I examined him, furtively; his massive Lorrain's head, the ruddy face beneath the white hair, the square jaw, the nose with a heavy, decided bridge. Sturdy and tall like an old oak, his only complaint at the age of sixty-seven was an occasional attack of rheumatism. I might have been gazing at the portrait of some ancestor. Was he not indeed an anachronism in our century. Taciturn and reserved, but upright, frank, and sound all through, the hero of an exclusive faith, of a single hate and a single love, he treated with scorn all human contingencies in the exaltation of his passion. It is true that he loved my brother as much as if he had been his only son. And yet if he were to go and get killed in one of the first engagements, I could foresee that the old man would weep, gnawing at his grey moustache, but in this sorrow he would taste the joy of sacrifice. If France were victorious he would consider success cheap at the price. Oh! how complete was the contrast between us, I thought. I supple, and of medium height, owing the triumph over my constitutional delicacy only to the tardy pursuit of sports. I, smiling and polite as a matter of form, but a cynic and dissembler; I who believed in nothing, loved and hated nothing! Led away by a natural inclination, he conjured up his recollections of the other war: deeds of courage and cruelty, stories breathing blood and powder, all ending in violence and murder. It woke him up and enraptured him to breathe the fumes of the slaughters of yesterday and to-day. My demeanour and head tossings seemed to encourage him. Oh! if only he could have read my thoughts. If he had guessed my detestation of all fighting. My horror of physical suffering, the only true suffering in my eyes, my longing for repose even without honour, my indifference respecting my threatened country, the wish which I caught myself forming--I had got as far as that!--to see our mobilisation hindered, or even prevented altogether, the red flag hoisted, and our defeat proclaimed before I had run any risk! My father, happily, had neither the taste nor the gift for probing people's minds. His beliefs dazzled him with such shining proof that he could not understand any one challenging them. He could not have attributed thoughts like mine to any one but the scum of the nation, degenerates, debased by sloth, vice, and alcohol. Strange that I should be of his blood. The pudding was served. Mélanie handed round a chestnut cream. My father led the conversation back to Victor. I discerned the great longing in the old man's heart to see his son--the apple of his eye--again, and to do him honour. "He won't be long now before he gets his company." I had never taken umbrage at the paternal solicitude. Why should I suddenly to-day consider as strange an affection so much out of proportion...? You might have thought my brother was the only one who was going to risk his life.... And what about me? I ventured to draw attention to the fact.