tragic desolation. A silent
tempest had installed itself therein, placing everything in
violent unnatural positions. Not a single tree still pre-
served its upright form and abundant foliage as in the
days of peace. The groups of pines recalled the columns
of ruined temples. Some were still standing erect, but
without their crowns, like shafts that might have lost
their capitals ; others were pierced like the mouthpiece of
H flute, or like pillars struck by a thunderbolt. Some had
splintery threads hanging around their cuts like used
toothpicks.
A sinister force of destruction had been raging among
these beeches, spruce and oaks. Great tangles of their
cut boughs were cluttering the ground, as though a band
of gigantic woodcutters had just passed by. The trunks
had been severed a little distance from the ground with
a clean and glistening stroke, as though with a single
blow of the axe. Around the disinterred roots were
quantities of stones mixed with sod, stones that had been
sleeping in the recesses of the earth and had been brought
to the surface by explosions.
At intervals — gleaming among the trees or blocking the
roadway with an importunity which required some zig-
zagging— was a series of pools, all alike, of regular geo-
417
4i8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
metrical circles. To Desnoyers, they seemed like sunken
basins for the use of the invisible Titans who had been
hewing" the forest. Their great depth extended to their
very edges. A swimmer might dive into these lagoons
without ever touching bottom. Their water was greenish,
still water — rain water with a scum of vegetation per-
forated by the respiratory bubbles of the little organisms
coming to life in its vitals.
Bordering the hilly pathway through the pines, were
many mounds with crosses of wood — tombs of French
soldiers topped with little tricolored flags. Upon these
moss-covered graves were the old kepis of the gunners.
The ferocious wood-chopper, in destroying this woods,
had also blindly demolished many of the ants swarming
around the trunks.
Don Marcelo was wearing leggings, a broad hat, and
on his shoulders a fine poncho arranged like a shawl —
garments which recalled his far-distant life on the ranch.
Behind him came Lacour trying to preserve his senatorial
dignity in spite of his gasps and puffs of fatigue. He
also was wearing high boots and a soft hat, but he had
kept to his solemn frock-coat in order not to abandon
entirely his parliamentary uniform. Before them
inarched two captains as guides.
They were on a mountain occupied by the French
artillery, and were climbing to the top where were
hidden cannons and cannons, forming a line some miles
in length. The German artillery had caused the wood-
land ruin around the visitors, in their return of the
French fire. The circular pools were the hollows dug by
the German shells in the limy, non-porous soil which
preserved all the runnels of rain.
The visiting party had left their automobile at the foot
of the mountain. One of the officers, a former artillery-
man, explained this precaution to them. It was necessary
WAR 419
to climb this roadway very cautiously. They were within
reach of the enemy, and an automobile might attract the
attention of their gunners.
"A little fatiguing, this climb," he continued. "Cour-
age, Senator Lacour ! . . . We are almost there."
They began to meet artillerymen, many of them not in
uniform but wearing the military kepis. They looked
like workmen from a metal factory, foundrymen with
jackets and pantaloons of corduroy. Their arms were
bare, and some had put on wooden shoes in order to get
over the mud with greater security. They were former
iron laborers, mobilized into the artillery reserves. Their
sergeants had been factory overseers, and many of them
officials, engineers and proprietors of big workshops.
Suddenly the excursionists stumbled upon the iron in-
mates of the woods. W^hen these spoke, the earth trem-
bled, the air shuddered, and the native inhabitants of the
forest, the crows, rabbits, butterflies and ants, fled in
terrified flight, trying to hide themselves from the fear-
ful convulsion which seemed to be bringing the world
to an end. Just at present, the bellowing monsters were
silent, so that they came upon them unexpectedly. Some-
thing was sticking up out of the greenery like a gray
beam ; at other times, this apparition would emerge from
a conglomeration of dry trunks. Around this obstacle
was cleared ground occupied by men who lived, slept and
worked about this huge manufactory on wheels.
The senator, who had written verse in his youth and
composed oratorical poetry when dedicating various
monuments in his district, saw in these solitary men on
the mountain side, blackened by the sun and smoke, with
naked breasts and bare arms, a species of priests dedi-
cated to the service of a fatal divinity that was receiving
from their hands offerings of enormous explosive cap*
sules, hurling them forth in thunderclaps.
420 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Hidden under the branches, in order to escape the
observation of the enemy's birdmen, the French cannon
were scattered among the hills and hollows of the high-
land range. In this herd of steel, there were enormous
pieces with wheels reinforced by metal plates, somewhat
like the farming engines which Desnoyers had used on
his ranch for plowing. Like smaller beasts, more agile
and playful in their incessant yelping, the groups of '75
were mingled with the terrific monsters.
The two captains had received from the general of
their division orders to show Senator Lacour minutely
the workings of the artillery, and Lacour was accepting
their observations with corresponding gravity while his
eyes roved from side to side in the hope of recognizing
his son. The interesting thing for him was to see Rene
. . . but recollecting the official pretext of his journey, he
followed submissively from cannon to cannon, listening
patiently to all explanations.
The operators next showed him the servants of these
pieces, great oval cylinders extracted from subterranean
storehouses called shelters. These storage places were
deep burrows, oblique wells reinforced with sacks of
stones and wood. They served as a refuge to those oi?
duty, and kept the munitions away from the enemy's
shell. An artilleryman exhibited two pouches of white
cloth, joined together and very full. They looked like a
double sausage and were the charge for one of the large
cannons. The open packet showed some rose-colored
leaves, and the senator greatly admired this dainty paste
which looked like an article for the dressing table instead
of one of the most terrible explosives of modem warfare.
"I am sure," said Lacour, ''that if I had found one of
these delicate packets on the street, I should have thought
that it had been dropped from some lady's vanity bag,
or by some careless clerk from a perfumery shop . . .
WAR 421
anything but an explosive ! And with this trifle that looks
as if it were made for the lips, it is possible to blow up
an edifice!" . . .
As they continued their visit of investigation, they
came upon a partially destroyed round tower in the high-
est part of the mountain. This was the most dangerous
post. From it, an officer was examining the enemy's
line in order to gauge the correctness of the aim of the
gunners. While his comrades were under the ground
or hidden by the branches, he was fulfilling his mission
from this visible point.
A short distance from the tower a subterranean pas-
sageway opened before their eyes. They descended
^through its murky recesses until they found the various
rooms excavated in the ground. One side of the moun-
tain cut in points formed its exterior fagade. Narrow
little windows, cut in the stone, gave light and air to
these quarters.
An old commandant in charge of the section came out
to meet them. Desnoyers thought that he must be the
floorwalker of some big department store in Paris. His
manners were so exquisite and his voice so suave that he
seemed to be imploring pardon at every word, or address-
ing a group of ladies, offering them goods of the latest
novelty. But this impression only lasted a moment.
This soldier with gray hair and near-sighted glasses
who, in the midst of war, was retaining his customary
manner of a building director receiving his clients,
showed on moving his arms, some bandages and surgical
dressings within his sleeves. He was wounded in both
wrists by the explosion of a shell, but he was, never-
theless, sticking to his post.
"A devil of a honey-tongued, syrupy gentleman!"
mused Don Marcelo. *'Yet he is undoubtedly an excep-
tional person!"
422 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
By this time, they had entered into the main office, a
vast room which received its Hght through a horizontal
window about ten feet wide and only a palm and a half
high, reminding one of the open space between the slats
of a Venetian blind. Below it was a pine table filled
with papers and surrounded by stools. When occupying
one of these seats, one's eyes could sweep the entire plain.
On the walls w^ere electric apparatus, acoustic tubes and
telephones — many telephones.
The Commandant sorted and piled up the papers, offer-
ing the stools with drawing-room punctilio.
*'Here, Senator Lacour."
Desnoyers, humble attendant, took a seat at his side.
The Commandant now appeared to be the manager of a
theatre, preparing to exhibit an extraordinary show. He
spread upon the table an enormous paper which repro-
duced all the features of the plain extended before them
• — roads, towns, fields, heights and valleys. Upon this
map was a triangular group of red lines in the form of
an open fan ; the vertex represented the place where they
were, and the broad part of the triangle was the limit of
the horizon which they were sweeping with their eyes.
"We are going to fire at that grove," said the artillery-
man, pointing to one end of the map. ''There it is," he
continued, designating a little dark line. "Take your
glasses."
But before they could adjust the binoculars, the Com-
mandant placed a new paper on top of the map. It was
an enormous and somewhat hazy photograph upon whose
plan appeared a fan of red lines like the other one.
"Our aviators," explained the gunner courteously,
"have taken this morning some views of the enemy's
positions. This is an enlargement from our photographic
laboratory. . . . According to this information, there
are two German regiments encamped in that wood."
WAR 423
Don Marcelo saw on the print the spot of woods, and
within it white lines which represented roads, and groups
of Httle squares which were blocks of houses in a village.
He believed he must be in an aeroplane contemplating the
earth from a height of three thousand feet. Then he
raised the glasses to his eyes, following the direction of
one of the red lines, and saw enlarged in the circle of the
glass a black bar, somewhat like a heavy line of ink —
the grove, the refuge of the foe.
''Whenever you say, Senator Lacour, we will begin,"
said the Commandant, reaching the topmost notch of his
courtesy. "Are you ready?"
Desnoyers smiled slightly. For what was his illustrious
friend to make himself ready? What difference could it
possibly make to a mere spectator, much interested in the
novelty of the show? . . .
There sounded behind them numberless bells, gongs
that called and gongs that answered. The acoustic tubes
seemed to swell out with the gallop of words. The elec-
tric wire filled the silence of the room with the palpita-
tions of its mysterious life. The bland Chief was no
longer occupied with his guests. They conjectured that
he was behind them, his mouth at the telephone, con-
versing with various officials some distance off. Yet the
urbane and well-spoken hero was not abandoning for one
moment his candied courtesy.
"Will you be kind enough to tell me when you are
ready to begin?" they heard him saying to a distant
officer. *T shall be much pleased to transmit the order."
Don Marcelo felt a slight nervous tremor near one of
his legs; it was Lacour, on the qui vive over the ap-
proaching novelty. They were going to begin firing ; some-
thing was going to happen that he had never seen before.
The cannons were above their heads ; the roughly vaulted
424 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
roof was going to tremble like the deck of a ship when
they shot over it. The room with its acoustic tubes and
its vibrations from the telephones was like the bridge of
a vessel at the moment of clearing for action. The noise
that it was going to make ! . . . A few seconds flitted by
that to them seemed unusually long . . . and then suddenly
a sound like a distant peal of thunder which appeared
to come from the clouds. Desnoyers no longer felt the
nervous twitter against his knee. The senator seemed
surprised; his expression seemed to say, "And is that
all?" . . . The heaps of earth above them had deadened
the report, so that the discharge of the great machine
seemed no more than the blow of a club upon a mattress.
Far more impressive was the scream of the projectile
sounding at a great height but displacing the air with
such violence that its waves reached even to the window.
It went flying . . . flying, its roar lessening. Some time
passed before they noticed its effects, and the two friends
began to believe that it must have been lost in space. *Tt
will not strike ... it will not strike," they were thinking.
Suddenly there surged up on the horizon, exactly in the
spot indicated over the blur of the woods, a tremendous
column of smoke, a whirling tower of black vapor fol-
lowed by a volcanic explosion.
"How dreadful it must be to be there !" said the sen-
ator.
He and Desnoyers were experiencing a sensation of
animal joy, a selfish hilarity in seeing themselves in such
a safe place several yards underground.
"The Germans are going to reply at any moment," said
Don Marcelo to his friend.
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.
WAR 425
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 in-
terior. "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 shoot-
426 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ing. 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 explana-
tions 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 accom-
panying Don Marcelo congratulated him on the fearless-
ness 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,
considerir^ Desnoyers' advanced age. To what section
had he belonged? In what capacity had he served? . . «
"Mer-^ly as a victim," was the modest reply.
An r/3icer came running toward them from the tower
side, 'across the cleared space. He waved his kepi several
times' that they might see him better. Lacour trembled
for Aim. The enemy might descry him; he was simply
n>aking a target of himself by cutting across that open
space in order to reach them the sooner. . . . And he
.rembled still more as he came nearer. ... It was Rene !
His hands returned with some astonishment the strong,
muscular grasp. He noticed that the outlines of his son's
face were more pronounced, and darkened with the tan
of camp life. An air of resolution, of confidence in his
own powers, appeared to emanate from his person. Six
months of intense life had transformed him. He was the
same but broader-chested and more stalwart. The gentle
and sweet features of his mother were lost under the
virile mask. . . . Lacour recognized with pride that he
now resembled himself.
