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 Desnoyers 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."
They did not clasp hands, and each was avoiding looking at the other.
The official was smiling like an automaton. The father turned his back
brusquely, and threading his way through the throng, entered a cafe,
where for some time he needed the most retired seat in the darkest
earner to hide his emotion.
AND DON MARCELO ENVIED HIS GRIEF.
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