He and Desnoyers were experiencing a sensation of animal joy, a selfish hilarity in seeing themselves in such a safe place several yards underground.
“The Germans are going to reply at any moment,” said Don Marcelo to his friend.
The senator was of the same opinion. Undoubtedly they would retaliate, carrying on an artillery duel.
All of the French batteries had opened fire. The mountain was thundering, the shell whining, the horizon, still tranquil, was bristling with black, spiral columns. The two realized more and more how snug they were in this retreat, like a box at the theatre.
Someone touched Lacour on the shoulder. It was one of the captains who was conducting them through the front.
“We are going above,” he said simply. “You must see close by how our cannons are working. The sight will be well worth the trouble.”
Above? . . . The illustrious man was as perplexed, as astonished as though he had suggested an interplanetary trip. Above, when the enemy was going to reply from one minute to another? . . .
The captain explained that sub-Lieutenant Lacour was perhaps awaiting his father. By telephone they had advised his battery stationed a little further on; it would be necessary to go now in order to see him. So they again climbed up to the light through the mouth of the tunnel. The senator then drew himself up, majestically erect.
“They are going to fire at us,” said a voice in his interior, “The foe is going to reply.”
But he adjusted his coat like a tragic mantle and advanced at a circumspect and solemn pace. If those military men, adversaries of parliamentarism, fancied that they were going to laugh up their sleeve at the timidity of a civilian, he would show them their mistake!