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Updated: June 7, 2025
Foreseeing pressing necessity, the hungry man put his hands in his pockets as usual, but was astonished to learn from the orderly's emphatic gestures that he did not wish any money. "Nein. . . . Nein!" What generosity was this! . . . The German persisted in his negatives. His enormous mouth expanded in an ingratiating grin as he laid his heavy paws on Marcelo's shoulders.
That others should die was but natural, but Julio! . . . As they got further and further away from the soldier boy, Hope appeared to be singing in his ears; and as an echo of his pleasing musings, the father kept repeating mentally: "No one will kill him. My heart which never deceives me, tells me so. . . . No one will kill him!" Four months later, Don Marcelo's confidence received a rude shock.
As though a negative reply to his faint-heartedness, he overheard the voice of a soldier reassuring a farmer: "We are retreating, yes only that we may pounce upon the Boches with more strength. Grandpa Joffre is going to put them in his pocket when and where he will." The mere sound of the Marshal's name revived Don Marcelo's hope.
"Military duty, sir. . . . War exacts it." After this excuse the petty official renewed his eulogies of His Excellency. He was going to make his headquarters in Don Marcelo's property, and on that account granted him his life. He ought to thank him. . . . Then again his face trembled with wrath. He pointed to some bodies lying near the road.
Seeing their master on such friendly terms with the invaders, they had lost some of the fear which had kept them shut up in their cottage. To the woman it seemed but natural that Don Marcelo's authority should be recognized by these people; the master is always the master.
The next morning the orderly was waiting for him in the same place, holding out a napkin filled with eatables. Good red-bearded man, helpful and kind! . . . and he offered him the piece of gold. "Nein," replied the fellow, with a broad, malicious grin. Two gleaming gold pieces appeared between Don Marcelo's fingers. Another leering "Nein" and a shake of the head. Ah, the robber!
Had she not been his sister, she would have liked to have been his beloved. And having exhausted the rain of flower-petals, she wandered away so as not to disturb the lamentations of her parents. Before the uselessness of his bitter plaints, Don Marcelo's former dominant character had come to life, raging against destiny.
One of Don Marcelo's pet occupations was to make his son tell about the encounter in which he had been hurt. No visitor ever came to see the sub-lieutenant but the father always made the same petition. "Tell us how you were wounded. . . . Explain how you killed that German captain." Julio tried to excuse himself with visible annoyance. He was already surfeited with his own history.
Don Marcelo's eye was caught by a sparkling circle of glass, a monocle fixed upon him with aggressive insistence. A lank lieutenant with the corseted waist of the officers that he had seen in Berlin, a genuine Junker, was a few feet away, sword in hand behind his men, like a wrathful and glowering shepherd. "What are you doing here?" he said gruffly.
"And even if he were of age," he added, "is that a crime to shoot a man for?" Blumhardt did not reply. Since he had recovered his functions of command, he ignored absolutely Don Marcelo's existence. He was about to say something, to give an order, but hesitated. It might be better to consult His Excellency . . . and seeing that he was going toward the castle, Desnoyers marched by his side.
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