Besides, he took into
account the quality of the objects which he was appropriating. They were
not for himself; they were for the wife, for the daughters. . . . A good
father of his family! For more than an hour now, he had been sitting
before that table writing incessantly, conversing, pen in hand, with his
Augusta and all the family in Cassel. Better that this good man should
carry off his stuff than those other domineering officers with cutting
voices and insolent stiffness.

Desnoyers noticed, too, that the writer raised his head every time that
Georgette, the Warden's daughter, passed by, following her with his
eyes. The poor father! . . . Undoubtedly he was comparing her with his
two girls home in Germany, with all their thoughts on the war. He, too,
was thinking of Chichi, fearing sometimes, that he might never see her
again. In one of her trips from the castle to her home, Blumhardt called
the child to him. She stopped before the table, timid and shrinking as
though she felt a presentiment of danger, but making an effort to smile.
The Prussian father meanwhile chatted with her, and patted her cheeks
with his great paws--a sight which touched Desnoyers deeply. The
memories of a pacific and virtuous life were rising above the horrors of
war. Decidedly this one enemy was a good man, anyway.

Because of his conclusion, the millionaire smiled indulgently when the
Commandant, leaving the table, came toward him--after delivering
his letter and a bulky package to a soldier to take to the battalion
post-office in the village.

"It is for my family," he explained. "I do not let a day pass without
sending them a letter. Theirs are so precious to me! . . . I am also
sending them a few remembrances."

Desnoyers was on the point of protesting. . . . But with a shrug of
indifference, he concluded to keep silence as if he did not object. The
Commandant continued talking of the sweet Augusta and their children
while the invisible tempest kept on thundering beyond the serene
twilight horizon. Each time the cannonading was more intense.

"The battle," continued Blumhardt. "Always a battle! . . . Surely it is
the last and we are going to win. Within the week, we shall be entering
Paris. . . . But how many will never see it! So many dead! . . . I
understand that to-morrow we shall not be here. All the Reserves are to
combine with the attack so as to overcome the last resistance. . . . If
only I do not fall!" . . .

Thoughts o