of her remaining in Paris
. . . especially with all those revolutions which had been breaking out
there lately! . . . Desnoyers looked doubtful as if he could not have
heard correctly. What revolutions were those? . . . But the officer,
without further explanation, resumed his conversation about his family,
taking it for granted that his relative would be impatient to learn the
fate of his German kin.

They were all in magnificent state. Their illustrious father was
president of various patriotic societies (since his years no longer
permitted him to go to war) and was besides organizing future industrial
enterprises to improve the conquered countries. His brother, "the Sage,"
was giving lectures about the nations that the imperial victory
was bound to annex, censuring severely those whose ambitions were
unpretending or weak. The remaining brothers were distinguishing
themselves in the army, one of them having been presented with a medal
at Lorraine. The two sisters, although somewhat depressed by the absence
of their fiances, lieutenants of the Hussars, were employing their
time in visiting the hospitals and begging God to chastise traitorous
England.

Captain von Hartrott was slowly conducting his uncle toward the castle.
The gray and unbending soldiers who, until then, had been ignoring the
existence of Don Marcelo, looked at him with interest, now that he
was in intimate conversation with a member of the General Staff. He
perceived that these men were about to humanize themselves by casting
aside temporarily their inexorable and aggressive automatonism.

Upon entering his mansion something in his heart contracted with an
agonizing shudder. Everywhere he could see dreadful vacancies, which
made him recall the objects which had formerly been there. Rectangular
spots of stronger color announced the theft of furniture and paintings.
With what despatch and system the gentleman of the armlet had been doing
his work! . . . To the sadness that the cold and orderly spoliation
caused was added his indignation as an economical man, gazing upon the
slashed curtains, spotted rugs, broken crystal and porcelain--all the
debris from a ruthless and unscrupulous occupation.

His nephew, divining his thoughts, could only offer the same old
excuse--"What a mess! . . . But that is war!"

With Moltkecito, he did not have to subside into the respectful
civilities of fear.

"That is NOT war!" he thundered bitterly. "It is an expediti