There was not a battle in the neighborhood of Paris every day in the year! His other clients could just wait.
And settling back into the motor-car, Desnoyers saw the horrors of the battle field flying past at a dizzying speed and disappearing behind him. He was rolling toward human life … he was returning to civilization!
As they came into Paris, the nearly empty streets seemed to him to be crowded with people. Never had he seen the city so beautiful. He whirled through the avenue de l'Opéra whizzed past the place de la Concorde, and thought he must be dreaming as he realized the gigantic leap that he had taken within the hour. He compared all that was now around him with the sights on that plain of death but a few miles away. No; no, it was not possible. One of the extremes of this contrast must certainly be false!
The automobile was beginning to slow down; he must be now in the avenue Victor Hugo.… He couldn't wake up. Was that really his home?…
The majestic concierge, unable to understand his forlorn appearance, greeted him with amazed consternation. "Ah Monsieur!… Where has Monsieur been?" …
"In hell!" muttered Don Marcelo.
His wonderment continued when he found himself actually in his own apartment, going through its various rooms. He was somebody once more. The sight of the fruits of his riches and the enjoyment of home comforts restored his self-respect at the same time that the contrast recalled to his mind the recollection of all the humiliations and outrages that he had suffered.… Ah, the scoundrels!…
Two mornings later, the door bell rang. A visitor!
There came toward him a soldier—a little soldier of the infantry, timid, with his kepis in his hand, stuttering excuses in Spanish:—