WAR 427
After greetings had been exchanged, Rene paid more
attention to Don Marcelo than to his father, because he
reminded him of Chichi. He inquired after her, wishing
to know all the details of her life, in spite of their ardent
and constant correspondence.
The senator, meanwhile, still under the influence of his
recent emotion, had adopted a somewhat oratorical air
toward his son. He forthwith improvised a fragment of
discourse in honor of that soldier of the Republic bearing
the glorious name of Lacour, deeming this an opportune
time to make known to these professional soldiers the
lofty lineage of his family.
"Do your duty, my son. The Lacours inherit warrior
traditions. Remember our ancestor, the Deputy of the
Convention who covered himself with glory in the de-
fense of Mayence!"
While he was discoursing, they had started forward,
doubling a point of the greenwood in order to get behind
the cannons.
Here the racket was less violent. The great engines,
after each discharge, were letting escape through the
rear chambers little clouds of smoke like those from a
pipe. The sergeants were dictating numbers, communi-
cated in a low voice by another gunner who had a tele-
phone receiver at his ear. The workmen around the
cannon were obeying silently. They would touch a little
wheel and the monster would raise its grey snout, moving
it from side to side with the intelligent expression and
agility of an elephant's trunk. At the foot of the nearest
piece, stood the operator, rod in hand, and with impassive
•face. He must be deaf, yet his facial inertia was stamped
with a certain authority. For him, life was no more than
a series of shots and detonations. He knew his impor-
tance. He was the servant of the tempest, the guardian
of the thunderbolt.
428 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"Fire!" shouted the sergeant.
And the thunder broke forth in fury. Everything ap-
peared to be trembling, but the two visitors were by this
time so accustomed to the din that the present uproar
seemed but a secondary affair.
Lacour was about to take up the thread of his dis-
course about his glorious forefather in the convention
when something interfered.
"They are firing," said the man at the telephone simply.
The two officers repeated to the senator this news from
the watch tower. Had he not said that the enemy was
going to fire? . . . Obeying a sane instinct of preserva-
tion, and pushed at the same time by his son, he found
himself in the refuge of the battery. He certainly did
not wish to hide himself in this cave, so he remained
near the entrancCf with a curiosity which got the best of
his disquietude.
He felt the approach of the invisible projectile, in spite
of the roar of the neighboring cannon. He perceived
with rare sensibility its passage through the air, above
the other closer and more powerful sounds. It was a
squealing howl that was swelling in intensity, that was
opening out as it advanced, filling all space. Soon it
ceased to be a shriek, becoming a rude roar formed by
divers collisions and frictions, like the descent of an
electric tram through a hillside road, or the course of a
train which passes through a station without stopping.
He saw it approach in the form of a cloud, bulging as
though it were going to explode over the battery. With-
out knowing just how it happened, the senator suddenly
found himself in the bottom of the shelter, his hands in
cold contact with a heap of steel cylinders lined up like
bottles. They were projectiles.
"If a German shell,'* he thought, "should explode
above this burrow . . . what a frightful blowing up !" • • *.
WAR 429
But he calmed himself by reflecting on the solidity of
the arched vault with its beams and sacks of earth several
yards thick. Suddenly he was in absolute darkness. An-
other had sought refuge in the shelter, obstructing the
light with his body ; perhaps his friend Desnoyers.
A year passed by while his watch was registering a
single second, then a century at the same rate . . . and
finally the awaited thunder burst forth, making the
refuge vibrate, but with a kind of dull elasticity, as
though it were made of rubber. In spite of its thud, the
explosion wrought horrible damage. Other minor ex-
plosions, playful and whistling, followed behind the
first. In his imagination, Lacour saw the cataclysm — a
writhing serpent, vomiting sparks and smoke, a species
of Wagnerian monster that upon striking the ground was
disgorging thousands of fiery little snakes, that were
covering the earth with their deadly contortions. . . .
The shell must have burst nearby, perhaps in the very
square occupied by this battery.
He came out of the shelter, expecting to encounter a
sickening display of dismembered bodies, and he saw his
son smiling, smoking a cigar and talking with Des-
noyers. . . . That was a mere nothing! The gunners
were tranquilly finishing the charging of a huge piece.
They had raised their eyes for a moment as the enemy's
shell went screaming by, and then had continued their
work.
"It must have fallen about three hundred yards away,"
said Rene cheerfully.
The senator, impressionable soul, felt suddenly filled
with heroic confidence. It was not worth while to bother
about his personal safety when other men — just like him,
only dififerently dressed — were not paying the slightest
attention to the danger.
And as the other projectiles soared over his head to
430 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSF
lose themselves in the woods with the explosions of a
volcano, he remained by his son's side, with no other
sign of tension than a slight trembling of the knees. It
seemed to him now that it was only the French missiles —
because they were on his side — that were hitting the
bull's eye. The others must be going up in the air and
losing themselves in useless noise. Of just such illusions
is valor often compounded! . . . *'And is that all?" his
eyes seemed to be asking.
He now recalled rather shamefacedly his retreat to the
shelter ; he was beginning to feel that he could live in the
open, the same as Rene.
The German missiles w^ere getting considerably more
frequent. They were no longer lost in the wood, and
their detonations w^ere sounding nearer and nearer. Thrt
two officials exchanged glances. They were responsible
for the safety of their distinguished charge.
"Now they are warming up," said one of them.
Rene, as though reading their thoughts, prepared to go.
"Good-bye, father !" They were needing him in his bat-
tery. The senator tried to resist; he wished to prolong
the interview, but found that he was hitting against
something hard and inflexible that repelled all his in-
fluence. A senator amounted to very little with people
accustomed to discipline.
"Farewell, my boy ! . . . All success to you ! . . . Re-
member who you are!"
The father wept as he embraced his son, lamenting the
brevity of the interview, and thinking of the dangers
awaiting him.
When Rene had disappeared, the captains again recom-
mended their departure. It was getting late ; they ought
to reach a certain cantonment before nightfall. So they
went down the hill in the shelter of a cut in the moun-
tain, seeing the enemy's shells flying high above them
WAR 431
In a hollow, they came upon several groups of the
famed seventy-fives spread about through the woods,
hidden by piles of underbrush, like snapping dogs, howl-
ing and sticking up their gray muzzles. The great cannon
were roaring only at intervals, while the steel pack of
hounds were yelping incessantly without the slightest
break in their noisy wrath — like the endless tearing of a
piece of cloth. The pieces were many, the volleys dizzy-
ing, and the shots uniting in one prolonged shriek, as a
series of dots unite to form a single line.
The chiefs, stimulated by the din, were giving their
orders in yells, and waving their arms from behind the
pieces. The cannon were sliding over the motionless
gun carriages, advancing and receding like automatic
pistols. Each charge dropped an empty shell, and intro-
duced a fresh one into the smoking chamber.
Behind the battery, the air was racking in furious
waves. With every shot, Lacour and his companion
received a blow on the breast, the violent contact with an
invisible hand, pushing them backward and forward.
They had to adjust their breathing to the rhythm of the
concussions. During the hundredth part of a second,
between the passing of one aerial wave and the advance
of the next, their chests felt the agony of vacuum. Des-
noyers admired the baying of those gray dogs. He knew
well their bite, extending across many kilometres. Now
they were fresh and at home in their own kennels.
To Lacour it seemed as though the rows of cannon
were chanting a measure, monotonous and fiercely im-
passioned that must be the martial hymn of the humanity
of prehistoric times. This music of dry, deafening,
delirious notes was awakening in the two what Is sleeping
in the depths of every soul — the savagery of a remote
ancestry. The air was hot with acrid odors, pungent and
brutlshly intoxicating The perfumes from the explo<
432 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
sions were penetrating to the brain through the mouth,
the eyes and the ears.
They began to be infected with the same ardor as the
directors, shouting and swinging their arms in the midst
of the thundering. The empty capsules were mounting
up in thick layers behind the cannon. Fire! . . . always,
fire!
"We must sprinkle them well/' yelled the chiefs. **We
must give a good soaking to the groves where the Boches
are hidden."
So the mouths of '75 rained without interruption, inun-
dating the remote thickets with their shells.
Inflamed by this deadly activity, frenzied by the de-
structive celerity, dominated by the dizzying sway of the
ruby leaves, Lacour and Desnoyers found themselves
waving their hats, leaping from one side to another as
though they were dancing the sacred dance of death, and
shouting with mouths dry from the acrid vapor of the
powder. . . . "Hurrah! . . . Hurrah!"
The automobile rode all the afternoon long, stopping
only when it met long files of convoys. It traversed un-
cultivated fields with skeletons of dwellings, and ran
through burned towns which were no more than a succes-
sion of blackened fagades.
"Now it is your turn," said the senator to Desnoyers.
"We are going to see your son."
At nightfall, they ran across groups of infantry, sol-
diers with long beards and blue uniforms discolored by
the inclemency of the weather. They were returning
from the intrenchments, carrying over the hump of their
knapsacks, spades, picks and other implements for re-
moving the ground, that had acquired the importance of
arms of combat. They were covered with mud from
head to foot. All looked old in full youth. Their joy at
returning to the cantonment after a week in the trencher
WAR 433
made them fill the silence of the plain with songs in time
to the tramp of their nailed boots. Through the violet
twilight drifted the winged strophes of the Marseillaise,
or the heroic affirmations of the Chant du Depart.
"They are the soldiers of the Revolution," exclaimed
Lacour with enthusiasm. ''France has returned to 1792."
The two captains established their charges for the night
in a half -ruined town where one of their divisions had
its headquarters, and then took their leave. Others would
act as their escort the following morning.
The two friends w^ere lodging in the Hotel de la Siren,
an old inn with its front gnawed by shell-fire. The pro-
prietor showed them with pride a window broken in the
form of a crater. This window had made the old
tavern sign — a woman of iron w^ith the tail of a fish —
sink into insignificance. As Desnoyers was occupying
the room next to the one that had received the mark of
the shell, the inn-keeper was anxious to point it out to
them before they went to bed.
Everything w^as broken — walls, floor, roof. The fur-
niture, a pile of splinters in the comer ; the flowered waU
paper, a fringe of tatters hanging from the walls.
Through an enormous hole they could see the stars and
feel the chill of the night. The owner stated that this
destruction was not the work of the Germans, but was
caused by a projectile from one of the seventy-fives
when repelling the invaders from the village. And he
beamed on the ruin with patriotic pride, repeating:
"There's a sample of French markmanship for you!
How do you like the workings of the seventy-fives? . . .
What do you think of that now?" . . .
In spite of the fatigue of the journey, Don Marcela
slept badly, excited by the thought that his son was not
far away.
An hour before daybreak, they left the village in an
434 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
automobile, guided by another official. On both sides of
the road, they saw camps and camps. They left behind
the parks of munitions, passed the third line of troops,
and then the second. Thousands and thousands of men
were bivouacking there in the open, improvising as best
they could their habitations. These human ant-hills
seemed vaguely to recall, with the variety of uniforms
and races, some of the mighty invasions of history; out
it was not a nation en marche. The exodus of people
takes with it the women and children. Here there were
nothing but men, men everywhere.
All kinds of housing ever used by humanity were here
utilized, these military assemblages beginning with the
cave. Caverns and quarries were serving as barracks.
Some low huts recalled the American ranch ; others, high
and conical, were facsimiles of the gurhi of Africa.
Many of the soldiers had come from the colonies; some
had been living as business men in the new world, and
upon having to provide a house more stable than the
canvas tent, had recalled the architecture of the tribes
with which they had had dealings. In this conglomerate
of combatants, there were also Moors, blacks and Asi-
atics who were accustomed to live outside the cities and
had acquired in the open a physical superiority which
made them more masterful than the civilized peoples.
Near the river beds was flapping white clothing hung
out to dry. Rows of men with bared breasts were out
in the morning freshness, leaning over the streams,
washing themselves with noisy ablutions followed by
vigorous rubbings. . . . On a bridge was a soldier writing,
utilizing a parapet as a table. . . . The cooks were mov-
ing around their savory kettles, and a warm exhalation
of morning soup was mixed with the resinous perfume
of the trees and the smell of the damp earth.
Long, low barracks of wood and zinc served the
WAR 435
cavalry and artillery for their animals and stores. In the
open air, the soldiers were currying and shoeing the
glossy, plump horses which the trench-war was maintain-
ing in placid obesity.
