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 WM Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014386738 
 
Author's Edition 
 
 THE FOUR HORSEMEN 
 OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
>e<5 
 
 
THE FOUR HORSEMEN 
 OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 aOS GUATRO JINETES DEL APOGALIPSIS) 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF 
 
 VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 Authorized Translation by 
 CHARLOTTE BREWSTER JORDAN 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 68i FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK 
 1919 
 
 ^li 
 
Copyright, igzS, 
 
 By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 AUTHOR'S EDITION 
 
 
 Printed In the United States of America 
 
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 THE MAN AND HIS WORK 
 By Dr. Isaac Goldberg 
 
 Vicente Blasco Ibanez, the famous author of The 
 Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse that have galloped 
 around the entire civilized world over a path of glory, is 
 easily one of the most interesting personages now before 
 the public. Had he never written a book his name 
 would have gone down in the annals of a race rich in 
 versatile men as one of the most gifted and prolific 
 figures produced in the nineteenth and early twentieth 
 centuries. It is no mere rhetorical phrase to say that 
 he has, in his fifty-two years, lived the lives of a half- 
 dozen men. It is because of this multifarious life, be- 
 cause of his wide travels, his passionate beliefs, his 
 unceasing activity in both the intellectual and the every- 
 day spheres — ^that he appeals so much to the American 
 reader, who, from the very traditions of the country, 
 admires the writer and the hero of red blood and un- 
 daunted courage. 
 
 In no uncertain sense is Blasco Ibaiiez's own life as in- 
 teresting as any novel that he ever wrote. And it is out 
 of that life that his books have flowered — a life so rich 
 in incident, so varied in scene, yet so potently dominated 
 by a flaming purpose, that it overflowed into some of the 
 most splendid works of literature that our age has brought 
 
vi VICENTE BLASCO IBAl^EZ 
 
 forth. For it is real life, existence in the palpitating sense 
 of reality, that gushes from this master's novels. To this 
 desire for reality he is at times willing to sacrifice every- 
 thing in the way of the more tender literary graces, yet 
 they deceive themselves who imagine that Blasco Ibanez 
 is no artist in the more purely literary sense. None better 
 than he can communicate the aroma that rises from a 
 landscape, none can better portray the atmosphere of a 
 region. And it should be remembered that Spain is pre- 
 eminently the home of the regional novelist. 
 
 The author of The Four Horsemen of the Apoca- 
 lypse was born in Valencia, in 1867, the son of a dry- 
 goods merchant who early cherished ambitions to make a 
 lawyer of his son. But the son, quite as early, began to 
 reveal those anti-legal tendencies that later made of him 
 the leader of the Republican party of his nation. At the 
 age of eighteen he was clapped into prison for a sonnet 
 directed against the government, and this was the be- 
 ginning of a series of imprisonments that have done the 
 writer honor. Prison records are a common thing among 
 the revolutionary youth of Spain and Spanish America; 
 no less than thirty entries exist against our author's 
 name. He has utilized the prison atmosphere in more 
 than one of his short tales — and it is as a writer of short 
 tales that he began his literary career. Our writer, then, 
 is no mere parlor agitator ; he has suffered for every idea 
 he championed, and has returned again and again, un- 
 daunted, to the attack. 
 
 Forced more than once to leave the nation because of 
 his anti-monarchical views, Blasco Ibanez has made many 
 journeys to the most remote lands ; he has thus an inti- 
 mate knowledge of Europe, the Orient and the Western 
 hemisphere. And just as he has made use of his numer- 
 ous personal experiences in- his novels, so his travels have 
 lent him more than one background. 
 
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ vii 
 
 As a leader of the people and the disseminator of pro- 
 gressive ideas, Blasco Ibaiiez has translated many volumes 
 dealing with sociological and political topics, issuing them 
 at prices within the reach of the masses. He has directed 
 one of Spain's largest publishing houses, stimulating not 
 only a love for what is best in Spanish, but also a desire 
 for the best works of an international nature. His his- 
 tory of the war, which he studied at first hand, as readers 
 of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are well 
 aware, is still in process of writing, and has reached 
 an enormous sale. 
 
 Such are the elements that have entered into the 
 making of the great writer's novels. Possessing a vivid 
 sense of backgrounds, a broad knowledge of humanity, a 
 deep sympathy with the lowly, a fearless love of justice, 
 he instils his works with the power of universal passion. 
 
 Of these, not a few are already at hand for the English 
 reader, and more are in process of translation. No mod- 
 ern spirit, whether he be in search of that pleasure which 
 comes from all sincere works of the imagination, or of 
 that deeper acquaintance with the currents of modern 
 thought which is today imperative because of the vast 
 complexity of contemporary life, can afford not to know 
 an author who so merges pleasure with profit. 
 
 There is little need to speak here of the work that 
 established the fame of Blasco Ibariez in the United 
 States ; The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is the 
 one book every American has read, of all that were pro- 
 duced by the war ; it is the one novel which, in the vast- 
 ness of its background, the vigor of its spirit, the torch of 
 its idealism, matches the great cause in which it was writ- 
 ten. And now, in the companion volume Mare Nostrum 
 (Our Sea), it has found a worthy spiritual fellow. Here 
 again we find a vast background, a flaming purpose, and 
 withal a tale of love and adventure that' carries us breath- 
 
viii VICENTE BLASCO IBAlvfEZ 
 
 less over the continent of Europe. At once, upon its ap- 
 pearance in Spain, Mare Nostrum was hailed as The 
 New Odyssey: the author, in whom love of the ancient 
 heroes is mingled with a rich vein of classic lore, makes 
 excellent use of Homeric symbolism in this tale of the 
 Mediterranean and the perfidious German submarine; 
 his hero is named, like that of Homer's Odyssey, Ulysses ; 
 his hero, like his classic prototype, wanders away from 
 home and forgets, for a time, his faithful Penelope; our 
 modern wanderer, entrapped by a German vampire-spy 
 into aiding the Teuton cause, pays double retribution for 
 his deeds. His only son is blown up by the very vessels 
 to whom he has furnished fuel ; he himself finds an un- 
 timely grave in that sea he loved so much. And what a 
 colorful, powerful sea does the Mediterranean — the 
 cradle of civilization — appear to us when beheld through 
 the magic art of a Blasco Ibanez ; only in the pages of a 
 Victor Hugo, who has so much influenced the great 
 Spaniard, may such wonderful passages upon the waves 
 be found. It is Our Sea indeed that is the real pro- 
 tagonist of Mare Nostrum, and the sea becomes a vast 
 symbol of the entire civilized world whose name Blasco 
 Ibanez was one of the first to speak for the Spanish 
 people. Mare Nostrum belongs in the hearts of the 
 American people beside The Four Horsemen of the 
 Apocalypse. 
 
 We have seen that one of the author's great purposes 
 was to fulminate against injustice wherever he beheld it. 
 This is the origin of the three great protests. The 
 Shadow of the Cathedral, Blood and Sand and La 
 Bodega (The Fruit of the Vine), named in the order of 
 their American publication. 
 
