The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

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On terra firma, he would never again have approached these men; but life
on a transatlantic liner, with its inevitable promiscuousness, obliges
forgetfulness. The following day the Counsellor and his friends came in
search of him, flattering his sensibilities by erasing every irritating
memory. He was a distinguished youth belonging to a wealthy family, and
all of them had shops and business in his country. The only thing was
that he should be careful not to mention his French origin. He was an
Argentinian; and thereupon, the entire chorus interested itself in the
grandeur of his country and all the nations of South America where they
had agencies or investments--exaggerating its importance as though its
petty republics were great powers, commenting with gravity upon the
deeds and words of its political leaders and giving him to understand
that in Germany there was no one who was not concerned about the
future of South America, predicting for all its divisions most glorious
prosperity--a reflex of the Empire, always, provided, of course, that
they kept under Germanic influence.

In spite of these flatteries, Desnoyers was no longer presenting himself
with his former assiduity at the hour of poker. The Counsellor's wife
was retiring to her stateroom earlier than usual--their approach to the
Equator inducing such an irresistible desire for sleep, that she had
to abandon her husband to his card playing. Julio also had mysterious
occupations which prevented his appearance on deck until after midnight.
With the precipitation of a man who desires to be seen in order to avoid
suspicion, he was accustomed to enter the smoking room talking loudly as
he seated himself near the husband and his boon companions.

The game had ended, and an orgy of beer and fat cigars from Hamburg
was celebrating the success of the winners. It was the hour of Teutonic
expansion, of intimacy among men, of heavy, sluggish jokes, of off-color
stories. The Counsellor was presiding with much majesty over the
diableries of his chums, prudent business men from the Hanseatic ports
who had big accounts in the Deutsche Bank or were shopkeepers installed
in the republic of the La Plata, with an innumerable family. He was a
warrior, a captain, and on applauding every heavy jest with a laugh that
distended his fat neck, he fancied that he was among his comrades at
arms.

In honor of the South Americans who, tired of pacing the deck, had
dropped in to hear what the gringoes were saying, they were turning into
Spanish the witticisms and licentious anecdotes awakened in the memory
by a superabundance of beer. Julio was marvelling at the ready laugh of
all these men. While the foreigners were remaining unmoved, they would
break forth into loud horse-laughs throwing themselves back in their
seats. And when the German audience was growing cold, the story-teller
would resort to an infallible expedient to remedy his lack of success:--

"They told this yarn to the Kaiser, and when the Kaiser heard it he
laughed heartily."

It was not necessary to say more. They all laughed then. Ha, ha, ha!
with a spontaneous roar but a short one, a laugh in three blows, since
to prolong it, might be interpreted as a lack of respect to His Majesty.

As they neared Europe, a batch of news came to meet the boat. The
employees in the wireless telegraphy office were working incessantly.
One night, on entering the smoking room, Desnoyers saw the German
notables gesticulating with animated countenances. They were no longer
drinking beer. They had had bottles of champagne uncorked, and the
Counsellor's Lady, much impressed, had not retired to her stateroom.
Captain Erckmann, spying the young Argentinian, offered him a glass.

"It is war," he shouted with enthusiasm. "War at last. . . . The hour
has come!"

Desnoyers made a gesture of astonishment. War! . . . What war? . . .
Like all the others, he had read on the news bulletin outside
a radiogram stating that the Austrian government had just sent an
ultimatum to Servia; but it made not the slightest impression on him,
for he was not at all interested in the Balkan affairs. Those were but
the quarrels of a miserable little nation monopolizing the attention of
the world, distracting it from more worthwhile matters. How could this
event concern the martial Counsellor? The two nations would soon come to
an understanding. Diplomacy sometimes amounted to something.

"No," insisted the German ferociously. "It is war, blessed war. Russia
will sustain Servia, and we will support our ally. . . . What will
France do? Do you know what France will do?" . . .

Julio shrugged his shoulders testily as though asking to be left out of
all international discussions.

"It is war," asserted the Counsellor, "the preventive war that we need.
Russia is growing too fast, and is preparing to fight us. Four years
more of peace and she will have finished her strategic railroads, and
her military power, united to that of her allies, will be worth as much
as ours. It is better to strike a powerful blow now. It is necessary to
take advantage of this opportunity. . . . War. Preventive war!"