"If they had only been like that at the battle of the
Marne !" sighed Desnoyers to his friend.
Now the cavalry was leading an existence of inter-
minable rest. The troopers were fighting on foot, and
finding it necessary to exercise their steeds to keep them
from getting sick with their full mangers.
There were spread over the fields several aeroplanes,
like great, gray dragon flies, poised for the flight. Many
of the men were grouped around them. The farmers,
transformed into soldiers, were watching with great
admiration their comrade charged with the management
of these machines. They looked upon him as one of the
wizards so venerated and feared in all the countryside.
Don Marcelo was struck by the general transformation
in the French uniforms. All were now clad in gray-blue,
from head to foot. The trousers of bright scarlet cloth,
the red kepis which he had hailed with such joy in the
expedition of the Marne, no longer existed. All the men
passing along the roads were soldiers. All the vehicles,
even the ox-carts, were guided by military men.
Suddenly the automobile stopped before some ruined
houses blackened by fire.
"Here we are," announced the official. "Now we shall
have to walk a little."
The senator and his friend started along the highway.
"Not that way, no !" the guide turned to say grimly.
"That road is bad for the health. We must keep out of
the currents of air."
He further explained that the Germans had their can-
non and intrenchments at the end of this hisrhroad which
436 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
sloped suddenly and again appeared as a white ribbon on
the horizon line between two rows of trees and burned
houses. The pale morning light with its hazy mist was
sheltering them from the enemy's fire. On a sunny day,
the arrival of their automobile would have been saluted
with a shell. ''That is war," he concluded. "One is
always near to death without seeing it."
The two recalled the warning of the general with
whom they had dined the day before : **Be very careful !
The war of the trenches is treacherous."
In the sweep of plains unrolled before them, not a man
was visible. It seemed like a country Sunday, when the
farmers are in their homes, and the land scene lying in
silent meditation. Some shapeless objects could be seen
in the fields, like agricultural implements deserted for a
day of rest. Perhaps they were broken automobiles, or
artillery carriages destroyed by the force of their volleys.
'"This way," said the officer, who had added four sol-
diers to the party to carry the various bags and packages
which Desnoyers had brought out on the roof of the
automobile.
They proceeded in a single file the length of a wall of
blackened bricks, down a steep hill. After a few steps
the surface of the ground was about to their knees;
further on, up to their waists, and thus they disappeared
within the earth, seeing above their heads, only a narrow
strip of sky. They were now under the open field, hav-
ing left behind them the mass of ruins that hid the
entrance of the road. They were advancing in an absurd
way, as though they scorned direct lines — in zig-zags, in
curves, in angles. Other pathways, no less complicated,
branched off from this ditch which was the central ave-
nue of an immense subterranean cavity. They walked
. . and walked . . . and walked. A quarter of an hour
went by, a half, an entire hour. Lacour and his friend
WAR
437
thought longingly of the roadways flanked with trees,
of their tramp in the open air where they could see the
sky and meadows. They were not going twenty steps in
the same direction. The official marching ahead was
every moment vanishing around a new bend. Those whc j
were coming behind were panting and talking unseen,
having to quicken their steps in order not to lose sight
of the party. Every now and then they had to halt in
order to unite and count the little band, to make sure that
no one had been lost in a transverse gallery. The ground
was exceedingly slippery, in some places almost liquid
mud, white and caustic like the drip from the scaffolding
of a house in the course of construction.
The thump of their footsteps, and the friction of their
shoulders, brought down chunks of earth and smooth
stones from the sides. Little by little tbey climbed
through the main artery of this underground body and the
veins connected with it. Again they were near the sur-
face where it required but little effort to see the blue
above the earthworks. But here the fields were unculti-
vated, surrounded with wire fences, yet with the same
appearance of Sabbath calm. Knowing by sad experience
what curiosity oftentimes cost, the official would not
permit them to linger here. ''Keep right ahead ! Forward
march !"
For an hour and a half the party kept doggedly on
until the senior members became greatly bewildered and
fatigued by their serpentine meanderings. They could
no longer tell whether they were advancing or receding,
the sudden steeps and the continual turning bringing on
an attack of vertigo.
"Have we much further to go ?" asked the senator.
**There !" responded the guide, pointing to some heaps
of earth above them. "There" was a bell tower sur-
rounded by a few charred houses that could be seen z
^38 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
long ways off — the remains of a hamlet which had been
taken and retaken by both sides.
By going in a direct line on the surface they would
have compassed this distance in half an hour. To the
angles of the underground road, arranged to impede the
advance of an enemy, there had been added the obstacles
of campaign fortification, tunnels cut with wire lattice
work, large hanging cages of wire which, on falling,
could block the passage and enable the defenders to open
fire across their gratings.
They began to meet soldiers with packs and pails of
water who were soon lost in the tortuous cross roads.
Some, seated on piles of wood, were smiling as they read
a little periodical published in the trenches.
The soldiers stepped aside to make way for the visiting
procession, bearded and curious faces peeping out of the
alleyways. Afar off sounded a crackling of short snaps
as though at the end of the winding lanes were a shooting
lodge where a group of sportsmen were killing pigeons.
The morning was still cloudy and cold. In spite of the
humid atmosphere, a buzzing like that of a horsefly
hummed several times above the two visitors.
*'Bullets !" said their conductor laconically.
Desnoyers meanwhile had lowered his head a little. He
knew perfectly well that insectivorous sound. The sen-
ator walked on more briskly, temporarily forgetting his
weariness.
They came to a halt before a lieutenant-colonel who
received them like an engineer exhibiting his workshops,,
like a naval officer showing off the batteries and turrets
of his battleships. He was the Chief of the battalion
occupying this section of the trenches. Don Marcelo
studied him with special interest, knowing that his son
was under his orders.
To fhe two friends, these subterranean fortificatioi5j
WAR 43$
bore a certain resemblance to the lower parts of a vessel.
They passed from trench to trench of the last line, the
oldest — dark galleries into which penetrated streaks of
light across the loopholes and broad, low windows of the
mitrailleuse. The long line of defense formed a tunnel
cut by short, open spaces. They had to go stumbling
from light to darkness, and from darkness to light with
a visual suddenness very fatiguing to the eyes. The
ground was higher in the open spaces. There were
wooden benches placed against the sides so that the
observers could put out the head or examine the land-
scape by means of the periscope. The enclosed space
answered both for batteries and sleeping quarters.
As the enemy had been repelled and more ground had
been gained, the combatants who had been living all
winter in these first quarters, had tried to make them-
selves more comfortable. Over the trenches in the open
air, they had laid beams from the ruined houses; over
the beams, planks, doors and windows, and on top of the
wood, layers of sacks of earth. These sacks were cov-
ered by a top of fertile soil from which sprouted grass
and herbs, giving the roofs of the trenches an appearance
of pastoral placidity. The temporary arches could thus
resist the shock of the obuses which went ploughing into
the earth without causing any special damage. When
an explosion was pounding too noisily and weakening the
structure, the troglodytes would swarm out in the night
like watchful ants, and skilfully readjust the roof of their
primitive dwellings.
Everything appeared clean with that simple and rather
clumsy cleanliness exercised by men living far from
women and thrown upon their own resources. The gal-
leries were something like the cloisters of a monastery,
the corridors of a prison, and the middle sections of a
ship. Their floors were a half yard lower than tJhat of
440 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the open spaces which joined the trenches together. In
order that the officers might avoid so many ups and
downs, some planks had been laid, forming a sort of
scaffolding from doorway to doorway.
Upon the approach of their Chief, the soldiers formed
themselves in line, their heads being on a level with the
waist of those passing over the planks. Desnoyers ran
his eye hungrily over the file of men. Where could Julio
be?...
He noticed the individual contour of the different re-
doubts. They all seemed to have been constructed in
about the same way, but their occupants had modified
them with their special personal decorations. The ex-
teriors were always cut with loopholes in which there
were guns pointed toward the enemy, and windows for
the mitrailleuses. The watchers near these openings
were looking over the lonely landscape like quarter-
masters surveying the sea from the bridge. Wtthin were
the armories and the sleeping rooms — three rows of
berths made with planks like the beds of seamen. The
desire for artistic ornamentation which even the sknplest
souls always feel, had led to the embellishment of the
underground dwellings. Each soldier had a privak mu-
seum made with prints from the papers and colored
postcards. Photographs of soubrettes and dancers with
their painted mouths smiled from the shiny cardboard,
enlivening the chaste aspect of the redoubt.
Don Marcelo was growing more and more impatient at
seeing so many hundreds of men, but no Julio. The sen-
ator, complying with his imploring glance, spoke a few
words to the chief preceding him with an aspect of great
deference. The official had at first to think very hard to
recall Julio to mind, but he soon remembered the exploits
of Sergeant Desnoyers. "An excellent soldier," he said.
**He will be sent for immediately. Senator Lacour. . , .
WAR 441
He is on duty now with his section in the first line
trenches."
The father, in his anxiety to see him, proposed that
they betake themselves to that advanced site, but his
petition made the Chief and the others smile. Those open
trenches within a hundred or fifty yards from the enemy,
with no other defense but barbed wire and sacks of
earth, were not for the visits of civilians. They were
always filled with mud; the visitors would have to crawl
around exposed to bullets and under the dropping chunks
of earth loosened by the shells. None but the combatants
could get around in these outposts.
**It is always dangerous there," said the Chief. "There
is always random shooting. , . . Just listen to the firing 1"
Desnoyers indeed perceived a distant crackling that he
had not noted before, and he felt an added anguish at the
thought that his son must be in the thick of it. Realiza-
tion of the dangers to which he must be daily exposed,
now stood forth in high relief. What if he should die in
the intervening moments, before he could see him? . . .
Time dragged by with desperate sluggishness for Don
Marcelo. It seemed to him that the messenger who had
been despatched for him would never arrive. He paid
scarcely any attention to the affairs which the Chief was
so courteously showing them — the caverns which served
the soldiers as toilet rooms and bathrooms of most primi-
tive arrangement, the cave with the sign, ''Cafe de la
Victoire" another in fanciful lettering, ''Theatre." . . .
Lacour was taking a lively interest in all this, lauding the
French gaiety which laughs and sings in the presence of
danger, while his friend continued brooding about Julio.
When would he ever see him ? . . .
They stopped near one of the embrasures of a
machine-gun position stationing themselves at the recom-
442 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
paendations of the soldiers, on both sides of the horizontal
opening, keeping their bodies well back, but putting their
hoads far enough forward to look out with one eye. They
saw a very deep excavation and the opposite edge of
ground. A short distance away were several rows of
X's of wood united by barbed wire, forming a compact
fence. About three hundred feet further on, was a
second wire fence. There reigned a profound silence
here, a silence of absolute loneliness as though the world
was asleep.
"There are the trenches of the Bodies," said the Com-
mandant, in a low tone.
*'Where?" asked the senator, making an effort to see.
The Chief pointed to the second wire fence which
Lacour and his friend had supposed belonged to the
French. It was the German intrenchment line.
"We are only a hundred yards away from them," he
continued, "but for some time they have not been attack-
ing from this side."
The visitors were greatly moved at learning that the
foe was such a short distance off, hidden in the ground
in a mysterious invisibility which made it all the more
terrible. What if they should pop out now with their
saw-edged bayonets, fire-breathing liquids and asphyxiat-
ing bombs to assault this stronghold! . . .
From this window they could observe more clearly the
intensity of the firing on the outer line. The shots ap-
peared to be coming nearer. The Commandant brusquely
ordered them to leave their observatory, fearing that the
fire might become general. The soldiers, with their cus-
tomary promptitude, without receiving any orders, ap-
proached their guns which were in horizontal position,
pointing through the loopholes.
Again the visitors walked in single file, going down into
cavernous spaces that had been the old wine-cellars of
WAR 443
former houses. The officers had taken up their abode in
these dens, utilizing all the residue of the ruins. A streef.
door on two wooden horses served as a table; the ceil-
ings and walls were covered with cretonnes from the
Paris warehouses; photographs of women and children
adorned the side waii between the nickeled glitter of
telegraphic and telephonic instruments.
Desnoyers saw above one door an ivory crucifix, yel-
lowed with years, probably with centuries, transmitted
from generation to generation, that must have witnessed
many agonies of soul. In another den he noticed in a
conspicuous place a horseshoe with seven holes. Re-
ligious creeds were spreading their wings very widely in
this atmosphere of danger and death, and yet at the same
time, the most grotesque superstitions were acquiring
new values without any one laughing at them.
