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 insistence. A lank lieutenant with the
corseted waist of the officers that he had seen in Berlin, a genuine
Junker, was a few feet away, sword in hand behind his men, like a
wrathful and glowering shepherd.
"What are you doing here?" he said gruffly.
Desnoyers explained that he was the owner of the castle. "French?"
continued the lieutenant. "Yes, French." . . . The official 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.
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