 The Shadow of the Cathedral has been recognized 
 by such masters as William Dean Howells for an incom- 
 parable fund of power and description. Reading Blasco 
 
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ ix 
 
 Ibaiiez is no mere exercise of the eye; it is a vivid ex- 
 perience that is more like something actually lived than 
 simply read. Open the pages of this astounding docu- 
 ment and you at once become a dweller of the Cathedral ; 
 you live amid the people whose world it is ; you listen to 
 the muffled voices of protest as they rise against clerical 
 oppression, and overhear the surging clamors of a de- 
 mand for a better day. With Gabriel Luna, the self-sac- 
 rificing hero, you seek to teach these lowly people, only to 
 find that the oppression has bred an equally anarchic 
 spirit in their hearts. The disciples prove stronger than 
 the master, and in the end he is, by a flashing stroke of 
 irony — ^in which our author abounds — slain by his own 
 people, the lowly whom he had sought to raise. It is 
 Christ crucified anew. Throughout these powerful pages 
 the shadow of the Cathedral falls upon every line; the 
 background is described with a sense of detail that the 
 author learned from his early master, Zola; that same 
 oratory that rang from the deputy's mouth when he stood 
 in the national assembly for the commoners, rings here 
 like the clang of steel against iron. The Shadow of the 
 Cathedral is itself a cathedral of secular freedom — one 
 of the foundation stones in Blasco Ibaiiez's mighty tem- 
 ple of protest. It is an impregnable monument to an 
 idea. 
 
 More absorbing as action, just as powerful as a pro- 
 test, and equally daring on the part of the author in cast- 
 ing the weaknesses of his countrymen into their very 
 teeth is Blood and Sand (Sangre y Arena), one of the 
 greatest indictments against the bull-fight evil ever pen- 
 ned. The horror of this national atrocity is depicted with 
 a pen that fairly drips with the gore of the bull-ring; if 
 you think that an exaggeration, read the pages of a novel 
 that shows you one bull fight after another, yet each time 
 presents a new picture and a new indictment. Note, too. 
 
X VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 how human the tragic hero, Juan Gallardo, is made, and 
 how he appears not only in the light of a brave heart but 
 also of a sacrifice to popular brutality. For to Blasco 
 Ibaiiez the real beast is not the bull who is goaded to 
 death by the red flag, but the sweating, yelling blood- 
 lusting mob that assembled to satisfy a primitive instinct 
 of cruelty. It is characteristic of the author that while 
 he gives you a love tale which moves forward on its own 
 power, so to speak, he presents you with a thorough 
 study of one aspect of this wonderful, versatile people. 
 And lest you are misled into a notion of your own superi- 
 ority, he reminds you that we have sports no less cruel, 
 if less spectacular. Blood and Sand ! Red and Yellow : 
 the national colors of Spain and the colors of a national 
 disgrace that stains the noble banner. Such is the bull 
 fight as a great fighter himself views it. It is not the 
 horror of a timid soul at the sight of blood ; there /s no 
 timidity in Blasco Ibaiiez; it is the disgust of a robust 
 spirit who beholds nobler fields of activity for his people 
 and for the world. 
 
 La Bodega (The Fruit of the Vine) is of double time- 
 liness; it attacks two problems which are to-day upper- 
 most in the minds of all thinking people : social revolution 
 and drink. And the attack is as direct as vehement pur- 
 pose and volcanic language can make it. Drink, es- 
 pecially in the form of Spain's wine, is here portrayed 
 as the enemy of society; it intoxicates the wealthy few 
 with a false sense of power; it befogs the mind of the 
 poor many and deadens them to a sense of their misery 
 and a realization of their own strength to end their 
 wretched lot and inaugurate a better day. Drink leads 
 to the seduction of the heroine by a worthless scion of 
 the upper crust and paves the way to the murderous 
 vengeance inflicted upon by the brother of the wronged 
 woman. There is more love in La Bodega (The Fruit of 
 
VICENTE BLASCO IBA5JEZ xi 
 
 the Vine) than in the other propagandist novels ; there is 
 more poetry — and poetry of a very genuine sort. The 
 scenes of life in town and in country, of love among the 
 peasantry, of life and death among the gypsy laborers, 
 are portrayed with a sense of poesy that few would sus- 
 pect in the author from a cursory acquaintance. For, 
 bear in mind that great as is the Four Horsemen of 
 THE Apocalypse, the genius of Blasco Ibanez is too ex- 
 pansive to be contained in a single book. La Bodega 
 will first of all present you with an absorbing love story ; 
 it will introduce a new aspect of Spanish labor ; touches 
 again the religious question; it is an earlier Blasco 
 Ibanez that considers the overthrow of the present order 
 in a manner to make you stop and think hard. 
 
 But not all is protest and intellectuality in Blasco 
 Ibanez ; by no means. The volumes scheduled for early 
 publication will introduce still another aspect of his 
 versatile spirit: the man of amorous passion, the man of 
 bicontinental vision, the pure fiction writer. 
 
 Take, for example, The Argonauts (Los Argonau- 
 TAs). This is easily one of the most important volumes 
 that has come from the prolific author. It summarizes 
 the spirit not of one age but of centuries. The classic 
 symbolism of its name takes us back to the good ship 
 Argos and that Jason who went in search of the golden 
 fleece ; and ever since, man has, now hither, now thither, 
 embarked upon a similar unending quest. Now it was a 
 Columbus braving the Sea of Darkness, now it was the 
 great Spanish Conquerors in search of El Dorado, now 
 the Crusaders in quest of the Holy Grail ; only yesterday 
 it was the vast hordes of • immigrants that sought in the 
 New World what the Old World denied — and found it, 
 too, in the United States, in Argentina ... It is this 
 spirit of eternal hope that breathes upon every page of 
 this monumental volume; written just before The Four 
 
xii VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 Horsemen of the Apocalypse, it represents the first of 
 a Spanish American series which the author hopes to 
 complete shortly; it is, indeed, as he has himself told us, 
 the prologue to that series of novels. Filled with the 
 idealism of his two later works, it is replete, too, with 
 an interpretation of human passions such as only this 
 ardent Spaniard could portray. The entire action takes 
 place upon a trans-Atlantic steamer journeying from 
 Spain to the city of hope — Buenos Aires. The vessel be- 
 comes a floating symbol of the human race in all its di- 
 visions, its baseness, its aspirations, its conquests. From 
 the steerage to the de luxe staterooms wafts one and the 
 same spirit — hope, the radiant future. The book contains 
 some of the most remarkable passages of an author pecu- 
 liarly wealthy in them; literally and figuratively it is 
 oceanic in conception; no sooner have we opened its 
 pages and witnessed the affecting separation of the pas- 
 sionate Spanish lovers, and followed the hero Fernando 
 Ojeda, on to the steamer, than we ourselves have taken 
 passage and are inscribed upon the purser's list. In one 
 sense, for the moment overlooking the fascinating love 
 adventures which this poet manages to engage in during 
 the short trip across the ocean, the book is a spiritual 
 history of the human race, with the eternal motive of love 
 on the one hand, and gain on the other. In presenting 
 Los Argonautas — ^The Argonauts — ^to the English- 
 reading public, the publishers feel that they are offering 
 not only one of Blasco Ibanez's masterworks, but one of 
 the greatest novels of human strivings ever penned. In 
 scope, in incident, in background, in effect, it is one of the 
 dominating novels of the present century. 
 
 Following directly upon The Argonauts will come a 
 group of novels that display the versatile powers of the 
 noted author. 
 
 Thus Among the Orange Groves (Entre Naranjos) 
 
VICENTE BLASCO IBAfjEZ xiii 
 
 is a tale of romantic passion placed in most picturesque 
 surroundings; La Maja Desnuda (Tlie Naked Girl, so 
 named from one of the famous Goya's paintings) will 
 present a vivid account of the struggle between the artist's 
 temperament and life's realities, unfolded in pages that 
 reveal Blasco Ibaiiez as an uncommonly expert psycholo- 
 gist with a deep insight into the hearts of man and 
 woman; Canas y Barro (Reeds and Mud), one of the 
 earlier regional tales of the author, has been called the 
 greatest novel he has written; in force of characteriza- 
 tion, ardor of passion, savor of the country, baring of the 
 human soul a prey to love, utilization of folk lore, under- 
 standing of his people, it surpassed The Cabin. 
 
