"That is war, my dear sir," said the player, pausing for a moment. "War
with its cruel necessities. . . . It is always expedient to destroy the
enemy of to-morrow."
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.
Pages:
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432