But now Don Marcelo was experiencing an abrupt reversal of his convictions regarding alien ideas.  He had seen so much! . . .  The revolting proceedings of the invasion, the unscrupulous methods of the German chiefs, the tranquillity with which their submarines were sinking boats filled with defenseless passengers, the deeds of the aviators who were hurling bombs upon unguarded cities, destroying women and children—­all this was causing the events of revolutionary terrorism which, years ago, used to arouse his wrath, to sink into relative unimportance.

“And to think,” he said “that we used to be as infuriated as though the world were coming to an end, just because someone threw a bomb at a grandee!”

Those titled victims had had certain reprehensible qualities which had justified their execution.  They had died in consequence of acts which they undertook, knowing well what the punishment would be.  They had brought retribution on themselves without trying to evade it, rarely taking any precautions.  While the terrorists of this war! . . .

With the violence of his imperious character, the old conservative now swung to the opposite extreme.

“The true anarchists are yet on top,” he said with an ironical laugh.  “Those who terrified us formerly, all put together, were but a few miserable creatures. . . .  In a few seconds, these of our day kill more innocent people than those others did in thirty years.”

The gentleness of Tchernoff, his original ideas, his incoherencies of thought, bounding from reflection to word without any preparation, finally won Don Marcelo so completely over that he formed the habit of consulting him about all his doubts.  His admiration made him, too, overlook the source of certain bottles with which Argensola sometimes treated his neighbor.  He was delighted to have Tchernoff consume these souvenirs of the time when he was living at swords’ points with his son.

After sampling the wine from the avenue Victor Hugo, the Russian would indulge in a visionary loquacity similar to that of the night when he evoked the fantastic cavalcade of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.

What his new convert most admired was his facility for making things clear, and fixing them in the imagination.  The battle of the Marne with its subsequent combats and the course of both armies were events easily explained. . . .  If the French only had not been so fatigued after their triumph of the Marne! . . .

“But human powers,” continued Tchernoff, “have their limits, and the French soldier, with all his enthusiasm, is a man like the rest.  In the first place, the most rapid of marches from the East to the North, in order to resist the invasion of Belgium; then the combats; then the swift retreat that they might not be surrounded; finally a seven days’ battle—­and all this in a period of three weeks, no more. . . .  In their moment of triumph, the victors lacked the legs to follow up