"
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 invisible tempest kept on thundering beyond the serene
twilight horizon. Each time the cannonading was more intense.
"The battle," continued Blumhardt. "Always a battle! . . . 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
understand that to-morrow we shall not be here. All the Reserves are to
combine with the attack so as to overcome 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
responsible 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 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 country people and
some soldiers with guns.
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