Upon leaving one of the cells, in the middle of an open
space, the yearning father met his son. He knew that it
must be Julio by the Chief's gesture and because the smil-
ing soldier was coming toward him, holding out his
hands ; but this time his paternal instinct which he had
heretofore considered an infallible thing, had given him
no warning. How could he recognize Julio in that
sergeant whose feet were two cakes of moist earth, whose
faded cloak was a mass of tatters covered with mud,
even up to the shoulders, smelling of damp wool and
leather? . . . After the first embrace, he drew back his
head in order to get a good look at him without letting
go of him. His olive pallor had turned to a bronze tone.
He was growing a beard, a beard black and curly, which
reminded Don Marcelo of his father-in-law. The
centaur, Madariaga, had certainly come to life in this
warrior hardened by camping in the open air. At first,
the father grieved over his dirty and tired aspect, but a
second glance made him sure that he was now far more
444 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
handsome and interesting than in his days of society
glory.
"What do you need? . . . What do you want?"
His voice was trembling with tenderness. He was
speaking to the tanned and robust combatant in the same
tone that he was wont to use twenty years ago when,
holding the child by the hand, he had halted before the
preserve cupboards of Buenos Aires.
"Would you like money?" . . .
He had brought a large sum with him to give to his
son, but the soldier gave a shrug of indifference as
though he had offered him a plaything. He had never
been so rich as at this moment; he had a lot of money
in Paris and he didn't know what to do with it — ^he
didn't need anything.
"Send me some cigars . . . for me and my comrades.*
He was constantly receiving from his mother greal
baskets full of choice goodies, tobacco and clothing. But
he never kept anything; all was passed on to his fellow-
warriors, sons of poor families or alone in the world.
His munificence had spread from his intimates to the
company, and from that to the entire battalion. Don
Marcelo divined his great popularity in the glances and
smiles of the soldiers passing near them. He was the
generous son of a millionaire, and this popularity seemed
to include even him when the news went around that the
father of Sergeant Desnoyers had arrived — a potentate
who possessed fabulous wealth on the other side of the
sea.
"I guessed that you would want cigars," chuckled the
old man.
And his gaze sought the bags brought from the auto-
mobile through the windings of the underground road.
All of the son's valorous deeds, extolled and magnified
WAR 445
by Argensola, now came trooping into his mind. He had
the original hero before his very eyes.
"Are you content, satisfied? . . . You do not repent of
your decision?"
"Yes, I am content, father . . . very content."
Julio spoke without boasting, modestly. His life was
v^ery hard, but just like that of millions of other men. In
his section of a few dozens of soldiers there were many
superior to him in intelligence, in studiousness, in char-
acter ; but they were all courageously undergoing the testj
experiencing the satisfaction of duty fulfilled. The com-
mon danger was helping to develop the noblest virtues of
these men. Never, in times of peace, had he known such
comradeship. What magnificent sacrifices he had wit-
nessed !
"When all this is over, men will be better . . . more
generous. Those who survive will do great things."
Yes, of course, he was content. For the first time in
his life he was tasting the delights of knowing that he
was a useful being, that he was good for something, that
his passing through the world would not be fruitless.
He recalled with pity that Desnoyers who had not known
how to occupy his empty life, and had filled it with every
kind of frivolity. Now he had obligations that were tax-
ing all his powers ; he was collaborating in the formation
of a future. He was a man at last !
"I am content," he repeated with conviction.
His father believed him, yet he fancied that, in a comer
of that frank glance, he detected something sorrowful, a
memory of a past which perhaps often forced its way
among his present emotions. There flitted through his
mind the lovely figure of Madame Laurier. Her charm
was, doubtless, still haunting his son. And to think that
he could not bring her here 1 . . . The austere father of
the preceding year contemplated himself with astonish-
446 four: horsemen of the apocalypse
merit as he caught himself formulating this immoral
regret.
They passed a quarter of an hour without loosening
hands, looking into each other's eyes. Julio asked after
his mother and Chichi. He frequently received letters
from them, but that was not enough for his curiosity.
He laughed heartily at hearing of Argensola's amplified
and abundant life. These interesting bits of news came
from a world not much more than sixty miles distant in
a direct line . . . but so far, so very far away !
Suddenly the father noticed that his boy was listening
with less attention. His senses, sharpened by a Hfe of
alarms and ambushed attacks, appeared to be withdraw-
ing itself from the company, attracted by the firing.
Those were no longer scattered shots ; they had combined
into a continual crackling.
The senator, who had left father and son together that
they might talk more freely, now reappeared.
"We are dismissed from here, my friend," he an-
nounced. "We have no luck in our visits."
Soldiers were no longer passing to and fro. All had
hastened to their posts, like the crew of a ship which
clears for action. While Julio was taking up the rifle
which he had left against the wall, a bit of dust whirled
fibove his father's head and a little hole appeared in the
ground.
"Quick, get out of here !" he said, pushing Don Marcelo.
Then, in the shelter of a covered trench, came the
nervous, very brief farewell. "Good-bye, father," a kiss,
and he was gone. He had to return as quickly as possible
to the side of his men.
The firing had become general all along the line. The
soldiers were shooting serenely, as thoygh fulfilling an
ordinary function. It was a combat that took place every
day without anybody's knowinjr exactlv who started it—*
WAR 447
in consequence of the two armies being installed face to
face, and such a short distance apart. . . . The Chief of
the battalion was also obliged to desert his guests, fear-
ing a counter-attack.
Again the officer charged w^ith their safe conduct put
himself at the head of the file, and they began to retrace
their steps through the slippery maze. Desnoyers was
tramping sullenly on, angry at the intervention of the
enemy which had cut short his happiness.
Before his inward gaze fluttered the vision of Julio
with his black, curly beard which to him was the greatest
novelty of the trip. He heard again his grave voice, that
of a man who has taken up life from a new viewpoint.
"I am content, father ... I am content."
The firing, growing constantly more distant, gave the
father great uneasiness. Then he felt an instinctive faith,
absurd, very firm. He saw his son beautiful and im-
mortal as a god. He had a conviction that he would
come out .safe and sound from all dangers. That others
should die was but natural, but Julio ! . . .
As they got further and further away from the soldier
boy, Hope appeared to be singing in his ears : and as an
echo of his pleasing musings, the father kept repeating
mentally :
"No one will kill him. My heart which never deceives
me, te'ls me so. . . . No one will kill him!"
CHAPTER IV
Four months later, Don Marcelo's confidence received
a rude shock. Julio was wounded. But at the same time
that Lacour brought him this news, lamentably delayed,
he tranquilized him with the result of his investigations
in the war ministry. Sergeant Desnoyers was now a sub--
lieutenant, his wound was almost healed and, thanks to
the wire-pulling of the senator, he was coming to pass a
fortnight with his family while convalescing.
"An exceptionally brave fellow," concluded the in-
fluential man. "I have read what his chiefs say about
him. At the head of his platoon, he attacked a German
company; he killed the captain with his own hand; he
did I don't know how many more brave things besides.
. . . They have presented him with the military medal
and have made him an officer. ... A regular hero !"
And the rapidly aging father, weeping with emotion,
but with increasing enthusiasm, shook his head and trem-
bled. He repented now of his momentary lack of faith
when the first news of his wounded boy reached him.
How absurd ! . . . No one would kill Julio ; his heart told
him so.
Soon after, he saw him coming home amid the cries
and delighted exclamations of the women. Poor Dona
Luisa wept as she embraced him, hanging on his neck
with sobs of emotion. Chichi contemplated him with
grave reflection, putting half of her mind on the recent
448
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 449
arrival while the rest flew far away in search of the
other warrior. The dusky, South American maids fought
each other for the opening in the curtains, peering
through the crack with the gaze of an antelope.
The father admired the little scrap of gold on the
sleeve of the gray cloak, with the skirts buttoning be-
hind, examining afterwards the dark blue cap with its
low brim, adopted by the French for the war in the
trenches. The traditional kepi had disappeared. A suit-
able visor, like that of the men in the Spanish infantry,
now shadowed Julio's face. Don Marcelo noted, too, the
short and well-cared-for beard, very different from the
one he had seen in the trenches. The boy was coming
home, groomed and polished from his recent stay in the
hospital.
"Isn't it true that he looks like me?" queried the old
man proudly.
Dona Luisa responded with the inconsequence that
mothers always show in matters of resemblance.
"He has always been the living image of you !"
Having made sure that he was well and happy, the
entire family suddenly felt a certain disquietude. They
wished to examine his wound so as to convince them-
selves that he was completely out of danger.
"Oh, it's nothing at all," protested the sub-lieutenant.
"A bullet wound in the shoulder. The doctor feared at
first that I might lose my left arm, but it has healed well
and it isn't worth while to think any more about it."
Chichi's appraising glance swept Julio from head to
foot; taking in all the details of his military elegance.
His cloak was worn thin and dirty; the leggings were
spatter-dashed with mud; he smelled of leather, sweaty
cloth and strong tobacco ; but on one wrist he was wear*
ing a watch, and on the other, his identity medal fastened
with a gold chain. She had always admired her brother
450 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
for his natural good taste, so she stowed away all these
little details in her memory in order to pass them on to
Rene. Then she surprised her mother with a demand for
a loan that she might send a little gift to her artillery-
man.
Don Marcelo gloated over the fifteen days of satisfac-
tion ahead of him. Sub-Lieutenant Desnoyers found it
impossible to go out alone, for his father was always
pacing up and down the reception hall before the militar}'-
cap which was shedding modest splendor and glory upon
the hat rack. Scarcely had Julio put it on his head before
his sire appeared, also with hat and cane, ready to sally
forth.
"Will you permit me to accompany you? ... I will
not bother you."
This would be said so humbly, with such an evident
desire to have his request granted, that his son had not
the heart to refuse him. In order to take a walk with
Argensola, he had to scurry down the back stairs, or
resort to other schoolboy tricks.
Never had the elder Desnoyers promenaded the streets
of Paris with such solid satisfaction as by the side of this
muscular youth in his gloriously worn cloak, on whose
breast were glistening his two decorations — the cross of
war and the military medal. He was a hero, and this
hero was his son. He accepted as homage to them both
the sympathetic glances of the public in the street cars
and subways. The interest with which the women re-
garded the fine-looking youth tickled him immensely.
All the other military men that they met, no matter how
many bands and crosses they displayed, appeared to the
doting father mere embusques, unworthy of comparison
with his Julio. . . . The wounded men who got out of
the coaches by the aid of staffs and crutches inspired
him with the greatest pity. Poor fellows ! , . . They d^
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 451
jiot bear the charmed life of his son. Nobody could kill
him ; and when, by chance, he had received a wound, the
scars had immediately disappeared without detriment to
his handsome person.
Sometimes, especially at night, Desnoyers senior would
show an unexpected magnanimity, letting Julio fare forth
alone. Since before the war, his son had led a life filled
with triumphant love-affairs, what might he not achieve
now with the added prestige of a distinguished officer!
. . . Passing through his room on his way to bed, the
father imagined the hero in the charming company of
some aristocratic lady. None but a feminine celebrity
was worthy of him ; his paternal pride could accept noth-
ing less. . . . And it never occurred to him that Julio
might be with Argensola in a music-hall or in a moving-
picture show, enjoying the simple and monotonous diver-
sions of a Paris sobered by war, with the homely tastes
of a sub-lieutenant whose amorous conquests were no
moie than the renewal of some old friendships.
One evening as Don Marcelo was accompanying his
son down the Champs Elysees, he started at recognizing
a lady approaching from the opposite direction. It was
Madame Laurier. . . , Would she recognize Julio? He
noted that the youth turned pale and began looking at
the other people with feigned interest. She continued
straight ahead, erect, unseeing. The old gentleman was
almost irritated at such coldness. To pass by his son
without feeling his presence instinctively! Ah, these
women! . . . He turned his head involuntarily to look
after her, but had to avert his inquisitive glance im-
mediately. He had surprised Marguerite motionless
behind them, pallid with surprise, and fixing her gaze
earnestly on the soldier who was separating himself from
her. Don Marcelo read in her eyes admiration, love, all
of the past that was suddenly surging up in her memory.
452 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Poor woman! . . . He felt for her a paternal affection
as though she were the wife of Julio. His friend Lacour
had again spoken to him about the Lauriers. He knew
that Marguerite was going to become a mother, and the
old man, without taking into account the reconciliation
nor the passage of time, felt as much moved at the
thought of this approaching maternity as though the
child were going to be Julio's.
