users he looked merely an overgrown fat boy, and Antoine
was growing rather worried as he saw the lads of the young classes
called to the colours. Somewhere, in one of the _Mairies_ of Paris--over
at Montmartre, perhaps, where he had come from, or at the _Prefecture de
Police_, or the _Cite_--Antoine knew that there a record of his son's
age and attainments, which might be used against him at any moment, and
as the weeks grew into months, it seemed certain that the class to which
this precious son belonged would be called on for military service. Then
very hideous weeks followed for Antoine, weeks of nervous suspense and
dread. Day by day, as the lad grew in proficiency and aptitude, as he
became more and more expert in the matters of his trade, as he learned a
delicate, sure touch with the most refractory hair, and could expend the
minimum of gas on the drying machine, and the minimum of soap lather,
and withal attain the best results in pleasing his customers, so grew
the danger of his being snatched away from this wide life spread out
before him, of being forced to fight for his glorious country. Poor fat
boy! On Sundays he used to parade the Raspail with a German shepherd dog
at his heels--bought two years ago as a German shepherd, but now called
a Belgian Police dog--how could he lay aside his little trousers and
become a soldier of France! Yet every day that time drew nearer, till
finally one day the summons came, and the lad departed, and Antoine
closed his shutters for a whole week, mourning desperately. And he was
furious against England, which had not made her maximum effort, had not
mobilized her men, had continued with business as usual, had made no
attempt to end the war--wouldn't do so, until France had become
exhausted. And he was furious against Russia, swamped in a bog of
political intrigue, which lacked organization and munitions and
leadership, and was totally unable to drawing off the Bosches on the
other frontier, and delivering a blow to smash them. In fact, Antoine
was far more furious against the Allies of France than against Germany
itself. And his rage and grief absolutely overbalanced his pride in his
son, or his ambitions as to his son's possible achievements. The boy
himself did not mind going, when he was called, for he was something of
a fatalist, being so young, and besides, he could not foresee things.
But Antoine, little lame man, had much imagination and foresaw a great
deal.

Merciful