Every issue of the papers 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 appears 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.
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