Meanwhile Julio was marching right on, without turn-
ing his head, without being conscious of the burning gaze
fixed upon him, colorless, but humming a tune to hide his
emotion. He always believed that Marguerite had passed
near him without recognizing him, since his father did
not betray her.
One of Don Marcelo's pet occupations was to make his
son tell about the encounter in which he had been hurt.
No visitor ever came to see the sub-lieutenant but the
father always made the same petition.
"Tell us how you were wounded. . . . Explain how you
killed that German captain."
Julio tried to excuse himself with visible annoyance.
He was already surfeited with his own history. To please
his father, he had related the facts to the senator, to
Argensola and to Tchernoff in his studio, and to other
family friends. . . . He simply could not do it again.
So the father began the narration on his own account,
giving the relief and details of the deed as though seen
with his own eyes. . . .
He had to take possession of the ruins of a sugar
refinery in front of the trench. The Germans had been
expelled by the French cannon. A reconnoitring survey
under the charge of a trusty man was then necessary.
And the heads, as usual, had selected. Sergeant Des-
noyers.
At daybreak, the platoon had advanced stealthily with-
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 453
out encountering any difficulty. The soldiers scattered
among the ruins. Julio then went on alone, examining
the positions of the enemy; on turning around a corner
of the wall, he had the most unexpected of encounters.
A German captain was standing in front of him. They
had almost bumped into each other. They looked into
each other's eyes with more suspense than hate, yet at the
same time, they were trying instinctively to kill each
other, each one trying to get the advantage by his swift-
ness. The captain had dropped the map that he was
carrying. His right hand sought his revolver, trying to
draw it from its case without once taking his eyes off his
enemy. Then he had to give this up as useless — it was
too late. With his eyes distended by the proximity of
death, he kept his gaze fixed upon the Frenchman who
had raised his gun to his face. A shot, from a barrel
almost touching him . . . and the German fell dead.
Not till then did the victor notice the captain's orderly
who was but a few steps behind. He shot Desnoyers,
wounding him in the shoulder. The French hurried to
the spot, killing the corporal. Then there was a sharp
cross-fire with the enemy's company which had halted a
httle ways off while their commander was exploring the
ground. Julio, in spite of his wound, continued at the
head of his section, defending the factory against supe-
rior forces until supports arrived, and the land remained
definitely in the power of the French.
"Wasn't that about the way of it?" Don Marcelo
would always wind up.
The son assented, desirous that his annoyance with the
persistent story should come to an end as soon as pos-
sible. Yes, that was the way of it. But what the father
didn't know, what Julio would never tell, was the dis-
covery that he had made after killing the captain.
The two men, during the interminable second in which
454 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSli
they had confronted each other, had showed in their eyes
something more than the surprise of an encounter, and
the wish to overcome the other. Desnoyers knew that
man. The captain knew him, too. He guessed it from
his expression. . . . But self-preservation was more in-
sistent than recollection and prevented them both from
co-ordinating their thoughts.
Desnoyers had fired with the certainty that he was kill-
ing some one that he knew. Afterwards, while directing
the defense of the position and guarding against the ap-
proach of reinforcements, he had a suspicion that the
enemy whose corpse was lying a few feet away might
possibly be a member of the von Hartrott family. No, he
looked much older than his cousins, yet younger than his
Uncle Karl who at his age, would be no mere captain of>
infantry.
When, weakened by the loss of blood, they were about
to carry him to the trenches, the sergeant expressed a
wish to see again the body of his victim. His doubt con-
tinued before the face blanched by death. The wide-
open eyes still seemed to retain their startled expression.
The man had undoubtedly recognized him. His face was
familiar. Who was he ? . . . Suddenly in his mind's eye,
Julio saw the heaving ocean, a great steamer, a tall,
blonde woman looking at him with half-closed eyes of
invitation, a corpulent, moustached man making speeches
in the style of the Kaiser. "Rest in peace. Captain Erck-
mann !" . . . Thus culminated in a corner of France the
discussions started at table in mid-ocean.
He excused himself mentally as though he were in the
presence of the sweet Bertha. He had had to kill, in or-
der not to be killed. Such is war. He tried to console
himself by thinking that Erckmann, perhaps, had failed
to identify him, without realizing that his slayer was th^
shipmate of the summer. . . . And he kept carefully hid
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 455
den in the depths of his memory this encounter arranged
by Fate. He did not even tell Argensola who knew of
the incidents of the trans-atlantic passage.
When he least expected it, Don Marcelo found himself
at the end of that delightful and proud existence which
his son's presence had brought him. The fortnight had
flown by so swiftly ! The sub-lieutenant had returned to
his post, and all the family, after this period of reaUty,
had had to fall back on the fond illusions of hope, watch-
ing again for the arrival of his letters, making conjec-
tures about the silence of the absent one, sending him
packet after packet of everything that the market was
offering for the soldiery — for the most part, useless and
absurd things.
The mother became very despondent. Julio's visit home
but made her feel his absence with greater intensity.
Seeing him, hearing those tales of death that her husband
was so fond of repeating, made her realize all the more
clearly the dangers constantly surrounding her son.
Fatality appeared to be warning her with funereal pre-
sentiments.
"They are going to kill him," she kept saying to Des-
noyers. "That wound was a forewarning from heaven."
When passing through the streets, she trembled with
emotion at sight of the invalid soldiers. The convales-
cents of energetic appearance, filled her with the greatest
pity. They made her think of a certain trip with her
husband to San Sebastian where a bull fight had made
her cry out with indignation and compassion, pitying the
fate of the poor, gored horses. With entrails hanging,
they were taken to the corrals, and submitted to a hurried
adjustment in crder that they might return to the arena
stimulated by a false energy. Again and again they were
reduced to this makeshift cobbling until finally a fatal
goring finished them. . . . These recently cured men
456 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
continually brought to her mind those poor beasts. Some
had been wounded three times since the beginning of the
war, and were returning surgically patched together and
re-galvanized to take another chance in the lottery of
Fate, ah V ays in the expectation of the supreme blow.
. . . Ay, her son!
Desnoyers waxed very indignant over his wife's low
spirits, retorting:
"But I tell you that Nobody will kill Julio ! ... He is
my son. In my youth I, too, passed through great dan-
gers. They wounded me, too, in the wars in the other
world, and nevertheless, here I am at a ripe old age."
Events seemed to reinforce his blind faith. Calamities
were raining around the family and saddening his rela-
tives, yet not one grazed the intrepid sub-lieutenant who
was persisting in his daring deeds with the heroic nerve
of a musketeer.
Dona Luisa received a letter from Germany. Her sis-
ter wrote from Berlin, transmitting her letters through
the kindness of a South American in Switzerland. This
time, the good lady wept for some one besides her son;
she wept for Elena and the enemies. In Germany there
were mothers, too, and she put the sentiment of mater-
nity above all patriotic differences.
Poor Frau von Hartrott! Her letter written a month
before, had contained nothing but death notices and
words of despair. Captain Otto was dead. Dead, too,
was one of his younger brothers. The fact that the latter
had fallen in a territory dominated by their nation, at
least gave the mother the sad comfort of being able to
weep near his grave. But the Captain was buried op
French soil, nobody knew where, and she would never
be able to find his remains, mingled with hundreds of
others. A third son was wounded in Poland. Her two
daughters had lost their promised lovers, and the sight of
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 457
their silent grief, was intensifying the mother's suffering.
Von Hartrott continued presiding over patriotic societies
and making plans of expansion after the near victory,
but he had aged greatly in the last few months. The
"sage" was the only one still holding his own. The fam-
ily afflictions were aggravating the ferocity of Professor
Julius von Hartrott. He was calculating, in a book he
was writing, the hundreds of thousands of millions that
Germany must exact after her triumph, and the various
nations that she would have to annex to the Fatherland.
Dona Luisa imagined that in the avenue Victor Hugo,
she could hear the mother's tears falling in her home in
Berlin. "You will understand, Luisa, my despair. . . .
We were all so happy ! May God punish those who have
brought such sorrow on the world ! The Emperor is in-
nocent. His adversaries are to blame for it all . . ."
Don Marcelo was silent about the letter in his wife's
presence. He pitied Elena for her losses, so he over-
looked her poHtical connections. He was touched, too, at
Dofia Luisa's distress about Otto. She had been his god-
mother and Desnoyers his godfather. That was so —
Don Marcelo had forgotten all about it; and the fact
recalled to his mental vision the placid life of the ranch,
and the play of the blonde children that he had petted
behind their grandfather's back, before Julio was born.
For many years, he had lavished great affection on these
youngsters, when dismayed at Julio's delayed arrival.
He was really affected at thinking of what m.ust be Karl's
despair.
But then, as soon as he was alone, a selfish coldness
would blot out this compassion. War was war, and the
Germans had sought it. France had to defend herself,
and the more enemies fell the better. . . . The only sol-
dier who interested him now was Julio. And his faith la
458 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
the destiny of his son made him feel a brutal joy, a
paternal satisfaction almost amounting to ferocity.
''No one will kill him! . . . My heart tells me so."
A nearer trouble shook his peace of mind. When he
returned to his home one evening, he found Dona Luisa
with a terrified aspect holding her hands to her head.
''The daughter, Marcelo . . . our daughter!"
Chichi was stretched out on a sofa in the salon, pale,
with an oHve tinge, looking fixedly ahead of her as if she
could see somebody in the empty air. She was not cry-
ing, but a slight palpitation was making her swollen eyes
tremble spasmodically.
"I want to see him," she was saying hoarsely. *T must
see him!"
The father conjectured that something terrible must
have happened to Lacour's son. That was the only thing
that could make Chichi show such desperation. His wife
was telling him the sad news. Rene was wounded, very
seriously wounded. A shell had exploded over his bat-
tery, killing many of his comrades. The young officer
had been dragged out from a mountain of dead, one hand
was gone, he had injuries in the legs, chest and head.
"I've got to see him !" reiterated Chichi.
And Don Marcelo had to concentrate all his efforts in
making his daughtv^i give up this dolorous insistence
which made her exact an immediate journey to the front,
trampling down all obstacles, in order to reach her
wounded lover. The senator finally convinced her of the
uselessness of it all. She would simply have to wait; he,
the father, had to be patient. He was negotiating for
Rene to be transferred to a hospital in Paris.
The great man moved Desnoyers to pity. He was
making such heroic efforts to preserve the stoic serenity
of ancient days by recalling his glorious ancestors and aH
the illustrious figures of the Roman Republic. But tHese
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM' 459
oratorical illusions had suddenly fallen flat, and his old
friend surprised him weeping more than once. An only
child, and he might have to lose him ! . . . Chichi's dumb
woe made him feel even greater commiseration. Her
grief was without tears or faintings. Her sallow face,
the feverish brilliancy of her eyes, and the rigidity that
made her move like an automaton were the only signs of
her emotion. She was living with her thoughts far away,
with no knowledge of what was going on around her.
When the patient arrived in Paris, his father and fian-
cee were transfigured. They were going to see him, and
that was enough to make them imagine that he was
already recuperated.
Chichi hastened to the hospital with her mother and
the senator. Then she went alone and insisted on re-
maining there, on living at the wounded man's side, wag-
ing war on all regulations and clashing with Sisters of
Charity, trained nurses, and all who roused in her the
hatred of rivalry. Soon realizing that all her violence
accomplished nothing, she humiliated herself and became
suddenly very submissive, trying with her wiles, to win
the women over one by one. Finally, she was permitted
to spend the greater part of the day w4th Rene.
When Desnoyers first saw the wounded artilleryman in
bed, he had to make a great efifort to keep the tears back.
. . . Ay, his son, too, might be brought to this sad pass !
. . . The man looked to him like an Egyptian mummy,
because of his complete envelopment in tight bandage
wrappings. The sharp hulls of the shell had fairly rid-
dled him. There could only be seen a pair of sweet eyes
and a blond bit of moustache sticking up between whits
bands. The poor fellow was trying to smile at Chichi,
who was hovering around him with a certain authority as
though she were in her own home.
'^wo months rolled by. Rene was better, almost well
46o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
His betrothed had never doubted his recovery from the
moment that they permitted her to remain with him.
"No one that I love, ever dies/' she asserted with a
ring of her father's self-confidence. **As if I would ever
permit the Boches to leave me without a husband!"
