From her position upon the terrace this young woman had a view not only
of the wide sweep of the river below her, and all the eastward side of
Paris from the Arc de Triomphe to Saint Cloud, great blocks and masses
of black or pale darkness with pink and golden flashes of illumination
and endless interlacing bands of dotted lights under a still and
starless sky, but also the whole spacious interior of the great hall
with its slender pillars and gracious arching and clustering lamps was
visible to her. There, over a wilderness of tables, lay the huge maps,
done on so large a scale that one might fancy them small countries; the
messengers and attendants went and came perpetually, altering, moving
the little pieces that signified hundreds and thousands of men, and the
great commander and his two consultants stood amidst all these things
and near where the fighting was nearest, scheming, directing. They had
but to breathe a word and presently away there, in the world of reality,
the punctual myriads moved. Men rose up and went forward and died. The
fate of nations lay behind the eyes of these three men. Indeed they were
like gods.
Most godlike of the three was Dubois. It was for him to decide; the
others at most might suggest. Her woman's soul went out to this grave,
handsome, still, old man, in a passion of instinctive worship.
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