 And on top of these pleasurable anticipations — nor has 
 the whole list of his books been given — comes the news 
 of the finishing of his latest novel Los Enemigos de la 
 MujER (The Enemies of Woman), which, report has it, 
 considers the nobility of the United States attitude in 
 the late war. 
 
 Blasco Ibanez is still in his prime as a writer ; he owes 
 us his South American series; the new world that has 
 emerged from the cataclysm has doubtless stirred him to 
 the depths and suggested a host of ideas that will eventu- 
 ally crystallize into new works for which the world is 
 waiting. He has thus become a source of pleasure to a 
 veritable world of readers. Perhaps no author of any 
 nation, at the present day, has a greater number of read- 
 ers waiting for his next book. And among those nations, 
 the United States is favored, as are few, with a steady 
 issue of the master's works. Readers of discretion will 
 read them as they come out, and not allow them to ac- 
 cumulate in a set that eventually will have to be read as 
 a whole if one is to maintain intellectual connection with 
 the times. 
 
 For Blasco Ibanez is peculiarly an author of the times ; 
 
xiv VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 years ago, before certain ideas had become popular, he 
 was championing them at the cost of his own liberty; 
 to-day, too, he is ahead of the procession. To read him 
 is; as we said at the outset, to combine pleasure with 
 profit, instruction with enjoyment. Is not that, after all, 
 the great function of reading? 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 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 
 
 I. 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 Julio Des- 
 noyers vpith 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 muff 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 
 
4 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 only light of the room, the monotonous song of the sam- 
 ovar bubbHng 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 wrere 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 
 finger 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 wereoccupy- 
 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 S 
 
 dames, loaded down with packages, who were waiting 
 for straggling members of their families in order to 
 take the train in the Gare Smnt Lasare. . . . 
 
 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 Print emps 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 Urma 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 possibiHty 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. Every 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 comes 
 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 TRYST 7 
 
 to Paris, leaving him at four in the morning on a plat- 
 form of the Gore 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" was 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 tranquillity 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 modem 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-oi 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. There 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 were 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 Httle 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- 
 mercial 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 countr)'men was always Herr Comer zienrath 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 conunand 
 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 
 divert a festivity. 
 
 "He is saying very witty things about the French," 
 
THE TRYST ii 
 
 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- 
 tentive 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 acknowledging. The subjects of the Kaiser cele- 
 
12 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 brating the great date of the Revolution! He believed 
 that he was witnessing a great historic event. 
 
 "Very well done !" he said to the other South Ameri- 
 cans at the near tables. "We must admit that they have 
 done the handsome thing." 
 
 Then with 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, Mfatching 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 meditim 
 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 maintained by will power only made 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 medieval 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 its 
 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 heaci 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, they might affirm this relationship as often as they 
 
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 haughty 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 to 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 ; but 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 I . . . You little know what is awaiting you !" 
 
 On terra Urma, he would never again have approached 
 these men; but life on a transatlantic liner, with its in- 
 
THE TRYST 17 
 
 evitaDle ptoniiscuousness, obliges forgetfulness. The 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 Germanic 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 mori;. 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 
 glass. 
 
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. "It is war, 
 blessed war. 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 military 
 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 of 
 battles. But they applauded with nods and grunts all of 
 Erckmann's ferocious demonstrations. He was a Herr 
 
20 FOUR HORSEMEN 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. "Look 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 of 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 !" 
 
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 oif 
 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 gienrath 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- 
 rying 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 as 
 though they were bundles. The general precipitation dis- 
 sipated the usual exaggerated and oily Teutonic amiabil- 
 ity. "They are regular bootlickers," thought Desnoyers. 
 
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 OF 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 1 Oh, Marguerite !" . . . 
 
THE TRYST 2y 
 
 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 monument, 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 1" 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 a 
 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 !" 
 
 Tbey 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 eifort required, 
 added on her own account. 
 
 "Just imagine what war would mean — ^how horrible! 
 Society life paralyzed. No more parties, rlor 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 Biarritz. 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^ FQTTP HOR.SEMEN OF THF ^POCALYPSF 
 
 And is war to hinder and cut snort all tms I 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 3A 
 
 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 Chapelle Expiatoire. 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 hMi, poor Dona 
 Luisa, weeping and kissing him frantically as though 
 she had feared to lose him forever. Oose 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 family was ac- 
 
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 Seiior 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- 
 bery with the timid yet would-be natural look of those 
 
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 possibility 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 where 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 secretary 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 
 window 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 exhortations, per- 
 sisted in his advances, the voice of Marguerite 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? . . , Tell 
 me again. I want you to encourage me. ... I need to 
 hear it from your lips." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 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 a 
 
 38 
 
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 39 
 
 protest against the government. The old republicans 
 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 student was carrying the flag. "It is peace that we 
 want — ^a peace which may unite all mankind," chanted 
 the paraders. 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 
 Cannebiere 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 very 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 fatal- 
 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 of 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 1 . . . 
 Months afterwards, the events of the Commune consoled 
 him for his flight. If he had remained, wrath 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-reliance 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 Buenob 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 irritability. 
 
 "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 blufl- 
 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 his 
 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 many a day's journey to go around. Afterwards, 
 when the government was pushing the Indians towards 
 
44 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 the cowboy vernacular which had become second na- 
 ture to him 
 
 "Then it wouldn't be absurd to proclaim myself 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 soil . . . 
 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 
 aroiind him like a muffler above which rose the aggres- 
 sive points of a necktie, a tormenting ornament imposed 
 by his daughters, who in vain arranged it with loving 
 hands that he might look a little more respectable. 
 
 One day he entered the office of the richest merchant 
 of the capital. 
 
 "Sir, I know that you need some young bulls for the 
 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 
 the outset. 
 
 "Don't tell me any of your hard-luck stories, friend," 
 he would yell as if he were going to beat him. "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 ity/ 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 off 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 of 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 of 
 dawn over the fields, attending to the various duties of 
 pasturing. The overseer, Celedonio, 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?" 
 
 "Patron, 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. 
 
 "If 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 APOCALYPSF 
 
 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 born 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 under 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 49 
 
 "What a knock-out!" Madariaga 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 had 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-thrust — ^when Desnoyers arrived and, 
 drawing his revolver, overcame and disarmed th/» idvei» 
 sary. 
 
 "Thanks, Frenchy," said thxt ranchmas, much touched. 
 "You are an all-round man, and I am going to reward 
 
so FUUK ilUK:SliMJiJNI Ut IJtlJi ArUL.AL X rsii 
 
 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 was 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 dinmg 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 Perican, or some other lively Spanish dance!" 
 And the irate father, at the hour of siesta, betook him- 
 self to tlie 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 Uie 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. 
 
 "Pay 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, the 
 genealogical trees, the patents of nobility of his aristo- 
 cratic beasts. He would have to read its contents to 
 him since iit 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 walls 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 
 seiiora and the two senoritas 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 55 
 
 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, you false prophet !" shouted the ranch- 
 man in stentorian tones. 
 
 But 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 had grasped his lash and with the butt end kept 
 
56 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 poking 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 is 
 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 whether 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 the 
 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- 
 ing 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 maiiaging 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, "Seiior Manager, the old 
 Patron say that you are to give me five dollars." The 
 Seiior Manager would refuse, and soon after Madariaga 
 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. 
 
 "I 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 
 
 working 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 
 ... 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 they would ever return ! . . . They were both Argen- 
 
eo FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 tinians now, and ought to interest themselves in present 
 affairs and not bother about the past. 
 
 "And how little 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 languages, and 
 dances attendance on the proprietor's lady friend, as 
 though she were a grand seiiora ... 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, "Just 
 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- 
 mouthed 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 an3^hing about these 
 gringoes? . . . 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 Romaniica 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 6i 
 
 in 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 words 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 indiiference. Other 
 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 his 
 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- 
 
62 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 war of 'yo. The Emperor had re- 
 warded his services by giving him a title. One of his 
 uncles was an intimate councillor of the King of Prus- 
 sia. His older brothers were conspicuous in the most 
 select regiments. He had carried a sword as a lieutenant. 
 