She had her little sugar soldier back again, but, oh, in
what a lamentable state! . . . Never had Don Marcelo
realized the de-personalizing horrors of war as when he
saw entering his home this convalescent whom he had
known months before — elegant and slender, with a deli-
cate and somewhat feminine beauty. His face was now
furrowed by a network of scars that had transformed it
into a purplish arabesque. Within his body were hidden
many such. His left hand had disappeared with a part
of the forearm, the empty sleeve hanging over the re-
mainder. The other hand was supported on a cane, a
necessary aid in order to be able to move a leg that would
never recover its elasticity.
But Chichi was content. She surveyed her dear little
soldier with more enthusiasm than ever — a little de-
formed, perhaps, but very interesting. With her mother,
she accompanied the convalescent in his constitutionals
through the Bois de Boulogne. When, in crossing a
street, automobilists or coachmen failed to stop their ve-
hicles in order to give the invalid the right of way, her
eyes shot lightning shafts, as she thundered, "Shameless
emhusqucsr . . . She was now feeling the same fiery
resentment as those women of former days who used
to insult her Rene when he was well and happy. She
trembled with satisfaction and pride when returning the
greetings of her friends. Her eloquent eyes seemed to
be saying, "Yes, he is my betrothed ... a hero !" She
was constantly arranging the war cross on his blouse of
"horizon blue," taking pains to place it as conspicuously
as possible. She also spent much time in orolonging the
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 46*
life of his shabby uniform — always the same one, the
old one which he was wearing when wounded. A new
one would give him the officery look of the soldiers who
never left Paris.
As he grew stronger, Rene vainly tried to emancipate
himself from her dominant supervision. It was simply
useless to try to walk with more celerity or freedom.
"Lean on me !"
And he had to take his fiancee's arm. All her plans
for the future were based on the devotion with which
she was going to protect her husband, on the solicitude
that she was going to dedicate to his crippled condition.
"My poor, dear invalid," she would murmur lovingly.
''So ugly and so helpless those blackguards have left you !
. . . But luckily you have me, and I adore you 1 ... It
makes no difference to me that one of your hands is gone.
I will care for you ; you shall be my little son. You will
just see, after we are married, how elegant and stylish I
am going to keep you. But don't you dare to look at any
of the other women! The very first moment that you
do, my precious little invalid, I'll leave you alone in jour
helplessness !"
Desnoyers and the senator were also concerned about
their future, but in a very definite way. They must be
married as soon as possible. What was the use of wait-
ing? . . . The war was no longer an obstacle. They
would be married as quietly as possible. This was no
time for wedding pomp.
So Rene Lacour remained permanently in the house on
the avenida Victor Hugo, after the nuptial ceremony wit-
nessed by a dozen people.
Don Marcelo had had dreams of other things for his
daughter — a grand wedding to which the daily papers
would devote much space, a son-in-law with a brilliant
462 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
future . . . but ay, this war ! Everybody was having his
fondest hopes dashed to pieces every few hours.
He took what comfort he could out of the situation.
What more did they want? Chichi was happy — with a
rolHcking and selfish happiness which took no interest in
anything but her own love-affairs. The Desnoyers busi-
ness returns could not be improved upon ; — after the first
crisis had passed, the necessities of the belligerents had
begun utilizing the output of his ranches, and never be-
fore had meat brought such high prices. Money was
flowing in with greater volume than formerly, while the
expenses were diminishing. . . . Julio was in daily dan-
ger of death, but the old ranchman was buoyed up by his
conviction that his son led a charmed life — no harm
could touch him. His chief preoccupation, therefore,
was to keep himself tranquil, avoiding all emotional
storms. He had been reading with considerable alarm
of the frequency with which well-known persons, poli-
ticians, artists and writers, were dying in Paris. War
was not doing all its killing at the front ; its shocks were
falling like arrows over the land, causing the fall of the
weak, the crushed and the exhausted who, in normal
times, would probably have lived to a far greater age.
"Attention, Marcelo !" he said to himself with grim
humor. "Keep cool now! . . . You must avoid Friend
Tchernoff's four horsemen, you know!"
He spent an afternoon in the studio going over the war
news in the papers. The French had begun an offensive
iin Champagne with great advances and many prisoners.
Desnoyers could not but think of the loss of life that
(this must represent. Julio's fate, however, gave him no
uneasiness, for his son was not in that part of the front.
But yesterday he had received a letter from him, dated
the week before; they all took about that length of time
to reach him. Sub-lieutenant Desnovers was as blithe
*'NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 463
and reckless as ever. They were going to promote him
again — he was among those proposed for the Legion
d'Honneiir. These facts intensified Don Marcelo's vision
of himself as the father of a general as young as those
of the Revolution ; and as he contemplated the daubs and
sketches around him, he marvelled at the extraordinary
way in which the war had twisted his son's career.
On his way home, he passed Marguerite Laurier
dressed in mourning. The senator had told him a few
days before that her brother, the artilleryman, had just
been killed at Verdun.
"How many are falling!" he said mournfully to him-
self. "How hard it will be for his poor mother!"
But he smiled immediately after at the thought of those
to be born. Never before had the people been so occu-
pied in accelerating their reproduction. Even Madame
Laurier now showed with pride the very visible curves
of her approaching maternity, and Desnoyers noted sym-
pathetically the vital volume apparent beneath her long
mourning veil. Again he thought of Julio, without tak-
ing into account the flight of time. He felt as interested
in the little newcomer as though he were in some way
related to it, and he promised himself to aid generously
the Laurier baby if he ever had the opportunity.
On entering his house, he was met in the hall by Dona
Luisa, who told him that Lacour was waiting for him.
"Very good!" he responded gaily. "Let us see what
our illustrious father-in-law has to say."
His good wife was uneasy. She had felt alarmed with-
out knowing exactly why at the senator's solemn appear-
ance; with that feminine instinct which perforates all
masculine precautions, she surmised some hidden mis-
sion. She had noticed, too, that Rene and his father were
talking together in a low tone, with repressed emotion.
Moved by an irresistible impulse, she hovered near the
464 FOUR HORSEMRN OF THE APOCALYPSE
closed door, hoping to hear something definite. Her wait
was not long.
Suddenly a cry ... a groan . . . the groan that can
come only from a body from which all vitality is es-
caping.
And Dona Luisa rushed in just in time to support her
husband as he was falling to the floor.
The senator was excusing himself confusedly to the
walls, the furniture, and turning his back in his agitation
on the dismayed Rene, the only one who could have
listened to him.
"He did not let me finish. ... He guessed from the
very first word. . . ."
Hearing the outcry, Chichi hastened in in time to see
her father slipping from his wife's arms to the sofa, and
from there to the floor, with glassy, staring eyes, and
foaming at the mouth.
From the luxurious rooms came forth the world-old
cry, always the same from the humblest home to the
highest and loneliest: —
"Oh, Julio I . . Oh, my son, my son 1" . , »
CHAPTER V
THE BURIAL FIELDS
The automobile was going slowly forward under the
colorless sky of a winter morning.
In the distance, the earth's surface seemed trembling
with white, fluttering things resembling a band of but-
terflies poised on the furrows. On one of the fields the
swarm was of great size, on others, it was broken into
small groups.
As the machine approached these white butterflies, they
seemed to be taking on other colors. One wing was turn-
ing blue, another flesh-colored. . . . They were little
flags, by the hundreds, by the thousands which palpitated
night and day, in the mild, sunny, morning breeze, in the
damp drip of the dull mornings, in the biting cold of the
interminable nights. The rains had washed and re-
washed them, stealing away the most of their color.
Some of the borders of the restless little strips were mil-
dewed by the dampness while others were scorched by
the sun, like insects which have just grazed the flames.
In the midst of the fluttering flags could be seen the
black crosses of wood. On these were hanging dark
kepis, red caps, and helmets topped with tufts of horse-
hair, slowly disintegrating and weeping atmospheric tears
at every point.
"How many are dead!" sighed Don Marcelo's voice
from the automobile.
And Rene, who was seated in front of him, sadly nod-
♦65
466 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ded his head. Dona Luisa was looking at the mournful
plain while her lips trembled slightly in constant prayer.
Chichi turned her great eyes in astonishment from one
side to the other. She appeared larger, more capable in
spite of the pallor which blanched her olive skin.
The two ladies were dressed in deepest mourning.
The father, too, was in mourning, huddled down in the
seat in a crushed attitude, his legs carefully covered with
the great fur rugs. Rene was wearing his campaign uni-
form under his storm coat. In spite of his injuries, he
had not wished to retire from the army. He had been
transferred to a technical office till the termination of the
war.
The Desnoyers family were on the way to carry out
their long-cherished hope.
Upon recovering consciousness after the fatal news,
the father had concentrated all his will power in one
petition.
"I must see him. . . . Oh, my son ! . . . My son !"
Vain were the senator's efforts to show him the impos-
sibility of such a journey. The fighting was still going
on in the zone where Julio had fallen. Later on, perhaps,
it might be possible to visit it. "I want to see it !" per-
sisted the broken-hearted old man. It was necessary for
him to see his son's grave before dying himself, and
Lacour had to requisition all his powers, for four long
months formulating requests and overcoming much op-
position, in order that Don Marcelo might be permitted
to make the trip.
Finally a military automobile came one morning for
the entire Desnoyers family. The senator could not ac-
company them. Rumors of an approaching change in
the cabinet were floating about, and he felt obliged to
show himself in the senate in case the Republic should
again wish to avail itself of his unappreciated services.
THE BURIAL FIELDS 467
They passed the night in a provincial city where there
was a military post, and Rene collected considerable in-
formation from officers who had witnessed the great
combat. With his map before him, he followed the ex°
planations until he thought he could recognize the very
plot of ground which Julio's regiment had occupied.
The following morning they renewed their expedition.
A boldier who had taken part in the battle acted as their
guide, seated beside the chauffeur. From time to time,
Rene consulted the map spread out on his knees, and
asked questions of the soldier whose regiment had fought
very close to that of Desnoyers', but he could not remem-
ber exactly the ground which they had gone over so
many months before. The landscape had undergone
man}^ transformations and had presented a very differ-
ent appearance when covered with men. Its deserted as-
pect bewildered him . . . and the motor had to go very
slowly, veering to the north of the line of graves, follow-
ing the central highway, level and white, entering cross-
roads and winding through ditches muddied with deep
pools through which they splashed with great bounds and
jar on the springs. At times, they drove across fields
from one plot of crosses to another, their pneumatic tires
crushing flat from the furrows opened by the plowman.
Tombs . . . tombs on all sides ! The white locusts of
death were swarming over the entire countryside. There
was no corner free from their quivering wings. The re-
cently plowed earth, the yellowing roads, the dark wood-
land, everything was pulsating in weariless undulation.
The soil seemed to be clamoring, and its words were the
vibrations of the restless little flags. And the thousands
of cries, endlessly repeated across the days and nights,
were intoning in rhythmic chant the terrible onslaught
which this earth had witnessed and from which it still
felt tragic shudderings.
468 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
"Dead . . . dead," murmured Chichi, following the
rows of crosses incessantly slipping past the sides of the
automobile.
"O Lord, for them! ... for their mothers," moaned
Dona Luisa, renewing her prayers.
Here had taken place the fiercest part of the battle —
the fight in the old way, man to man outside of the
trenches, with bayonets, with guns, with fists, with teeth.
The guide who was beginning to get his bearings was
pointing out the various points on the desolate horizon.
There were the African sharpshooters; further on, the
chasseurs. The very large groups of graves were where
the light infantry had charged with their bayonets on the
sides of the road.
The automobile came to a stop. Rene climbed out
after the soldier in order to examine the inscriptions on
a few of the crosses. Perhaps these might have belonged
to the regiment they were seeking. Chichi also alighted
mechanically with the irresistible desire of aiding her
husband.
Each grave contained several men. The number of
bodies within could be told by the mouldering kepis or
rusting helmets hanging on the arms of the cross; the
number of the regiments could still be deciphered be-
tween the rows of ants crawling over the caps. The
wreaths with which affection had adorned some of the
sepulchres were blackened and stripped of their leaves.
On some of the crucifixes, the names of the dead were
still clear, but others were beginning to fade out and
soon would be entirely illegible.
"What a horrible death! . . . What glory!" thought
Chichi sadly.
Not even the names of the greater part of these vigor-
ous men cut down in the strength of their youth were
going to survive! Nothing would remain but the men)-
TrfE BURIAL FIELDS 469
cry which would from time to time overwhelm some old
countrywoman driving her cow along the French high-
way, murmuring between her sobs : *'My little one !
