In spite of these barbarian holocausts corpses were every where in infinite numbers.  There seemed to be no end to their number; it seemed as though the earth had expelled all the bodies that it had received since the beginning of the world.  The sun was impassively flooding the fields of death with its waves of light.  In its yellowish glow, the pieces of the bayonets, the metal plates, the fittings of the guns were sparkling like bits of crystal.  The damp night, the rain, the rust of time had not yet modified with their corrosive action these relics of combat.

But decomposition had begun to set in.  Graveyard odors were all along the road, increasing in intensity as Desnoyers plodded on toward Paris.  Every half hour, the evidence of corruption became more pronounced—­many of the dead on this side of the river having lain there for three or four days.  Bands of crows, at the sound of his footsteps, rose up, lazily flapping their wings, but returning soon to blacken the earth, surfeited but not satisfied, having lost all fear of mankind.

From time to time, the sad pedestrian met living bands of men—­platoons of cavalry, gendarmes, Zouaves and chasseurs encamped around the ruined farmsteads, exploring the country in pursuit of German fugitives.  Don Marcelo had to explain his business there, showing the passport that Lacour had given him in order to make his trip on the military train.  Only in this way, could he continue his journey.  These soldiers—­many of them slightly wounded—­were still stimulated by victory.  They were laughing, telling stories, and narrating the great dangers which they had escaped a few days before, always ending with, “We are going to kick them across the frontier!” . . .

Their indignation broke forth afresh as they looked around at the blasted towns—­farms and single houses, all burned.  Like skeletons of prehistoric beasts, many steel frames twisted by the flames were scattered over the plains.  The brick chimneys of the factories were either levelled to the ground or, pierced with the round holes made by shells, were standing up like giant pastoral flutes forced into the earth.

Near the ruined villages, the women were removing the earth and trying to dig burial trenches, but their labor was almost useless because it required an immense force to inter so many dead.  “We are all going to die after gaining the victory,” mused the old man.  “The plague is going to break out among us.”

The water of the river must also be contaminated by this contagion; so when his thirst became intolerable he drank, in preference, from a nearby pond. . . .  But, alas, on raising his head, he saw some greenish legs on the surface of the shallow water, the boots sunk in the muddy banks.  The head of the German was in the depths of the pool.