He had been trudging on for several hours when he stopped before a ruined house which he believed that he recognized.  Yes, it was the tavern where he had lunched a few days ago on his way to the castle.  He forced his way in among the blackened walls where a persistent swarm of flies came buzzing around him.  The smell of decomposing flesh attracted his attention; a leg which looked like a piece of charred cardboard was wedged in the ruins.  Looking at it bitterly he seemed to hear again the old woman with her grandchildren clinging to her skirts—­“Monsieur, why are the people fleeing?  War only concerns the soldiers.  We countryfolk have done no wrong to anybody, and we ought not to be afraid.”

Half an hour later, on descending a hilly path, the traveller had the most unexpected of encounters.  He saw there a taxicab, an automobile from Paris.  The chauffeur was walking tranquilly around the vehicle as if it were at the cab stand, and he promptly entered into conversation with this gentleman who appeared to him as downcast and dirty as a tramp, with half of his livid face discolored from a blow.  He had brought out here in his machine some Parisians who had wanted to see the battlefield; they were reporters; and he was waiting there to take them back at nightfall.

Don Marcelo buried his right hand in his pocket.  Two hundred francs if the man would drive him to Paris.  The chauffeur declined with the gravity of a man faithful to his obligations. . . .  “Five hundred?” . . . and he showed his fist bulging with gold coins.  The man’s only response was a twirl of the handle which started the machine to snorting, and away they sped.  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’Opera, 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! . . .