. . . I wonder where they buried my little one!'* Or,
perhaps, it would live in the heart of the village woman
clad in mourning who did not know how to solve the
problem of existence; or in the minds of the children
going to school in black blouses and saying with ferocious
energy — *'When I grow up I am going to kill the Boches
to avenge my father's death!'*
And Dona Luisa, motionless in her seat, followed with
her eyes Chichi's course among the graves, while return-
ing to her interrupted prayer — "Lord, for the mothers
without sons . . . for the little ones without fathers!
. . . May thy wrath not be turned against us, and may
thy smile shine upon us once more!'*
Her husband, shrunken in his seat, was also looking
over the funereal fields, but his eyes were fixed most
tenaciously on some mounds without wreaths or flags,
simple crosses with a little board bearing the briefest in-
scription. These were the German bodies which seemed
to have a page to themselves in the Book of Death. On
one side, the innumerable French tombs with inscrip-
tions as small as possible, simple numbers — one, two,
three dead. On the other, in each of the spacious, un-
adorned sepulchres, great quantities of soldiers, with a
number of terrifying terseness. Fences of wooden strips,
narrow and wide, surrounded these latter ditches filled
to the tops with bodies. The earth was as bleached as
though covered with snow or saltpetre. This was the
lime returning to mix with the land. The crosses raised
above these huge mounds bore each an inscription stating
that it contained Germans, and then a number — 200 • . •
300 . . . 400.
Such appalling figures obliged Desnoyers to exert hr
470 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
imagination. It was not easy to evoke with exactitude
the vision of three hundred carcasses in helmets, boots
and cloaks, in all the revolting aspects of death, piled in
rows as though they were bricks, locked forever in the
depths of a great trench. . . . And this funereal align-
ment was repeated at intervals all over the great im-
mensity of the plain !
The mere sight of them filled Don Marcelo with a kind
of savage joy, as his mourning fatherhood tasted the
fleeting consolation of vengeance. Julio had died, and he
was going to die, too, not having strength to survive his
bitter woe; but how many hundreds of the enemy wast-
ing in these awful trenches were also leaving in the world
loved beings who would remember them as he was
remembering his son ! . . .
He imagined them as they must have been before the
death call sounded, as he had seen them in the advance
around his castle.
Some of them, the most prominent and terrifying,
probably still showed on their faces the theatrical cica-
trices of their university duels. They were the soldiers
who carried books in their knapsacks, and after the fusil-
lade of a lot of country folk, or the sacking and burning
of a hamlet, devoted themselves to reading the poets and
philosophers by the glare of the blaze which they had
kindled. They were bloated with science as with the
puffiness of a toad, proud of their pedantic and all-suffi-
cient intellectuality. Sons of sophistry and grandsons of
cant, they had considered themselves capable of proving
the greatest absurdities by the mental capers to which
they had accustomed their acrobatic intellects.
They had employed the favorite method of the thesis,
antithesis and synthesis in order to demonstrate that Ger-
many ought to be the Mistress of the World; that Bel-
e'lum was guilty of her own ruin because she had de^
THE BURIAL FIELDS 471
fended herself; that true happiness cortsisted in having
all humanity dominated by Prussia ; that the supreme idea
of existence consisted in a clean stable and a full man-
ger; that Liberty and Justice were nothing more than
illusions of the romanticism of the French; that every
deed accomplished became virtuous from the moment it
triumphed, and that Right was simply a derivative of
Might. These metaphysical athletes with guns and
sabres were accustomed to consider themselves the pala-
dins of a crusade of civilization. They wished the blond
type to triumph definitely over the brunette ; they wished
to enslave the worthless man of the South, consigning
him forever to a world regulated by "the salt of the
earth," "the aristocracy of humanity." Everything on
the page of history that had amounted to anything was
German. The ancient Greeks had been of Germanic ori-
gin; German, too, the great artists of the Italian Renais-
sance. The men of the Mediterranean countries, with
the inherent badness of their extraction, had falsified
history. . , .
"That's the best place for you. . . . You are better
where you are buried, you pitiless pedants!" thought
Desnoyers, recalling his conversations with his friend, the
Russian.
What a shame that there were not here, too, all the
Herr Professors of the German universities — those wise
men so unquestionably skilful in altering the trademarks
of intellectual products and changing the terminology of
things! Those men with flowing beards and gold-
rimmed spectacles, pacific rabbits of the laboratory and
the professor's chair that had been preparing the ground
for the present war with their sophistries and their un-
blushing effrontery ! Their guilt was far greater than
that of the Herr Lieutenant of the tight corset and the
gleaming monocle, who in his thirst for strife and
472 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
slaughter was simply and logically working out the pro-
fessional charts.
While the German soldier of the lower classes was
plundermg what he could and drunkenly shooting what-
ever crossed his path, the warrior student was reading by
the camp glow, Hegel and Nietzsche. He was too en-
lightened to execute with his own hands these acts of
''historical justice," but he, with the professors, was
rousing all the bad instincts of the Teutonic beast and
giving them a varnish of scientific justification.
*'Lie there, in your sepulchre, you intellectual scourge V*
continued Desnoyers mentally.
The fierce Moors, the negroes of infantile intelligence,
the sullen Hindus, appeared to him more deserving of re-
spect than all the ermine-bordered togas parading haught-
ily and aggressively through the cloisters of the German
vmiversities. What peacefulness for the world if their
wearers should disappear forever! He preferred the
simple and primitive barbarity of the savage to the re-
fined, deliberate and merciless barbarity of the greedy
sage; — it did less harm and was not so hypocritical.
For this reason, the only ones in the enemy's ranks
who awakened his commiseration were the lowly and un-
lettered dead interred beneath the sod. They had been
peasants, factory hands, business clerks, German gluttons
of measureless (intestinal) capacity, who had seen in the
war an opportunity for satisfying their appetites, for
beating somebody and ordering them about after having
passed their lives in their country, obeying and receiving
kicks.
The history of their country was nothing more than a
series of raids — like the Indian forays, in order to plun-
der the property of those who lived in themild Mediter-
ranean climes. The Herr Professors had proved to their
countrymen that such sacking incursions were indispen-
THE BURIAL FIELDS 473
©able to the highest civilization, and that the German was
marching onward with the enthusiasm of a good father
sacrificing himself in order to secure bread for his family.
Hundreds of thousands of letters, written by their rela-
tives with tremulous hands, were following the great
Germanic horde across the invaded countries. Desnoyers
had overheard the reading of some of these, at nightfall
before his ruined castle. These were some of the mes-
sages found in the pockets of the imprisoned or dead: —
"Don't show any pity for the red pantaloons. Kill whom-
ever you can, and show no mercy even to the little ones."
. . . *'We would thank you for the shoes, but the girl
cannot get them on. Those French have such ridicu-
lously small feet!" . . . "Try to get hold of a piano."
... "I would very much like a good watch." . . . "Our
neighbor, the Captain, has sent his wife a necklace of
pearls. . . , And you send only such insignificant things !"
The virtuous German had been advancing heroically
with the double desire of enlarging his country and of
making valuable gifts to his offspring. "Deutschland
ilber alles!" But their most cherished illusions had fallen
into the burial ditch in company with thousands of com-
rades-at-arms fed on the same dreams.
Desnoyers could imagine the impatience on the other
side of the Rhine, the pitiful women who were waiting
and waiting. The lists of the dead had, perhaps, over-
looked the missing ones ; and the letters kept coming and
coming to the German lines, many of them never reach-
ing their destination. "Why don't you answer ! Perhaps
you are not writing so as to give us a great surprise.
r)nn't forget the necklace! Send us a piano. A carved
china cabinet for the dining room would please us greatly.
The French have so many beautiful things !" . . .
The bare cross rose stark and motionless above the
lime-blanched land. Near it the little flags were flutter-
474 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
ing their wings, moving from side to side like a head
shaking out a smiling, ironical protest — No ! . . . No !
The automobile continued on its painful way. The
guide was now pointing to a distant group of graves.
That was undoubtedly the place where the regiment had
been fighting. So the vehicle left the main road, sinking
its wheels in the soft earth, having to make wide detours
in order to avoid the mounds scattered about so capri-
ciously by the casualties of the combat.
Almost all of the fields were ploughed. The work of
the farmer extended from tomb to tomb, making them
more prominent as the morning sun forced its way
through the enshrouding mists.
Nature, blind, unfeeling and silent, ignoring individual
existence and taking to her bosom with equal indiffer-
ence, a poor little animal or a million corpses, was begin-
ning to smile under the late winter suns.
The fountains were still crusted with their beards of
ice; the earth snapped as the feet weighed down its hid-
den crystals; the trees, black and sleeping, were still re-
taining the coat of metallic green in which the winter had
clothed them ; from the depths of the earth still issued an
acute, deadly chill, like that of burned-out planets. . . .
But Spring had already girded herself with flowers in her
palace in the tropics, and was saddling with green her
trusty steed, neighing with impatience. Soon they would
race through the fields, driving before them in disordered
flight the black goblins of winter, and leaving in their
wake green growing things and tender, subtle perfumes.
The wayside greenery, robing itself in tiny buds, was
already heralding their arrival. The birds were ventur-
ing forth from their retreats in order to wing their way
among the crows croaking wrathfully above the closed
tombs. The landscape was beginning to smile in the sun-
light with the artless, deceptive smile of a child who looks
THE BURIAL FIELDS 475
candidly around while his pockets are stuffed with stolen
goodies.
The husbandmen had ploughed the fields and filled the
furrows with seed. Men might go on killing each other
as much as they liked ; the soil had no concern with their
hatreds, and on that account, did not propose to alter its
course. As every year, the metal cutter had opened its
usual lines, obliterating with its ridges the traces of man
and beast, undismayed and with stubborn diligence filling
up the tunnels which the bombs had made.
Sometimes the ploughshare had struck against an ob-
stacle underground ... an unknown, unburied man ; but
the cultivator had continued on its way without pity.
Every now and then, it was stopped by less yielding ob-
structions, projectiles which had sunk into the ground
intact. The rustic had dug up these instruments of death
which occasionally had exploded their delayed charge in
his hands. . . . But the man of the soil knows no fear
when in search of sustenance, and so was doggedly con-
tinuing his rectilinear advance, swerving only before the
visible tombs; there the furrows had curved mercifully,
making little islands of the mounds surmounted by
crosses and flags. The seeds of future bread were pre-
paring to extend their tentacles like devil fish among
those who, but a short time before, were animated by
such monstrous ambition. Life was about lo renew itself
once more.
The automobile came to a standstill. The guide was
running about among the crosses, stooping over in order
to examine their weather-stained inscriptions.
"Here we are !"
He had found above one grave the number of the regi-
ment.
Chichi and her husband promptly dismounted agaiii.-
Then Dona Luisa, with sad resolution, biting her lips tG
476 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
keep the tears back. Then the three devoted themselves
to assisting the father who had thrown off his fur lap-
robe. Poor Desnoyers! On touching the ground, he
swayed back and forth, moving forward with the greatest
effort, lifting his feet with difficulty, and sinking his staff
in the hollows.
"Lean on me, my poor dear," said the old wife, offer-
ing her arm.
The masterful head of the family could no longer take
a single step without their aid.
Then began their slow, painful pilgrimage among the
graves.
The guide was still exploring the spot bristling with
crosses, spelling out the names, and hesitating before the
faded lettering. Rene was doing the same on the othef
side of the road. Chichi went on alone, the wind whirl-
ing her black veil around her, and making the little curls
escape from under her mourning hat every time she
leaned over to decipher a name. Her daintily shod feet
sunk deep into the ruts, and she had to gather her skirts
about her in order to move more comfortably — revealing
thus at every step evidences of the joy of living, of hid-
den beauty, of consummated love following her course
through this land of death and desolation.
In the distance sounded feebly her father's voice :
"Not yet?"
The two elders were growing impatient, anxious to
find their son's resting place as soon as possible.
A half hour thus dragged by without any result —
always unfamiliar names, anonymous crosses or the num-
bers of other regiments. Don Marcelo was no longer
able to stand. Their passage across the irregularities of
the soft earth had been torment for him. He was begin-
ning to despair. . . . Ay, they would never find Julio's
remains! The parents, too, had been scrutinizing the
THE BURIAL FIELDS 477
p.!ots nearest them, bending sadly before cross after
cross. They stopped before a long, narrow hillock, and
read the name. . . . No, he was not there, either; and
they continued desperately along the painful path of
alternate hopes and disappointments.
It was Chichi who notified them with a cry, "Here. . . .