 Bored with all this grandeur, Madariaga interrupted 
 him. "Lies . . . nonsense . . . hot air !" The very idea 
 of a gringo talking to him about nobility! . . . He had 
 left Europe when very young in order to cast in his lot 
 with the revolting democracies of America, and although 
 nobility now seemed to him scwnething 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 him 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 1 
 How can you humiliate him so just because he is poor?" 
 . . . And she felt a deep gratitude toward her brother- 
 
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR 63 
 
 m-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 
 arose 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-five 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, constantly 
 
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 of 
 the laborers — ^laments from Italian songs to the accom- 
 paniment of the accordion, Spanish guitars and Creole 
 choruses, wild voices chanting of kive 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 other 
 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 heaps 
 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 
 real 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, 
 
 We sing of liberty. 
 We'll ne'« betray our fellow-man. 
 
 Though great the guerdon be.' 
 
56 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. "Half 
 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 CUna 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 I" 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 ro- 
 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 a 
 public confession, kept saying over and over : 
 
 "It is my fault. ... It has all been because of my 
 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, "It 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 
 
 Ah, 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- 
 
70 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 proved all opportunities for putting her child in his way, 
 calling him loudly by name : "JuHo . . . 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 1 . . . 
 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 
 
 tained himself for hours at a time talking with tlie tot 
 under 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 was 
 becoming very childish. Even in his most affectionate 
 moments, he used to contradict everybody, and hunt 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 also 
 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 Desnoyers 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 I" 
 
 "You insolent gringoes!" ranted the old man. "That's 
 what that shameless father has taught you 1 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 1" 
 
 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- 
 
yz 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 old 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 m^n, 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 steal 
 
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 I . . . 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 1" 
 
 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 older 
 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 
 years ! Would it not be better for him to remain quietly 
 
MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR ^^ 
 
 at home. . . . Some day something terrible would hap- 
 pen I" . . . 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. "I 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 
 to 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 eflforts to assure himself that his 
 wife had not been overlooked in the will. 
 
 The days following the reading of this will were very 
 
78 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 trying ones for the family. Elena and her children kept 
 looking at the other group as though they had just 
 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 
 who 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 
 senorita 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 weaker all the time because 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 military 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 en- 
 ter the Guard or some aristocratic regiment without any 
 of the members being able to vote against their admis- 
 sion. The two daughters would surely 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 
 of 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 living 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 he 
 was doing was grand and glorious. He had invested 
 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 was 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 life 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 Time. 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 into 
 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 
 indifferent 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 1" 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 ! "It'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 I" 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 the 
 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 seiiora 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 his 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. Dona 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 Drouot. 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 get- 
 ting overcrowded. The furnishings and ornaments were 
 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 working 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 
 
go FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 her 
 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 Drouot 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 Dona 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 mucli, 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. 
 
 He 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 the 
 expenses, but he did not intend to lose money on the 
 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, who 
 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 &cole 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 blonde piece of lace, centuries old, 
 picked up at auction, she made a wry face, saying, "I 
 would much rather have had a new dress costing three 
 hundred francs." She and her brother were soldily 
 opposed to everything, old. 
 
THE DESNOYERS FAAilLY 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, Doiia 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, "had been weaned on beefsteaks." 
 
 Finally Doiia 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 their ideas under the glare of 
 the easy life of Paris, freed 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. 
 
 Dona 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 
 of 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 
 opportunities? . . . 
 
98 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 provi- 
 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 lb 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 FAMILY 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 blows of the prize fighters of the slums. "Use- 
 less as a drone, and as dangerous, too," 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," "Of 
 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- 
 comfiture 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 men 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 country, 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 his 
 father's home. Dona Luisa began to speak of a certain 
 
I02 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 routine 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 into 
 
THE DESNOYERS FAMILY 103 
 
 believing that he had put into the owlish 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 
 stove, 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 
 
I04 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 between 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 
 close. 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 gi-andee 
 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 Doiia 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 crafty 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 
 to bring the secretary into play, ordering him to see the 
 mother immediately; he himself wished to avoid her 
 
io6 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 she 
 '<new, congratulating the bride and groom. Another day 
 
THE DESNOYERS> FAMILY 107 
 
 it 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 out 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 the 
 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 tlie 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 life, 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 OP 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 Altisimas, 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 of 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 good 
 
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 wished 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 
 tale. 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 with 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 — a 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 
 tb enlarge his business. The senator had been instru- 
 mental in arranging 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 tossing 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 the places, like timid birds that at the slightest 
 
114 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 disturbance fly to perch a little further away. Sometimes 
 they would meet in the Buttes Chaumont, 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 ;iot 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 1 . . . 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 believeci 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 1" 
 
 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 stairway 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 martial 
 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 
 
 ii8 
 
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. AH 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 
 Spaniard 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 upon 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- 
 
120 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 country." 
 
 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 Hugo. 
 
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 121 
 
 The costly 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. 
 
 "I 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 t<j 
 
122 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 
 was 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 12^, 
 
 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 
 Sitdleisch haben, because of the very long sittings which 
 their works represented. That was what this cousin was 
 for him, a mere Sitzfteisch haben. 
 
 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. At 
 
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 Julio 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 his 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. AH 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 Celts, 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- 
 tionists disdainfully term militarism. Force, mistress of 
 the world, is what creates right, that which our truly 
 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 mil 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 
 
ijo rOUR 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 same 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- 
 selves 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 the 
 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 
 to 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 1 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. 
 
 "It 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 feel 
 
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 occupied 
 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 — "I 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 135 
 
 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 life." 
 
 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. 
 
 "I 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 prophecies. 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 in- 
 
THE COUSIN FROM BERLIN 137 
 
 discriminately, everything of Teutonic origin, just be- 
 cause of the intensity of its glitter — 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 p-tyrai'y. Nietzsche had 
 
T38 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," and "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 quarrelling 
 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 with 
 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- 
 ernable people, inferior races anxious for equality 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 of 
 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 
 offering 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 here! 
 . . . I do not say that the French are afraid ; they have 
 a 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. K 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 triimiph." 
 
 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 enemy 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 143 
 
 < 
 flag of the Empire is floating over the EiflEel 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. 
 
 "Paris 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 saw a surgeon talking 
 self-sufficiently about the mysteries of the will before a 
 corpse. What did this pedantic interpreter of dead docu- 
 ments know about lif e ? . . . 
 
 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, throwing up his hands. 
 
144 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 "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, we 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 to 
 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 
 free 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 II, 
 
 145 
 
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 shi-oud 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." "It 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!" 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 fran;ais doit vivre pour elle. 
 Pour elle un frangais doit mourir. 
 
 The 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, "I, 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 
 
ISO 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 WHICH. 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 wanted 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. "I 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: "I 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 pcxirly, 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 changed. 
 Oh, this .war ! This stupid war ! 
 
 In the Champs ElysSes, 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, 
 connecting up His words, now that he found himself 
 listened to. "I 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 alike — 
 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 tranquillity 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 ! To 
 
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." 
 
 "Gvilization," 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, when 
 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 ctush 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 I . . . 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, was 
 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 II 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 like 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 nave 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 alHes. 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 civiHzation 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'!" 
 
 TchemofF 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." 
 
 "It 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 senee 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, believing 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 going 
 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 HORSEMii^N OF THE irOCALYPSF 
 
 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 like 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. 
 
 "I know that," interposed the Russian without letting 
 him finish — "generalization, 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 thcii 
 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 163 
 
 "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 life 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 combat 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 life possible." 
 
