Free Edith Wharton - Novel 14 by A Son at the Front (v2.1) Page B

there was much animated discussion between young Dastrey and
George.
                 Already
their views diverged; the French youth, theoretically at one with his friend as
to the senselessness of war in general, had at once resolutely disengaged from
the mist of doctrine the fatal necessity of this particular war.
                 “It’s
the old festering wound of Alsace-Lorraine: Bismarck foresaw it and feared it—or perhaps planned
it and welcomed it: who knows? But as long as the wound was there, Germany
believed that France would try to avenge it, and as long as Germany believed
that, she had to keep up her own war-strength; and she’s kept it up to the
toppling-over point, ruining herself and us. That’s the whole thing, as I see
it. War’s rot; but to get rid of war forever we’ve got to fight this one
first.”
                 It
was wonderful to Campton that this slender learned youth should already have
grasped the necessity of the conflict and its deep causes. While his own head
was still spinning with wrath and bewilderment at the bottomless perversity of
mankind, Louis Dastrey had analyzed and accepted the situation and his own part
in it. And he was not simply resigned; he was trembling with eagerness to get
the thing over. “If only England is with us we’re safe—it’s a matter of
weeks,” he declared.
                 “Wait
a bit—wait a bit; I want to know more about a whole lot of things before I fix
a date for the fall of Berlin,” his uncle interposed; but Louis flung him a
radiant look. “We’ve been there before, my uncle!”
                 “But
there’s Russia too” said Boylston explosively. He had not spoken before.
                 “‘Nous
l’avons eu, votre Rhin allemand,’” quoted George, as he poured a golden Hock
into his glass.
                 He
was keenly interested, that was evident; but interested as a looker-on, a
dilettante. He had neither Valmy nor Sedan in his blood, and it was as a sympathizing
spectator that he ought by rights to have been sharing his friend’s enthusiasm,
not as a combatant compelled to obey the same summons. Campton, glancing from
one to another of their brilliant faces, felt his determination harden to save
George from the consequences of his parents’ stupid blunder.
                 After
dinner young Dastrey proposed a music-hall. The audience would be a curious
sight: there would be wild enthusiasm, and singing of the Marseillaise. The
other young men agreed, but their elders, after a tacitly exchanged glance,
decided to remain at the club, on the plea that some one at the Ministry of War
had promised to telephone if there were fresh news.
                 Campton
and Dastrey, left alone, stood on the balcony watching the Boulevards. The
streets, so deserted during the day, had become suddenly and densely populated.
Hardly any vehicles were in sight: the motor omnibuses were already carrying
troops to the stations, there was a report abroad that private motors were to
be requisitioned, and only a few taxis and horse-cabs, packed to the driver’s
box with young men in spick-and-span uniforms, broke through the mass of
pedestrians which filled the whole width of the Boulevards. This mass moved
slowly and vaguely, swaying this way and that, as though it awaited a portent
from the heavens. In the glare of electric lamps and glittering theatre-fronts
the innumerable faces stood out vividly, grave, intent, slightly bewildered.
Except when the soldiers passed no cries or songs came from the crowd, but only
the deep inarticulate rumour which any vast body of people gives forth.
                 “Queer!
How silent they are: how do you think they’re taking it?” Campton questioned.
                 But
Dastrey had grown belligerent again. He saw the throngs before him bounding
toward the frontier like the unchained furies of Rude’s