Here it is !'* The old folks tried to run, almcst falling at
every step. All the family were soon grouped around
a heap of earth in the vague outline of a bier, and begin-
ning to be covered with herbage. At the head was a
cross with letters cut in deep with the point of a knife,
the kind deed of some of his comrades-at-arms —
"DESNOYERS." . . . Then in military abbreviations,
the rank, regiment and company.
A long silence. Dona Luisa had knelt instantly, with
her eyes fixed on the cross — those great, bloodshot eyes
that could no longer weep. Till then, tears had been con-
stantly in her eyes, but now they deserted her as though
overcome by the immensity of a grief incapable of ex-
pressing itself in the usual ways.
The father was staring at the rustic grave in dumb
amazement. His son was there, there forever ! . . . and
he would never see him again ! He imagined him sleep-
ing unshrouded below, in direct contact with the earth,
just as Death had surprised him in his miserable and
heroic old uniform. He recalled the exquisite care which
the lad had always given his body — the long bath, the
massage, the invigorating exercise of boxing and fencing,
the cold shower, the elegant and subtle perfume ... all
that he might come to this ! . . . that he might be interred
just wliere he had fallen in his tracks, like a wornout
beast of burden!
The bereaved father wished to transfer his son imme-
diately from the official burial fields, but he could not do
it yet. As soon as possible it should be done, and hf
478 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
would erect for him a mausoleum fit for a king. . .
And what good would that do? He would merely be
changing the location of a mass of bones, but his body,
his physical semblance — all that had contributed to the
charm of his personality would be mixed with the earth.
The son of the rich Desnoyers would have become an in-
separpble part of a poor field in Champagne. Ah, the
pity of it all ! And for this, had he worked so hard and
so long to accumulate his millions? . . .
He could never know how Julio's death had happened.
Nobody could tell him his last words. He was ignorant
as to whether his end had been instantaneous, overwhelm-
ing— his idol going out of the world with his usual gay
smile on his lips, or whether he had endured long hours
of agony abandoned in the field, writhing like a reptile
or passing through phases of hellish torment before col-
lapsing in merciful oblivion. He was also ignorant of
just how much was beneath this mound — whether an en-
tire body discreetly touched by the hand of Death, or an
assemblage of shapeless remnants from the devastating
hurricane of steel ! . . . And he would never see him
again ! And that Julio who had been filling his thoughts
would become simply a memory, a name that would live
while his parents lived, fading away, little by little, after
they had disappeared! . . .
He was startled to hear a moan, a sob. . . . Then he
recognized dully that they were his own, that he had been
accompanying his reflections with groans of grief.
His wife was still at his feet, kneeling, alone w*:h her
heartbreak, fixing her dry eyes on the cross with a gaze
of hypnotic tenacity. . . . There was her son near her
knees, lying stretched out as she had so often watched
him when sleeping in his cradle! . . . The father's suua
were wringing her heart, too, but with an unbearable de-
pression, without hh wrathful exasperation. And she
THE BURIAL FIELDS 479
would never see him again ! . . . Could it be possible ! . . ,
Chichi's presence interrupted the despairing thoughts
of her parents. She had run to the automobile, and was
returning with an armful of flowers. She hung a wreath
on the cross and placed a great spray of blossoms at the
foot. Then she scattered a shower of petals over the en-
tire surface of the grave, sadly, intensely, as though per-
forming a religious rite, accompanying the offering with
her outspoken thoughts — "For you who so loved life for
its beauties and pleasures! . . . for you who knew so
well how to make yourself beloved!" . . . And as her
tears fell, her aft'ectionate memories were as full of ad-
miration as of grief. Had she not been his sister, she
would have like to have been his beloved.
And having exhausted the rain of flower-petals, she
wandered away so as not to disturb the lamentations of
her parents.
Before the uselessness of his bitter plaints, Don Mar-
celo's former dominant character had come to life, rag-
ing against destiny.
He looked at the horizon where so often he had
imagined the adversary to be, and clenched his fists in a
paroxysm of fury. His disordered mind believed that it
saw the Beast, the Nemesis of humanity. And how much
longer would the evil be allowed to go unpunished? . . .
There was no justice; the world was ruled by blind
chance ; — all lies, mere words of consolation in order that
mankind might exist unterrified by the hopeless abandon
in which it lived !
It appeared to him that from afar was echoing the gal-
lop of the four Apocalyptic horsemen, riding rough-shod
over all his fellow-creatures. He saw the strong and
brutal giant with the sword of War, the archer with his
repulsive smile, shooting his pestilential arrows, the bald-
headed miser with the scales of Famine, the hard-riding
48o FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
spectre with the scythe of Death. He recognized them
as only divinities, familiar and terrible — which had made
their presence felt by mankind. All the rest was a
dream. The four horsemen were the reality. . . .
Suddenly, by the mysterious process of telepathy, he
seemed to read the thoughts of the one grieving at his
feet.
The mother, impelled by her own sorrow, was thinking
of that of others. She, too, was looking toward the dis-
tant horizon. There she seemed to see a procession of
the enemy, grieving in the same way as were her family.
She saw Elena with her daughters going in and out
among the burial grounds, seeking a loved one, falling on
their knees before a cross. Ay, this mournful satisfac-
tion, she could never know completely ! It would be for-
ever impossible for her to pass to the opposite side in
search of the other grave, for, even after some time had
passed by, she could never find it. The beloved body of
Otto would have disappeared forever in one of the name-
less pits which they had just passed.
"O Lord, why did we ever come to these lands ? Why
did we not continue living in the land where we were
born?" . . .
Desnoyers, too, uniting his thoughts with hers, was
seeing again the pampas, the immense green plains of the
ranch where he had become acquainted with his wife.
Again he could hear the tread of the herds. He recalled
Madariaga on tranquil nights proclaiming, under the
splendor of the stars, the joys of peace, the sacred
brotherhood of these people of most diverse extraction,
united by labor, abundance and the lack of political am-
bition.
And as his thoughts swung back to the lost son he,
too, exclaimed with his wife, *'Oh, why did we ever
come? . . ." He, too, with the solidarity of grief, began
THE BURIAL FIELDS 481
to sympathize with those on the other side of the battle
front. They were suffering just as he was ; they had lost
their sons. Human grief is the same everywhere.
But then he revolted against his commiseration. Karl
had been an advocate of this war. He was among those
who had looked upon war as the perfect state for man-
kind, who had prepared it with their provocations. It
Was just that War should devour his sons ; he ought not
to bewail their loss. . . . But he who had always loved
Peace ! He who had only one son, only one ! . . . and
now he was losing him forever! . . .
He was going to die; he was sure that he was going
to die. . . . Only a few months of life were left in him.
And his pitiful, devoted companion kneeling at his feet,
she, too, would soon pass away. She could not long sur-
vive the blow which they had just received. There was
nothing further for them to do ; nobody needed them any
longer.
Their daughter was thinking only of herself, of found-
ing a separate home interest — with the hard instinct of
independence which separates children from their parents
in order that humanity may continue its work of reno-
vation„
Julio was the only one who would have prolonged the
family, passing on the name. The Desnoyers had died;
his daughter's children would be Lacour. . . . All was
ended.
Don Marcelo even felt a certain satisfaction in think-
ing of his approaching death. More than anything else,
he wished to pass out of the world. He no longer had
any curiosity as to the end of this war in which he had
been so interested. Whatever the end might be, it would
be sure to turn out badly. Although the Beast might be
mutilated, it would again come forth years afterward, as
the eternal curse of mankind. . . . F^r him the only im-
4S2 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
portant thing now was that the war had robbed him of
his son. All was gloomy, all was black. The world was
going to its ruin. . . . He was going to rest.
Chichi had clambered up on the hillock which con-
tained, perhaps, more than their dead. With furrowed
brow, she was contemplating the plain. Graves . . .
graves everywhere! The recollection of Julio had al-
ready passed to second place in her mind. She could
TxOt bring him back, no matter how much she might weep.
This vision of the fields of death made her think all
the more of the living. As her eyes roved from side to
side, she tried, with her hands, to keep down the whirling
of her wind-tossed skirts. Rene was standing at the foot
of the knoll, and several times after a sweeping glance
at the numberless mounds around them, she looked
thoughtfully at him, as though trying to establish a rela-
tionship between her husband and those below. And he
had exposed his life in combats just as these men had
done! . . .
"And you, my poor darhng," she continued aloud.
"At this very moment you, too, might be lying here under
a heap of earth with a wooden cross at your head, just
like these poor unfortunates !"
The sub-lieutenant smiled sadly. Yes, it was so.
"Come here ; climb up here !" said Chichi impetuously,
"I want to give you something!"
As soon as he approached her, she flung her arms
around his neck, pressed him against the warm softness
of her breast, exhaling a perfume of life and love, and
kissed him passionately without a thought of her brother,
without seeing her aged parents grieving below them and
longing to die. . . . And her skirts, freed by the breeze,
molded her figure in the superb sweep of the curves of
2 Grecian vase.
(Continued from Flap I)
It is illuminating to quote a few typical com-
ments from the hundreds of letters that we
received during World War II, urging the
republication of this book:
• "The story is as timely, its appeal as uni-
versal, as ivhen it was first written."— K.M.
• "This book will have the same fascination
for those who have grown up since the last
war as it had for us who read it twenty years
ago."— M.L.
• "It is amazing— it gives as accurate a pic-
ture of Germany's present behavior and objec-
tives as does this morning's newspapers."— K.K.
• "All you have to do is substitute the name
'Hitler' for 'Kaiser Wilhelm,' and the story
might just as Well have been written today."
-AJ.
• "It is imperative that you should reprint
THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOC-
ALYPSE for readers who don't remember the
last war and who are inclined to think of this
one as something disconnected and brand new
in cause and effect."— E.T.
THE AUTHOR
VICENTE BLASCO-IBANEZ world-famous
Spanish novelist, was born in Valencia in Janu-
ary, 1867, and died in France, a voluntary
political exile, on January 28, 1028. In addi-
tion to The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,
his other best known novels are Mare Nostrum,
Blood and Sand, Enemies of Women, The
Temptress, and Woman Triumphant. Possessed
throughout his life of enormous vitality and
energy, he led a long and stormy career as
lawyer, editor, novelist, propagandist, and
political leader. He was elected for six terms
to the national legislature from his native
Valencia; founded, owned and managed a
liberal newspaper for more than thirty years;
traveled extensively; fathered a colonization
scheme in the Argentine; and at the end of
his life was still peppering away, from exile
in France, at his arch-enemy, since deposed,
Alfonse XIII, king of Spain, by means of
pamphlet attacks scattered over Spain by avi-
ators. Certainly, few writers have had careers
more varied or dramatic than this extraordi-
narily creative man of action.
E. P. DUTTON gK & COMPANY
201 PARK AVE. SOUTH |S &| NEW YORK, NY. 10003
Probably the greatest and surely the most
famous war-story ei^er written . . /^
"Blasco-Ibanez's THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE is
certainly one of the best novels about the last War. Still timely the strange
thing is that after twenty-two years we run up against the same Germany
again."— LIN YUTANG.
"It would seem to me an excellent idea at this time to revive Blasco-Ibanez's
THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE. A book like this is
never dated. It shows the strength, power and ingenious imagination of a
born writer and — a prophet. It deals with the eternal fight for justice,
humanity and freedom."— FRANZ WERFEL.
"I have always regretted that *THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE
APOCALYPSE' was permitted to go out of print. It would be a splendid
idea to republish the book at this time."— PIERRE VAN PAASSEN.
"To publish THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE at this
time would be most appropriate. It should be read by all thinking Ameri-
cans and re-read by those who read it years ago."
—GEORGE V. DENNY, Jr.
"THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE was one of the
books that shook the conscience of the world at the time it was published
and since history is repeating itself I would think that a new edition of
this book would have a good sale at the present time." — A. KROCH.
"It would seem to me that there would be many in this new generation
that are prospective readers of THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE
APOCALYPSE particularly so with conditions as they are in Europe
today."— W. W. GOODPASTURE.
"I think Blasco-Ibanez's THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCA-
LYPSE is a great book. More timely than when it appeared in 1918. A
new edition for those too young to read it when it was first published
should be made available at this time."— ARTHUR BRENTANO, Jr.
"It would be of great value to the present generation if you were to publish
Blasco-Ibanez's great masterpiece THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE
APOCALYPSE referring as it does to the horrors and tragedies of war
which I feel few people in America at present are conscious of. I believe
a new edition of this book at this time would have a very large sale."
—GEORGE W. DES FORGES.
E. P. BUTTON & CO., INC. 201 Park Avenue South, New York 3