 A cruel smile played over the Russian's beard. 
 
 "But there exists that Kultur, 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 time, 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 APOCALYPlii 
 
 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 imagfination they mentally saw the 
 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 Tchemoif 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 with 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 !" 
 
 Tchemoff 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 deserted 
 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 Tchernoif, "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 Triomphe." 
 
 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 the waters of cer- 
 tain rivers which fructify by overflowing, this recession 
 
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 167 
 
 of 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- 
 manity 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 
 him. 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 soul? 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 street 
 was presenting its usual aspect, the breeze was gently 
 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 HORSEMEN 169 
 
 wall partition, the steady, desperate weeping of an aban- 
 doned child, and the voice of a m^n 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 her 
 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 
 1 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 grandeur 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 
 rony, his bearded face taking on the semblance of a 
 tragic mask peeping between the curtains of the night. 
 
 "I wonder what those men up there are thinking!" he 
 muttered. "I wonder if any star knows that Bismarck 
 "ver existed ! . . . I wonder if the planets are aware of 
 -he 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 fhinks 
 
IN WHICH APPEAR FOUR HORSEMEN 171 
 
 that 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 coul 
 not hear very well. Various single notes floating wit . 
 greater intensity on the night wind, enabled Argensol 
 to piece together the short song, ending in a melodious, 
 triumphant yell — a true war song: 
 
 C'est 1' Alsace et la Lorraine, 
 C'est I'Alsace 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 listening 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 
 world, 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 flooi: 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 Ron. 
 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 ithe 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 aiid deforns 
 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 trancji 
 seemed to him very weak indeed. A great painter haJ^ 
 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 facades and the interior patio 
 
 Tchernoif placed his precious book under the light. It 
 was a volume printed in 1511, 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 
 men 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 from 
 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 
 the four horsemen, was already begun! 
 
PARTH 
 
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 insanity. 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 
 
 18 1 
 
i82 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 
 
 He could entrust his interests to this gentleman, sure, 
 that 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 
 under 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 
 Europe — less the arrogant enemy — and was saluting 
 France in her hour of danger with hearty spontaneity. 
 Flags of different nations were filing by, of all tints of 
 the rainbow, and behind them were the Russians with 
 bright and mystical eyes; the English, 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 
 of a somewhat puerile enthusiasm ; the Hebrews without 
 a country, friends of the nation of socialistic revolu- 
 tions ; the Italians, as spirited as a choir of heroic tenors ; 
 the 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 had no special significance, but they were all moved by 
 their desire to show their love for the Republic. 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 only, 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 Gore de I'Est. Crowded against the gratings was 
 a surging mass of humanity stretching its tentacles 
 through 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 
 
 rh)rthm 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 Desrioyers, 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 use 
 his own words, was "emancipated from boss tyranny," 
 and was working independently in his own home. A 
 tiny, almost subterranean, room was serving him for 
 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 was 
 accustoftied to humor Robert's tirades against his fellow 
 citizens because the man had always humored his whim- 
 seys about the incessant rearrangement of his furniture. 
 In the luxurious apartment in the avenue Victor Hugo 
 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 the 
 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 
 
 ments, signifying that employer and employees had 
 obeyed the order of mobilization. 
 
 It had never occurred to Desnoyers that his carpenter 
 might become a soldier, since he was so opposed to all 
 kinds 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 
 follow — 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, "I was an anti-militarist ! 
 How far away that seems now — as if a year had gone 
 by! ... I keep thinking as before! I love peace and 
 hate war 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 
 warthabit 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. 
 
 "I 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. 
 
 "I 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. 
 
 "You, 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 I. 
 . . . Admit that it is a beautiful thing." 
 
 Desnoyers was not offended by the malicious satisfac- 
 tion that his future privations seemed to inspire in the 
 carpenter. He was very thoughtful. A man of his 
 stamp, an enemy of existing conditions, who had no 
 property to defend, was going to war — to death, per- 
 haps — because of a generous and distant ideal, in order 
 that future generations might never know the actual 
 horrors of war! To do this, he was not hesitating at 
 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 
 were 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 hopeless 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 life 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 his 
 country and betraying his trust to his forefathers ! Ah, 
 miserable coward ! The material success of his life, the 
 ridhes 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 sfeicrifice 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. "I 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, suifering 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 
 declaration 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 their 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 histor)t. 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 teeth. 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- 
 tle in the country, and a family. Through association 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 battalions 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 tall 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 the 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 affectionate 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 sobs 
 of anguish. 
 
 And Don Marcelo envied these tears. 
 
 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 
 of 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 
 of 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 logical 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 resei-ve force of adaptation 
 which enables it to mould itself to circumstances and 
 continue existing. He was hoping to continue his life 
 as 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. 
 
 "Let 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 lifetime." 
 
 It was unfortunate that war should happen to come 
 when they had 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, like 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 supplies 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 "Let them come !" he would say with a heroic gesture 
 as he took stock of his treasure trove. "Let them come 
 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 tkey 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 publication 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 soundted ; 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 
 chose 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 OP 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 Tchemoff, 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 
 others 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 where the admired Cossacks were exhibiting their 
 wonderful exploits. 
 
 Meanwhile 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 leave her alone at such a time. , . . Then had come the 
 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 found 
 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 conditions, 
 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 207 
 
 To marry! . . . Ten days ago she had had no other 
 wish. Now the possibility 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. 
 
208 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 "It is lovely to be a man !" she exclaimed enthusiasti- 
 cally. "I would love to wear 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- 
 
2IO FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 estedness and extraordinary modesty. She seemed to 
 prefer remaining obstinately in the studio, declining 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 govei^nment 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 er\- 
 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 suifering 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 eifort, 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 
 
 ready 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 
 to 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 
 thought. "She is the man and rejoices that I, the 
 weak comrade, should be protected from danger. . . . 
 What a grotesque situation !" . . . 
 
 Fortunately, at times when Marguerite presented her-r 
 self at the studio, she was again her old self, making him 
 temporarily forget his annoyance. She would arrive 
 with 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. She 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 ! 
 AH 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. "I 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. 
 
 "I do not love him, I never have loved him. Do not 
 look so cross ! How could the poor man ever be com- 
 pared with you? 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 Embusques, 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 afraid of death ; the only thing that was disturbing him 
 was the miHtary 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 obedienc" that was not preceded by long 
 discussions. . . . What next ! 
 
 "Life has changed in a fortnight," he continued. "It 
 seems as if we were living in another planet ; our f ormei 
 
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. . . . The high-born 
 dames who a few months ago were complicating their 
 desires with psychological subleties, are now admiring 
 the military man with the same simplicity tb'*t the maid 
 has for the common soldier. Before a uniform, they 
 feel the humble and servile enthusiasm of *he female 
 of the lower animals before the crests,' foretof* s and gay 
 plumes of the fighting males. Look out, mwter! . . . 
 We shall have to follow the new course of evf*its 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 antennae even to the 
 avenue 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 little later on. 
 
 "I have Germany in my own house," growled Marcelo 
 Desnoyers. 
 
 "Germany" was Doiia Elena, the wife of von Hartrott. 
 Why had not her son — ^that professor of inexhaustible 
 sufificiency 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 
 Doiia 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 moving 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 Dona 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 diable 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 (lezd motlier. 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 auxiliary 
 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 £cole Centrale — 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 friends 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 diable 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 the invincible generals of whom her aunt had 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. Dona 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 
 the interior of Alsace and Lorraine. 
 
 "But — Belgium is invaded, isn't it?" asked Doiia 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 remaining 
 
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- 
 law, 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! Joffre 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 
 Hartroft. "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 fam'Hy 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, Dona Elena wept harder than ever. 
 What falsehoods! The Kaiser was an excellent man, 
 his soldiers were gentlemen, the German army was a 
 
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. 
 