All his clan were listening in silence. Some did not appear to feel the
contagion of his enthusiasm. War! . . . In imagination they saw their
business paralyzed, their agencies bankrupt, the banks cutting down
credit . . . a catastrophe more frightful to them than the slaughters
of battles. But they applauded with nods and grunts all of Erckmann's
ferocious demonstrations. He was a Herr Rath, and an officer besides.
He must be in the secrets of the destiny of his country, and that was
enough to make them drink silently to the success of the war.

Julio thought that the Counsellor and his admirers must be drunk. "Look
here, Captain," he said in a conciliatory tone, "what you say lacks
logic. How could war possibly be acceptable to industrial Germany? Every
moment its business is increasing, every month it conquers a new
market and every year its commercial balance soars upward in unheard of
proportions. Sixty years ago, it had to man its boats with Berlin
hack drivers arrested by the police. Now its commercial fleets and war
vessels cross all oceans, and there is no port where the German merchant
marine does not occupy the greatest part of the docks. It would only be
necessary to continue living in this way, to put yourselves beyond the
exigencies of war! Twenty years more of peace, and the Germans would be
lords of the world's commerce, conquering England, the former mistress
of the seas, in a bloodless struggle. And are they going to risk all
this--like a gambler who stakes his entire fortune on a single card--in
a struggle that might result unfavorably?" . . .

"No, war," insisted the Counsellor furiously, "preventive war. We live
surrounded by our enemies, and this state of things cannot go on. It is
best to end it at once. Either they or we! Germany feels herself strong
enough to challenge the world. We've got to put an end to this Russian
menace! And if France doesn't keep herself quiet, so much the worse for
her! . . . And if anyone else . . . ANYONE dares to come in against us,
so much the worse for him! When I set up a new machine in my shops, it
is to make it produce unceasingly. We possess the finest army in the
world, and it is necessary to give it exercise that it may not rust
out."

He then continued with heavy emphasis, "They have put a band of iron
around us in order to throttle us. But Germany has a strong chest and
has only to expand in order to burst its bands. We must awake before
they manacle us in our sleep. Woe to those who then oppose us! . . ."

Desnoyers felt obliged to reply to this arrogance. He had never seen
the iron circle of which the Germans were complaining. The nations were
merely unwilling to continue living, unsuspecting and inactive,
before boundless German ambition. They were simply preparing to defend
themselves against an almost certain attack. They wished to maintain
their dignity, repeatedly violated under most absurd pretexts.

"I wonder if it is not the others," he concluded, "who are obliged to
defend themselves because you represent a menace to the world!"

An invisible hand sought his under the table, as it had some nights
before, to recommend prudence; but now he clasped it forcibly with the
authority of a right acquired.

"Oh, sir!" sighed the sweet Bertha, "to talk like that, a youth so
distinguished who has . . ."

She was not able to finish, for her husband interrupted. They were no
longer in American waters, and the Counsellor expressed himself with the
rudeness of a master of his house.

"I have the honor to inform you, young man," he said, imitating the
cutting coldness of the diplomats, "that you are merely a South American
and know nothing of the affairs of Europe."

He did not call him an "Indian," but Julio heard the implication as
though he had used the word itself. Ah, if that hidden handclasp had not
held him with its sentimental thrills! . . . But this contact kept him
calm and even made him smile. "Thanks, Captain," he said to himself. "It
is the least you can do to get even with me!"

Here his relations with the German and his clientele came to an end. The
merchants, as they approached nearer and nearer to their native land,
began casting off that servile desire of ingratiating themselves which
they had assumed in all their trips to the new world. They now had more
important things to occupy them. The telegraphic service was working
without cessation. The Commandant of the vessel was conferring in his
apartment with the Counsellor as his compatriot of most importance.
His friends were hunting out the most obscure places in order to
talk confidentially with one another. Even Bertha commenced to avoid
Desnoyers. She was still smiling distantly at him, but that smile was
more of a souvenir than a reality.

