Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 23, 2025
He was the Chief of the battalion occupying this section of the trenches. Don Marcelo studied him with special interest, knowing that his son was under his orders. To the two friends, these subterranean fortifications bore a certain resemblance to the lower parts of a vessel.
A few days later, he arrived at the house in the avenue Victor Hugo, with an expression of radiant satisfaction that filled Don Marcelo with joy. "It has come?" "It has come. . . . We start the day after to-morrow." Desnoyers went the following afternoon to the studio in the rue de la Pompe. "I am going to-morrow!" The artist was very eager to accompany him.
He, nevertheless, was counting much on that same official protection treasured by four generations of Lacours dedicated to the service of the Republic, to assist him when he became an engineer. Don Marcelo who used to look uneasily upon any new friendship, fearing a demand for a loan, gave himself up with enthusiasm to intimacy with this "grand man."
And to think that he might lose these beloved beings if a bit of iron should hit him! . . . And he had to live far from them now that it was such fine weather for long walks in the country! . . . "Sad war!" he again said. "May God punish the English!" With a solicitude that Don Marcelo greatly appreciated, he in turn inquired about the Frenchman's family.
"O Lord have mercy upon us!" . . . and Dona Elena was at the same time contemplating a group of officers with helmets and reseda uniforms reinforced with leather pouches for the revolver, field glasses and maps, with sword-belt of the same material. Oftentimes when Don Marcelo saw them setting forth together toward Saint Honore d'Eylau, he would wax very indignant.
He had heard so much about Don Marcelo and his bad temper, that he was very uncomfortable at this unexpected appearance in the studio. . . . What could the fearful man want? His tranquillity was restored after a furtive, appraising glance. His friend's father had aged greatly since the beginning of the war. He no longer had that air of tenacity and ill-humor that had made him unapproachable.
"It is necessary to pay," Don Marcelo kept repeating mentally. "I ought to pay my debt." As in his dreams, he was constantly feeling the anguish of an upright and desperate man who wishes to meet his obligations. Pay! . . . and how? It was now very late.
The priest was a kindly old soul who bore a certain resemblance to Renan, and seemed interested only in getting alms for his poor out of Don Marcelo, even carrying his good-natured boldness so far as to try to excuse the marauders on his property.
The millionaire followed the carpenter with a look of respect, immeasurably increased since he had taken his part in this human avalanche. And this respect had in it something of envy, the envy that springs from an uneasy conscience. Whenever Don Marcelo passed a bad night, suffering from nightmare, a certain terrible thing always the same would torment his imagination.
The trembling old man staggered up to him, begging for the food by signs and holding out a piece of money. The German's eyes glistened at the sight of the gold, and a beatific smile stretched his mouth from ear to ear. "Ya," he responded, and grabbing the money, he handed over the food. Don Marcelo commenced to swallow it with avidity.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking