The father was wearing in his lapel the black and green ribbon of 1870--a decoration which always filled Desnoyers with remorse.

He was tall and gaunt, but was still trying to hold himself erect, with a heavy frown.

He wanted to show himself fierce, inhuman, in order to hide his emotion.
"Good-bye, my boy! Do your best." "Good-bye, father." They did not clasp hands, and each was avoiding looking at the other.
The official was smiling like an automaton.

The father turned his back brusquely, and threading his way through the throng, entered a cafe, where for some time he needed the most retired seat in the darkest earner to hide his emotion.
AND DON MARCELO ENVIED HIS GRIEF.
Some of the Reservists came along singing, preceded by a flag.

They were joking and jostling each other, betraying in excited actions, long halts at all the taverns along the way.