Between Lisbon and the coast of England, Julio spoke with her husband
for the last time. Every morning was appearing on the bulletin board the
alarming news transmitted by radiograph. The Empire was arming itself
against its enemies. God would punish them, making all manner of
troubles fall upon them. Desnoyers was motionless with astonishment
before the last piece of news--"Three hundred thousand revolutionists
are now besieging Paris. The suburbs are beginning to burn. The horrors
of the Commune have broken out again."

"My, but these Germans have gone mad!" exclaimed the disgusted youth to
the curious group surrounding the radio-sheet. "We are going to lose
the little sense that we have left! . . . What revolutionists are they
talking about? How could a revolution break out in Paris if the men of
the government are not reactionary?"

A gruff voice sounded behind him, rude, authoritative, as if trying to
banish the doubts of the audience. It was the Herr Comerzienrath who was
speaking.

"Young man, these notices are sent us by the first agencies of Germany
. . . and Germany never lies."

After this affirmation, he turned his back upon them and they saw him no
more.

On the following morning, the last day of the voyage. Desnoyers' steward
awoke him in great excitement. "Herr, come up on deck! a most beautiful
spectacle!"

The sea was veiled by the fog, but behind its hazy curtains could be
distinguished some silhouettes like islands with great towers and sharp,
pointed minarets. The islands were advancing over the oily waters slowly
and majestically, with impressive dignity. Julio counted eighteen. They
appeared to fill the ocean. It was the Channel Fleet which had just left
the English coast by Government order, sailing around simply to show
its strength. Seeing this procession of dreadnoughts for the first
time, Desnoyers was reminded of a flock of marine monsters, and gained
a better idea of the British power. The German ship passed among them,
shrinking, humiliated, quickening its speed. "One might suppose," mused
the youth, "that she had an uneasy conscience and wished to scud to
safety." A South American passenger near him was jesting with one of
the Germans, "What if they have already declared war! . . . What if they
should make us prisoners!"

After midday, they entered Southampton roads. The Frederic August
hurried to get away as soon as possible, and transacted business with
dizzying celerity. The cargo of passengers and baggage was enormous.
Two launches approached the transatlantic and discharged an avalanche of
Germans residents in England who invaded the decks with the joy of those
who tread friendly soil, desiring to see Hamburg as soon as possible.
Then the boat sailed through the Channel with a speed most unusual in
these places.

The people, leaning on the railing, were commenting on the extraordinary
encounters in this marine boulevard, usually frequented by ships of
peace. Certain smoke lines on the horizon were from the French squadron
carrying President Poincare who was returning from Russia. The European
alarm had interrupted his trip. Then they saw more English vessels
patrolling the coast line like aggressive and vigilant dogs. Two North
American battleships could be distinguished by their mast-heads in the
form of baskets. Then a Russian battleship, white and glistening, passed
at full steam on its way to the Baltic. "Bad!" said the South American
passengers regretfully. "Very bad! It looks this time as if it were
going to be serious!" and they glanced uneasily at the neighboring
coasts on both sides. Although they presented the usual appearance,
behind them, perhaps, a new period of history was in the making.

The transatlantic was due at Boulogne at midnight where it was supposed
to wait until daybreak to discharge its passengers comfortably. It
arrived, nevertheless, at ten, dropped anchor outside the harbor, and
the Commandant gave orders that the disembarkation should take place
in less than an hour. For this reason they had quickened their speed,
consuming a vast amount of extra coal. It was necessary to get away
as soon as possible, seeking the refuge of Hamburg. The radiographic
apparatus had evidently been working to some purpose.

By the glare of the bluish searchlights which were spreading a livid
clearness over the sea, began the unloading of passengers and baggage
for Paris, from the transatlantic into the tenders. "Hurry! Hurry!" The
seamen were pushing forward the ladies of slow step who were recounting
their valises, believing that they had lost some. The stewards loaded
themselves up with babies as though they were bundles. The general
precipitation dissipated the usual exaggerated and oily Teutonic
amiability. "They are regular bootlickers," thought Desnoyers. "They
believe that their hour of triumph has come, and do not think it
necessary to pretend any longer." . . .

He was soon in a launch that was bobbing up and down on the waves
near the black and immovable hulk of the great liner, dotted with many
circles of light and filled with people waving handkerchiefs. Julio
recognized Bertha who was waving her hand without seeing him, without
knowing in which tender he was, but feeling obliged to show her
gratefulness for the sweet memories that now were being lost in the
mystery of the sea and the night. "Adieu, Frau Rath!"