 Senor 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 
 Pluns 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 
 
 ihc 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 
 realfzed 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 the 
 Sacre Cceur on the heights of Montmartre. Religious 
 festivals were now thronged like 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, Seiiora 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 
 supernsitural intervention. "Lord, save France!" Pa- 
 
234 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 triotic religiosity was putting Sainfe 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-Honoree 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- 
 side. 
 
 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. 
 "It appears that the Boches 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. 
 "In 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 
 
23^ FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 the sudden rise in Dona Elena's spirits. With 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 know, 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. Evei7 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, Doiia 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 that 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. Dona 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 seiiora 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 in 
 
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 youthfulness. 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. "I 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 vas 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 Eiffel 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 1" 
 
 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 civilian 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 oflf. 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 transport. 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 
 their 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. 
 Joffre! . . . 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 HORSEMEN 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 doorway 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 women sit- 
 ting as in the placid evenings of bygone summers. Half 
 of the neighborhood had fled ; the others were staying 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 women, 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 afltection, a 
 look of sympathy began to appear on the rough, bark-like 
 
248 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 countenances of the suspicious rustics. For a long time 
 Desnoyers had been on bad tenns 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 vvith the Church 
 turned out as fruitless as his struggles with the State. 
 The priest was 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 minutes Monsieur 
 
THE RETREAT 249 
 
 Desnoyers was basking in the delightful atmosphere of 
 popularity. 
 
 As the iron-willed old gentleman approached his castle 
 he concluded that, although the fatigue of the long walk 
 was making his knees tremble, the trip had 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 showed him that the stalls were comparatively 
 empty. Mobilization had carried off his best work horses ; 
 the driving and riding horses also had disappeared. Those 
 in 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 
 
2SO 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, atid 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 Mame. 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, Passy-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 craziJy on. 
 
 Some of the conveyances displayed white discs with 
 a red cross in the center; others had certain letters and 
 
THE RETREAT 251 
 
 figures 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 slowly 
 moving horses and automobiles were marching groups 
 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 reaching 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- 
 ness from the involved movements of the invader. 
 
 The chiefs suspected the discouraged exhaustion of 
 
THE RETREAT 253 
 
 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 ! . . . 
 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 Vnonth ? 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 
 leave 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 and 
 
254 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 with 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 ovmer 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 re- 
 suming their march the groups began to sing. 
 
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 Baches with more strength. Grandpa Joflfre 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. If 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 
 
2S8 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 down 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 the 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 
 were 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 
 was 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 retraat. 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 scent 
 
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 were beginning to return to their haunts. 
 With timid flutterings 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 most 
 improbable. 
 
 Suddenly he saw something moving at the far end of 
 the road, at the very highest point where 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 
 soldiers 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 
 
262 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE 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 
 ofificial. 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 bad 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 remained 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 
 hein^ 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 trees. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 NEAR THE SACRED GROTTO 
 
 Argensola had found a new occupation even more 
 exciting than marking out on the map the manoeuvres of 
 the armies. 
 
 "I am now devoting myself to the tauhe," 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 taube, 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 indiiiference 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 Frangaise 
 were going that very hour on special trains for Bordeaux, 
 
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 who 
 
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 post 1" . . . 
 
 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 w-e have to die! . . . The 
 studio of the rue de la Pompa was about to witness the 
 
270 FOUR HORSEMEN 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 
 iire. In the space reserved for eight persons, fourteen 
 installed themselves; the passageways were heaped with 
 mountains of bags and valises that ser/ed 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 stainding 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 Desnowers 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 unquenchable 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 v/ith 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 tlae sweet grapes of the coun- 
 try. 
 
 For four days the distracted lover lived 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 hjs 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 tlie 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 often 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 human 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; beings without 
 arms and without legs, resting 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 
 
 ihgly 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 maintain 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 
 
 that 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 ! 
 
 Julio 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 ladies 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 1 "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, with 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 I . . . 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. 
 
 "It 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 
 
 never 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 who 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; we 
 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 thus 
 simply? Were her former vows mere lies? . . . 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 
 not 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 Marguerit«? . . . 
 
 "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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 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. 
 
 "I 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 resistance, 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 
 
 she 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 ; you 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 a 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 taking advantage of her 
 patient's blindness would be to offer him fresh insult 
 every day. . . . Ah, no ! That would be villainy, indeed ! 
 He was now ashamed to recall the malignity with which, 
 a little while before, he had regarded this innocent unfor- 
 
288 FOUR HORSEMEN 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 
 going from her forever, her vanished hopes, the future 
 illumined by the satisfaction of duty fulfilled but monot- 
 onous 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 1 . . . 
 No, you must live. I want you to live, even though 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 of 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 vmder- 
 stand me. ... A woman would comprehend me." 
 
 It seemed to Julio, as he looked around hini, 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 tl-.e shades of the future: 
 
290 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 "What willbecome 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 
 tumbling 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 until 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 ! 
 
293 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 Mame, 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 tranquil 
 as in the best days of peace. Suddenly he noticed 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 Villeblanche 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 his 
 own. Besides, it was too late now to think about such 
 things. 
 
THE INVASION 295 
 
 Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by a sound 
 like 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 oflScer 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 destructiveness, slit the 
 draperies and the rich bed coverings. The owner pro- 
 tested; what was the sense in such useless destruction? 
 
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 yams 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 HORSEMEN 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 flames 
 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 burn( 
 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-law 
 weep vrfth 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 
 thpir 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 insufEerable 
 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 301 
 
 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 
 invariably 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 him 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, t!ie 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 you 
 . . . 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. 
 
 "Military 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 corpses 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 I" 
 
 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 was 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 man 
 
THE INVASION 307 
 
 with shouts of laughter. "Death to the priest!" , . .. The 
 fanaticism of the religious 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 Republique!" 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 of 
 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 much! 
 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 prisoner. 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 
 builders, 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 those 
 in charge. The commissary would not listen to him but 
 
3IO FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 continued ignoring his existence. The lieutenant replied 
 with cutting amiability: 
 
 "It 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, because 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 
 
 during his master's absence, to the German plundering of 
 stables and castle rooms. 
 
 The millionaire felt himself linked by misfortune to 
 these 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 to 
 
312 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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, the 
 proprietor kept receiving news from the Keeper after his 
 visits to the castle. The General and numerous ofBcers 
 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 a 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. "Nach 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 abed 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 witli 
 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 after 
 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 carry- 
 
314 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 ing on their shoulders enormous pieces of furniture, like 
 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 the 
 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. "I 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 b^en 
 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- 
 
3i6 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 
 first 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 remained 
 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 Moltkecito 
 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 1 . . . 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 tliat 
 his relative would be impatient to learn the fate of hi« 
 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 affability 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. Those 
 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, oifering 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 stubby 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 I'Elysee, 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 
 surely 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 
 unappreciated 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 himself. 
 
 "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, 'Please 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 
 were 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 liquors. He was 
 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 one 
 
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 aifected. 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 ofBcers. 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. He trembled with laughter and 
 grief at recalling the little chap. Then he broke forth 
 into eulogies about his wife — excellent manager of the 
 home, a mother who was always modestly sacrificing 
 herself for her children and husband. Ay, the sweet 
 Augusta! . . . After twenty years of married life, he 
 adored her as on the day he first saw her. In a pocket 
 of his uniform, he was keeping all the letters that she 
 had written him since the beginning of the campaign. 
 
 "Look at her. Monsieur. . . . There are my children." 
 
 From his breast pocket, he had drawn forth a silver 
 medallion, adorned with the art of Munich, and touching 
 a spring, he displayed the pictures of all the family — 
 the Frau Kommandeur, of an austere and frigid beauty, 
 imitating the air and coiffure of the Empress ; the 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 the only son was causing his parents great sorrow 
 by his conduct. 
 
