in resemblance to a bull dog.
In imagination he saw the high and oppressive collar of a uniform making
a double roll of fat above its stiff edge. The waxed, upright moustaches
were bristling aggressively. His voice was sharp and dry as though
he were shaking out his words. . . . Thus the Emperor would utter his
harangues, so the martial burgher, with instinctive imitation, was
contracting his left arm, supporting his hand upon the hilt of an
invisible sword.

In spite of his fierce and oratorical gesture of command, all the
listening Germans laughed uproariously at his first words, like men who
knew how to appreciate the sacrifice of a Herr Comerzienrath when he
deigns to divert a festivity.

"He is saying very witty things about the French," volunteered the
interpreter in a low voice, "but they are not offensive."

Julio had guessed as much upon hearing repeatedly the word Franzosen.
He almost understood what the orator was saying--"Franzosen--great
children, light-hearted, amusing, improvident. The things that they
might do together if they would only forget past grudges!" The attentive
Germans were no longer laughing. The Counsellor was laying aside his
irony, that grandiloquent, crushing irony, weighing many tons, as
enormous as a ship. Then he began unrolling the serious part of his
harangue, so that he himself, was also greatly affected.

"He says, sir," reported Julio's neighbor, "that he wishes France
to become a very great nation so that some day we may march together
against other enemies . . . against OTHERS!"

And he winked one eye, smiling maliciously with that smile of common
intelligence which this allusion to the mysterious enemy always
awakened.

Finally the Captain-Counsellor raised his glass in a toast to France.
"Hoch!" he yelled as though he were commanding an evolution of his
soldierly Reserves. Three times he sounded the cry and all the German
contingent springing to their feet, responded with a lusty Hoch while
the band in the corridor blared forth the Marseillaise.

Desnoyers was greatly moved. Thrills of enthusiasm were coursing up
and down his spine. His eyes became so moist that, when drinking his
champagne, he almost believed that he had swallowed some tears. He
bore a French name. He had French blood in his veins, and this that the
gringoes were doing--although generally they seemed to him ridiculous
and ordinary--was really worth acknowledging. The subjects of the Kaiser
celebrati