The distance between the departing transatlantic and the lighters was
widening. As though it had been awaiting this moment with impunity, a
stentorian voice on the upper deck shouted with a noisy guffaw, "See you
later! Soon we shall meet you in Paris!" And the marine band, the very
same band that three days before had astonished Desnoyers with its
unexpected Marseillaise, burst forth into a military march of the time
of Frederick the Great--a march of grenadiers with an accompaniment of
trumpets.

That had been the night before. Although twenty-four hours had not yet
passed by, Desnoyers was already considering it as a distant event of
shadowy reality. His thoughts, always disposed to take the opposite
side, did not share in the general alarm. The insolence of the
Counsellor now appeared to him but the boastings of a burgher turned
into a soldier. The disquietude of the people of Paris, was but the
nervous agitation of a city which lived placidly and became alarmed at
the first hint of danger to its comfort. So many times they had spoken
of an immediate war, always settling things peacefully at the last
moment! . . . Furthermore he did not want war to come because it would
upset all his plans for the future; and the man accepted as logical
and reasonable everything that suited his selfishness, placing it above
reality.

"No, there will not be war," he repeated as he continued pacing up and
down the garden. "These people are beside themselves. How could a war
possibly break out in these days?" . . .

And after disposing of his doubts, which certainly would in a short
time come up again, he thought of the joy of the moment, consulting his
watch. Five o'clock! She might come now at any minute! He thought that
he recognized her afar off in a lady who was passing through the grating
by the rue Pasquier. She seemed to him a little different, but it
occurred to him that possibly the Summer fashions might have altered
her appearance. But soon he saw that he had made a mistake. She was not
alone, another lady was with her. They were perhaps English or North
American women who worshipped the memory of Marie Antoinette and wished
to visit the Chapelle Expiatoire, the old tomb of the executed queen.
Julio watched them as they climbed the flights of steps and crossed the
interior patio in which were interred the eight hundred Swiss soldiers
killed in the attack of the Tenth of August, with other victims of
revolutionary fury.

Disgusted at his error, he continued his tramp. His ill humor made the
monument with which the Bourbon restoration had adorned the old cemetery
of the Madeleine, appear uglier than ever to him. Time was passing, but
she did not come. Every time that he turned, he looked hungrily at the
entrances of the garden. And then it happened as in all their meetings.
She suddenly appeared as if she had fallen from the sky or risen up from
the ground, like an apparition. A cough, a slight rustling of footsteps,
and as he turned, Julio almost collided with her.

"Marguerite! Oh, Marguerite!" . . .

It was she, and yet he was slow to recognize her. He felt a certain
strangeness in seeing in full reality the countenance which had occupied
his imagination for three months, each time more spirituelle and shadowy
with the idealism of absence. But his doubts were of short duration.
Then it seemed as though time and space were eliminated, that he had
not made any voyage, and but a few hours had intervened since their last
interview.

Marguerite divined the expansion which might follow Julio's
exclamations, the vehement hand-clasp, perhaps something more, so she
kept herself calm and serene.

"No; not here," she said with a grimace of repugnance. "What a
ridiculous idea for us to have met here!"

They were about to seat themselves on the iron chairs, in the shadow of
some shrubbery, when she rose suddenly. Those who were passing along the
boulevard might see them by merely casting their eyes toward the
garden. At this time, many of her friends might be passing through the
neighborhood because of its proximity to the big shops. . . . They,
therefore, sought refuge at a corner of the monument, placing themselves
between it and the rue des Mathurins. Desnoyers brought two chairs near
the hedge, so that when seated they were invisible to those passing on
the other side of the railing. But this was not solitude. A few steps
away, a fat, nearsighted man was reading his paper, and a group of
women were chatting and embroidering. A woman with a red wig and two
dogs--some housekeeper who had come down into the garden in order to
give her pets an airing--passed several times near the amorous pair,
smiling discreetly.

"How annoying!" groaned Marguerite. "Why did we ever come to this
place!"

The two scrutinized each other carefully, wishing to see exactly what
transformation Time had wrought.

"You are darker than ever," she said. "You look like a man of the sea."