 Tender-hearted Commandant! ... He was the first 
 rational and human being that he had met in this hell 
 of an invasion. "There are good people everywhere," 
 he told himself. He hoped that this new acquaintance 
 would not be moved from the castle ; for if the Germans 
 had to stay there, it would better be this man than the 
 others. 
 
 An orderly came to summon Don Marcelo to the 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 carpet 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. 
 
 "I 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 
 the 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 Hussar 
 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 
 had not been able to carry ofif, 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 keep 
 
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 her with his eyes. The poor father! . . . 
 Undoubtedly he was comparing her with his two girls 
 home in Germany, with all their thoughts on the war. 
 He, too, was thinking of Chichi, fearing, sometimes, that 
 he might never see her again. In one of her trips from 
 the castle to her home, Blumhardt called the child to him. 
 She stopped before the table, timid and shrinking as 
 though she felt a presentiment of danger, but making an 
 effort to smile. The Prussian father meanwhile chatted 
 with her, and patted her cheeks with his great paws — a 
 sight which touched Desnoyers deeply. The memories 
 of a pacific and virtuous life were rising above the 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 asph)rxia- 
 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. 
 
 "It was a lie I" 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, but hesitated. It might be better 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. The 
 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 puffs from a Turkish cigarette that was slowly 
 
340 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 scorching the wood of the piano, and again lan 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 knowing 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. 
 
342 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 Not wishing to meet these men again, he abandoned 
 his 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 with 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 eyes. 
 
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 yelling 
 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 no 
 other clothing than a "combination" of Mademoiselle 
 Chichi's. Many were taking obscene delight in soiling 
 the rugs and filling the sideboard drawers with inde- 
 scribable filth, using the finest linens that they could lay 
 their hands on. 
 
 Her master silenced her peremptorily. Why tell him 
 9uch 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 !" 
 
 The child was her greatest anxiety. She had her well 
 hidden away, but she was watching uneasily the goings 
 and 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 diaboFical 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 with 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 1 . . . 
 He did not know whether it was his own or that of the 
 palpitating mortal slowly dying beside him. Then he 
 found himself lifted from the floor by many hands which 
 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 this 
 suave irony, "I 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, slipping 
 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 other 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 not 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 siletit. 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 vvas 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 
 hatred 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 ! . . . He fled, recognizing the uselessness of his 
 efforts. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE BANNER OF THE RED CROSS 
 
 Returning in desperation to his estate, Don Miarcelo 
 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 plundern." 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 
 of 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 Mame. 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 
 limbs. The orderlies were carrying these terrible rem- 
 
354 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 
 
 indifferent nuVses had established themselves in his 
 kitchen. . . . But the time passed on without encountering 
 anybody who would take pity on this old man dragging 
 himself weakly 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 mqney, 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 secured 
 
3S6 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 was 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 with a deliberation that 
 puzzled Desnoyers, who could not make out whether this 
 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 
 app'eared 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 was 
 beginning to uncoil with uneasy wrigglings. 
 
 After night had settled down the troops were still con- 
 tinuing 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, gave 
 Don Marcelo some news. The Germans were in full 
 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 this prohibition, one of the ambulances 
 unloaded its relay of wounded men. So deplorable was 
 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 within 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 no 
 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 evefything 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 ofder 
 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 advancing, 
 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' hoofs 
 
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. 
 
 "Nem 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 tlie 
 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 seen 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 at 
 
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 Marcelo's eye was caught by a sparkling circle of 
 glass, a monocle fixed upon him with aggressive insist- 
 ence. A lank lieutenant with the corseted waist of the 
 officers that he had seen in Berlin, a genuine Junker, was 
 
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 grujBSy. 
 
 Desnoyers explained that he was the owner of the 
 castle. "French?" continued the lieutenant. "Yes, 
 French." . . . The ofSficial 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 pastle, 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 of 
 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 reddening, 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 efifort to howl, but from which no 
 sound ever came. v 
 
 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 tinj 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 bum 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. "It 
 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 
 humiliation 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 THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 officer 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, when 
 he suddenly saw before him the same little round crystal, 
 examining him coolly. It was the Junker, the officer of 
 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- in 
 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 pail^ among 
 those men shooting, lying down. Then, with a sudden 
 
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 
 officer'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 off 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 officers 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 little soldiers, husky, panting, 
 perspiring, with toHi 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 coUiding 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 their 
 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 HORSEMEN 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 THE 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 
 to leave Villeblanche. What was there for him to do 
 now in the destroyed castle? . . . The presence of so 
 many dead was racking his nerves. There were 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- 
 where, 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 — 
 many of 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 by 
 this contagion; so when his thirst became intolerable he 
 drank, in preference, from a nearby pond. . . . But, 
 alas, on raising his head, he saw some greenish legs on 
 
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 
 b« 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 
 chauflteur 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. . . . "Five hundred?" . . . 
 and he showed his fist bulging with gold 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 clients 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 I 
 
 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 Coti^ 
 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- 
 lorn appearance, greeted him with amazed consternation. 
 "Ah Monsieur! . . . Where has Monsieur been?" . . . 
 
 "In hell!" muttered Don Marcelo. 
 
 His wonderment continued wheii 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 "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 and 
 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! . . ." 
 
 The father embraced him convulsively, crying like a 
 child, and trembling so that he could no longer stand. 
 
 He had always hoped that they would finally under- 
 stand each other. His blood was counsing 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 scruple 
 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 ma)/ encounter familiar 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!" 
 
PART m 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 AFTER THE MARNE 
 
 At the end 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 dis- 
 coursed on the dangers of a return. The Government 
 was 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 thf good senora, 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 
 
 387 
 
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 her 
 gadness. 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 
 Mame. What was the use of saddening his loved ones 
 with such miseries? . . . He simply told Doiia 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 prayer. 
 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 h6 
 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. "O Lord have mercy upon usl" . . . 
 and Dona 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 Doiia 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 
 afterwards 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 Chichf's dagger thrusts to be converted into 
 reality. 
 
 Fortunately La Romantica took herself ofif before this 
 antipathy crystallized. She was accustomed to pass 
 the afternoons somewhere outside, and on her return 
 would repeat the news gleaned from friends unknown 
 to the rest of the family. 
 
 This made Don Marcelo wax very indignant because 
 of the spies still hidden in Paris. What mysterious 
 world was his sister-in-law frequenting? . . . 
 
 Suddenly she announced that she was leaving the 
 following morning; she had obtained a passport to 
 Switzerland, and from there she would go to Germany. 
 It was high time for her to be returning to her own; 
 she was most 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 Doiia Lirisa, instead of entering the 
 neighboring church as usual, continued on to the rue de la 
 Pompe, 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 feel- 
 
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. Doiia 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 
 the good lady blush. 
 
 "A valiant man !" affirmed the Spaniard proudly, look- 
 ing upon the deeds of his comrade as though they were 
 his own. "A true hero! and I, Madame Desnoyers, 
 
394 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 know semething about what that means. . . . His chiefs 
 know how to appreciate him." . . . 
 
 Julio was a sergeant after having been only two months 
 fn 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 
 to show some interest in his affairs. . . . What had he 
 been 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 were 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 th€ 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. 
 
 "I 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 Gare de I'Est. 
 Twenty thousand men, with all their campaign outfit, 
 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 Argensola 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 without 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 Argensola 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 whp 
 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. 
 
 "I 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, Doiia 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. 
 
 Doiia 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 with 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 "embusques." 
 
 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 "embusque" 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 Chichf was going toward the Bois de 
 Boulogne, escorted by one of the nut-brown maids, she 
 noticed a solditer coming toward her. He was wearing 
 
40O 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 £cole 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 the 
 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 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. "I always thought him 
 very intelligent ... a little of the diable, 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 ! . . . 
 
