mutilated, the children with their
hands cut off, all the horrors of a war of terror, aroused the violence
of his character.

And such things could happen with impunity in this day and
generation! . . .

In order to convince himself that punishment was near, that vengeance
was overtaking the guilty ones, he felt the necessity of mingling daily
with the people crowding around the Gare de l'Est.

Although the greater part of the troops were operating on the frontiers,
that was not diminishing the activity in Paris. Entire battalions were
no longer going off, but day and night soldiers were coming to the
station singly or in groups. These were Reserves without uniform on
their way to enroll themselves with their companies, officials who until
then had been busy with the work of the mobilization, platoons in arms
destined to fill the great gaps opened by death.

The multitude, pressed against the railing, was greeting those who were
going off, following them with their eyes while they were crossing the
large square. The latest editions of the daily papers were announced
with hoarse yells, and instantly the dark throng would be spotted with
white, all reading with avidity the printed sheets. Good news: "Vive
la France!" A doubtful despatch, foreshadowing calamity: "No matter! We
must press on at all costs! The Russians will close in behind them!" And
while these dialogues, inspired by the latest news were taking place,
many young girls were going among the groups offering little flags and
tricolored cockades--and passing through the patio, men and still more
men were disappearing behind the glass doors, on their way to the war.

A sub-lieutenant of the Reserves, with his bag on his shoulder, was
accompanied by his father toward the file of policemen keeping the
crowds back. Desnoyers saw in the young officer a certain resemblance to
his son. The father was wearing in his lapel the black and green ribbon
of 1870--a decoration which always filled Desnoyers with remorse. He was
tall and gaunt, but was still trying to hold himself erect, with a heavy
frown. He wanted to show himself fierce, inhuman, in order to hide his
emotion.

"Good-bye, my boy! Do your best."

"Good-bye, father."

They did not clasp hands, and each was avoiding looking at the other.
The official was smiling like an automaton. The father turned his back
brusquely, and threading his way through the throng, entered a cafe,
where for some time he neede