d the most retired seat in the darkest
earner to hide his emotion.

AND DON MARCELO ENVIED HIS GRIEF.

Some of the Reservists came along singing, preceded by a flag. They were
joking and jostling each other, betraying in excited actions, long halts
at all the taverns along the way. One of them, without interrupting
his song, was pressing the hand of an old woman marching beside him,
cheerful and dry-eyed. The mother was concentrating all her strength in
order, with feigned happiness, to accompany this strapping lad to the
last minute.

Others were coming along singly, separated from their companies, but not
on that account alone. The gun was hanging from the shoulder, the back
overlaid by the hump of the knapsack, the red legs shooting in and out
of the turned-back folds of the blue cloak, and the smoke of a pipe
under the visor of the kepis. In front of one of these men, four
children were walking along, lined up according to size. They kept
turning their heads to admire their father, suddenly glorified by his
military trappings. At his side was marching his wife, affable and
resigned, feeling in her simple soul a revival of love, an ephemeral
Spring, born of the contact with danger. The man, a laborer of Paris,
who a few months before was singing La Internacional, demanding the
abolishment of armies and the brotherhood of all mankind, was now going
in quest of death. His wife, choking back her sobs, was admiring him
greatly. Affection and commiseration made her insist upon giving him a
few last counsels. In his knapsack she had put his best handkerchiefs,
the few provisions in the house and all the money. Her man was not to be
uneasy about her and the children; they would get along all right. The
government and kind neighbors would look after them.

The soldier in reply was jesting over the somewhat misshapen figure of
his wife, saluting the coming citizen, and prophesying that he would
be born in a time of great victory. A kiss to the wife, an affectionate
hair-pull for his offspring, and then he had joined his comrades. . . .
No tears. Courage! . . . Vive la France!

The final injunctions of the departing were now heard. Nobody was
crying. But as the last red pantaloons disappeared, many hands grasped
the iron railing convulsively, many handkerchiefs were bitten with
gnashing teeth, many faces were hidden in the arms with sobs of anguish.

AND DON MARCELO ENVIED THESE TEARS.

The old woman, on losing the war