en of the lower classes who were going alone
toward the station met a gentleman who would timidly stop them, put
his hand in his pocket and leave in their right hand a bill of
twenty francs, fleeing immediately before their astonished eyes. The
working-women who were returning weeping from saying good-bye to their
husbands saw this same gentleman smiling at the children who were with
them, patting their cheeks and hastening away, leaving a five-franc
piece in their hands.

Don Marcelo, who had never smoked, was now frequenting the tobacco
shops, coming out with hands and pockets filled in order that he might,
with lavish generosity, press the packages upon the first soldier he
met. At times the recipient, smiling courteously, would thank him with a
few words, revealing his superior breeding--afterwards passing the gift
on to others clad in cloaks as coarse and badly cut as his own. The
mobilization, universally obligatory, often caused him to make these
mistakes.

The rough hands pressing his with a grateful clasp, left him satisfied
for a few moments. Ah, if he could only do more! . . . The Government
in mobilizing its vehicles had appropriated three of his monumental
automobiles, and Desnoyers felt very sorry that they were not also
taking the fourth mastodon. Of what use were they to him? The shepherds
of this monstrous herd, the chauffeur and his assistants, were now in
the army. Everybody was marching away. Finally he and his son would be
the only ones left--two useless creatures.

He roared with wrath on learning of the enemy's entrance into Belgium,
considering this the most unheard-of treason in history. He suffered
agonies of shame at remembering that at first he had held the exalted
patriots of his country responsible for the war. . . . What perfidy,
methodically carried out after long years of preparation! The accounts
of the sackings, fires and butcheries made him turn pale and gnash his
teeth. To him, to Marcelo Desnoyers, might happen the very same thing
that Belgium was enduring, if the barbarians should invade France. He
had a home in the city, a castle in the country, and a family. Through
association of ideas, the women assaulted by the soldiery, made him
think of Chichi and the dear Dona Luisa. The mansions in flames called
to his mind the rare and costly furnishings accumulated in his expensive
dwellings--the armorial bearings of his social elevation. The old folk
that were shot, the women foully