Julio was finding her even lovelier than before, and felt sure that
possessing her was well worth all the contrarieties which had brought
about his trip to South America. She was taller than he, with an
elegantly proportioned slenderness. "She has the musical step,"
Desnoyers had told himself, when seeing her in his imagination; and now,
on beholding her again, the first thing that he admired was her rhythmic
tread, light and graceful as she passed through the garden seeking
another seat. Her features were not regular but they had a piquant
fascination--a true Parisian face. Everything that had been invented for
the embellishment of feminine charm was used about her person with the
most exquisite fastidiousness. She had always lived for herself. Only
a few months before had she abdicated a part of this sweet selfishness,
sacrificing reunions, teas, and calls in order to give Desnoyers some of
the afternoon hours.

Stylish and painted like a priceless doll, with no loftier ambition
than to be a model, interpreting with personal elegance the latest
confections of the modistes, she was at last experiencing the same
preoccupations and joys as other women, creating for herself an inner
life. The nucleus of this new life, hidden under her former frivolity,
was Desnoyers. Just as she was imagining that she had reorganized
her existence--adjusting the satisfactions of worldly elegance to the
delights of love in intimate secrecy--a fulminating catastrophe (the
intervention of her husband whose possible appearance she seemed to
have overlooked) had disturbed her thoughtless happiness. She who was
accustomed to think herself the centre of the universe, imagining that
events ought to revolve around her desires and tastes, had suffered this
cruel surprise with more astonishment than grief.

"And you, how do you think I look?" Marguerite queried.

"I must tell you that the fashion has changed. The sheath skirt has
passed away. Now it is worn short and with more fullness."

Desnoyers had to interest himself in her apparel with the same devotion,
mixing his appreciation of the latest freak of the fashion-monger with
his eulogies of Marguerite's beauty.

"Have you thought much about me?" she continued. "You have not been
unfaithful to me a single time? Not even once? . . . Tell me the truth;
you know I can always tell when you are lying."

"I have always thought of you," he said putting his hand on his heart,
as if he were swearing before a judge.

And he said it roundly, with an accent of truth, since in his
infidelities--now completely forgotten--the memory of Marguerite had
always been present.

"But let us talk about you!" added Julio. "What have you been doing all
the time?"

He had brought his chair nearer to hers, and their knees touched. He
took one of her hands, patting it and putting his finger in the glove
opening. Oh, that accursed garden which would not permit greater
intimacy and obliged them to speak in a low tone, after three months'
absence! . . . In spite of his discretion, the man who was reading his
paper raised his head and looked irritably at them over his spectacles
as though a fly were distracting him with its buzzing. . . . The very
idea of talking love-nonsense in a public garden when all Europe was
threatened with calamity!

Repelling the audacious hand, Marguerite spoke tranquilly of her
existence during the last months.

"I have passed my life the best I could, but I have been greatly bored.
You know that I am now living with mama, and mama is a lady of the old
regime who does not understand our tastes. I have been to the theatres
with my brother. I have made many calls on the lawyer in order to learn
the progress of my divorce and hurry it along . . . and nothing else."

"And your husband?"

"Don't let's talk about him. Do you want to? I pity the poor man!
So good . . . so correct. The lawyer assures me that he agrees to
everything and will not impose any obstacles. They tell me that he does
not come to Paris, that he lives in his factory. Our old home is closed.
There are times when I feel remorseful over the way I have treated him."

"And I?" queried Julio, withdrawing his hand.

"You are right," she returned smiling. "You are Life. It is cruel but
it is human. We have to live our lives without taking others into
consideration. It is necessary to be selfish in order to be happy."

The two remained silent. The remembrance of the husband had swept across
them like a glacial blast. Julio was the first to brighten up.

"And you have not danced in all this time?"

"No, how could I? The very idea, a woman in divorce proceedings! . . .
I have not been to a single chic party since you went away. I wanted to
preserve a certain decorous mourning fiesta. How horrible it was! . . .
It needed you, the Master!"

They had again clasped hands and were smiling. Memories of the previous
months were passing before their eyes, visions of their life from five
to seven in the afternoon, dancing in the hotels of the Champs Elysees
where the tango had been inexorably associated with a cup of tea.