 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 a 
 reflex of his love for his absent son, but it 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 
 father and mother could talk of nothing but their absent 
 son. Chichi scarcely looked at her brother's friend. 
 Her attention 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 by without bringing any 
 letter from sub-Lieutenant Lacour. 
 
 Argensola excused himself on various pretexts from 
 continuing to dine in the avenue Victor Hugo. It 
 
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 dommant 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, and 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 he saw them together. And the man of inflexible 
 morality who was, the year before, anathematizing his 
 son'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- 
 tions. All the periodicals were saying about the same 
 
4o8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 thing. He was content with the ofiScial 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 409 
 
 this odd personage had also known his s n, that was 
 enough to make Tchemoff 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. Tchemoflf'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 into relative 
 unimportance. 
 
 "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 yet 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 Tchernoif, 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 with 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 
 gained. . . . And in this way began the war of the 
 trenches." 
 
 Then each line, with the intention of wrapping itself 
 around that of the enemy, had gone on prolonging itself 
 toward 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. 
 
 "It will be long . . . very long. It is a new war, the 
 genuine 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 
 the 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 living 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 Tchemoff was the moral 
 lesson bom 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 
 be 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 
 under 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 
 Rene 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, hut an automohile 
 makes many revolutions before it reaches the end of its 
 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 desiring 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 ?" 
 
 "It has come. . . . We start the day after to-morrow." 
 
 Desnoyers went the following afternoon to the studio 
 in the rue de la Pompe. 
 
 "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 apocal)rptic beast who has re- 
 ceived his death-wound. Soon we shall see him die." 
 
 TchemofF 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 
 with woods. 
 
 The forest presented a tragic desolation. A silent 
 tempest had installed itself therein, placing everything in 
 violent unnatural positions. Not % 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 
 a 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 APOCALYf^SE 
 
 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 ma^y 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 
 marched 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 Kmy, 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 
 oflRcials, engineers and proprietors of big workshops. 
 
 Suddenly the excursionists stumbled upon the iron in- 
 mates of the woods. When 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 Renfi 
 . . . 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 off 
 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 modern 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 faqade. 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 light 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 were electric apparatus, acoustic tubes and 
 telephones — many telephones. 
 
 The Commandant sorted and piled up the papers, oifer- 
 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 little 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. "I 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 tliat it must have been lost in space. "It 
 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 42s 
 
 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 mout*h 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, 
 considering Desnoyers' advanced age. To what section 
 had he belonged? In what capacity had he served? . . . 
 
 "Merely as a victim," was the modest reply. 
 
 An officer 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 him. The enemy might descry him; he was simply 
 making a target of himself by cutting across that open 
 space in order to reach them the sooner. . . . And he 
 trembled 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 entrance, 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. 
 
 "H a German shell," he thought, "should explode 
 above this burrow . . . what a frightful blowing up 1" . . . 
 
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 differently 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 were getting considerably more 
 frequent. They were no longer lost in the wood, and 
 their detonations were sounding nearer and nearer. The 
 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 
 brutishly 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 trenches, 
 
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 DSpart. 
 
 "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 were 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 — z. woman of iron with 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 was broken — ^walls, floor, roof. The fur- 
 niture, a pile of splinters in the comer ; the flowered wall 
 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 Marcelo 
 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; but 
 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 gurbi 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 
 Mame !" 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 highroad 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 who 
 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 "they 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 1" 
 
 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 a 
 
438 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 the two friends, these subterranean fortifications 
 
WAR 439 
 
 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 that 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. Within 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 simplest 
 souls always feel, had led to the embellishment of the 
 underground dwellings. Each soldier had a private 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, "CafS de la 
 Victoire," another in fanciful lettering, "Theatre." . . . 
 Lacpur 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 
 
 Boendations of the soldiers, on both sides of the horizontal 
 opening, keeping their bodies well back, but putting their 
 heads 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 Boches," 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 street 
 door on two wooden horses served as a table; the ceil- 
 ings and walls were covered with cretonnes from ^he 
 Paris warehouses; photographs of women and children 
 adorned the side wall 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 great 
 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 — sl 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 
 very 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 test, 
 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 ! . . . The austere father of 
 the preceding year contemplated himself with astonish- 
 
446 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 ment 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 Chichf. 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 life 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 
 above his father's head and a little hole appeared in the 
 ground. 
 
 "Quick, get out of here 1" 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 though fulfilling an 
 ordinary function. It was a combat that took place every 
 day without anybody's knowing exactly 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 with 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, tells me so. . . . No one will kill himl" 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 "no one will kill him" 
 
 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 rearlied 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 Doiia 
 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 woimd 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." 
 
 Qiichf'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 military 
 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 did 
 
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 451 
 
 not 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-aifairs, 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 
 more 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 
 little 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 APOCALYPSE 
 
 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 ithat 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 jface 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- 
 manii !" . . . Thus culminated in a corner of France the 
 discussions started at table in raid-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 the 
 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 reality, 
 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 order 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, always 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. 
 
 Doiia Luisa received a letter from Germany. Her sis- 
 te.r 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 tlie 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 on 
 French soil, nobody knew where, and she would never 
 be able to find his remains, mingled with hundreds of 
 others. A third son was woimded 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 political connections. He was touched, too, at 
 Dona 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 must 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 in 
 
4S8 FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 the destiny o£ 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 Doiia 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 olive 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. "I 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 daughter 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 all 
 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 with Rene. 
 
 When Desnoyers first saw the wounded artilleryman in 
 bed, he had to make a great effort 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 white 
 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. 
 
 Two 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 Baches 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 pf 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 
 etnhusques!" . . . 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 prolonging the 
 
"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM" 461 
 
 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! ... 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 — z. 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 
 rollicking 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 
 in 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 Desnoyers 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'Honneur. 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 artiller)rman, 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 bom. 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 HORSEMEN 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! . . . Oh, my son, my sonl" . . . 
 
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 yvood. 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- 
 
 465 
 
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 recoverii^ 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 soldier 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 
 many transformations and had presented a ver)' 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 adbmed 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 mem- 
 
THE BURIAL FIELDS 469 
 
 ory 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 Baches 
 to avenge my father's death !" 
 
 And Doiia 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 sepulchre's, 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 his 
 
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 
 pufEness 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- 
 gium was guilty of her own ruin because she had de- 
 
THE BURIAL FIELDS 471 
 
 fended herself; that true happiness consisted 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 FOXJR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 slaughter was simply and logically working out the pro- 
 fessional charts. 
 
 While the German soldier of the lower classes was 
 plundering 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 !" 
 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 
 universities. 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 liieir 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 the mild Mediter- 
 ranean climes. The Herr Professors had proved to their 
 countrymen that such sacking incursions were indispen- 
 
THE BURIAL FIELDS 473 
 
 sable 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 
 iiber 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. 
 Don'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-blandied 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 to 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 again. 
 Then Don^ Luisa, with sad resolution, biting her lips to 
 
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 DesnoyersI On touching the ground, he 
 swayed back and forth, moving forward with the greatest 
 effort, lifting his feet with difHculty, 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 other 
 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 
 
 plots 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 where 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 he 
 
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- 
 separsble 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 
 sniile 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 tiiat 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'lh 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 sobs 
 were wringing her heart, too, but with an unbearable de- 
 pression, without his wrathful exasperation. And she 
 
THE BURIAL FIELDS 479 
 
 would never see him again ! . . . Could it be possible I . . , 
 
 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 affectionate memo^ries 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 an)^hing 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. . . . For him the only im- 
 
482 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. 
 
 Oiichi 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 
 not 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 darling," 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 
 a Grecian vase. 
 
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