Time dragged by with desperate sluggishness for Don Marcelo.  It seemed to him that the messenger who had been despatched for him would never arrive.  He paid scarcely any attention to the affairs which the Chief was so courteously showing them—­the caverns which served the soldiers as toilet rooms and bathrooms of most primitive arrangement, the cave with the sign, “Cafe de la Victoire,” another in fanciful lettering, “Theatre.” . . .  Lacour was taking a lively interest in all this, lauding the French gaiety which laughs and sings in the presence of danger, while his friend continued brooding about Julio.  When would he ever see him?

They stopped near one of the embrasures of a machine-gun position stationing themselves at the recommendations of the soldiers, on both sides of the horizontal opening, keeping their bodies well back, but putting their heads far enough forward to look out with one eye.  They saw a very deep excavation and the opposite edge of ground.  A short distance away were several rows of X’s of wood united by barbed wire, forming a compact fence.  About three hundred feet further on, was a second wire fence.  There reigned a profound silence here, a silence of absolute loneliness as though the world was asleep.

“There are the trenches of the Boches,” said the Commandant, in a low tone.

“Where?” asked the senator, making an effort to see.

The Chief pointed to the second wire fence which Lacour and his friend had supposed belonged to the French.  It was the German intrenchment line.

“We are only a hundred yards away from them,” he continued, “but for some time they have not been attacking from this side.”

The visitors were greatly moved at learning that the foe was such a short distance off, hidden in the ground in a mysterious invisibility which made it all the more terrible.  What if they should pop out now with their saw-edged bayonets, fire-breathing liquids and asphyxiating bombs to assault this stronghold! . . .

From this window they could observe more clearly the intensity of the firing on the outer line.  The shots appeared to be coming nearer.  The Commandant brusquely ordered them to leave their observatory, fearing that the fire might become general.  The soldiers, with their customary promptitude, without receiving any orders, approached their guns which were in horizontal position, pointing through the loopholes.

Again the visitors walked in single file, going down into cavernous spaces that had been the old wine-cellars of former houses.  The officers had taken up their abode in these dens, utilizing all the residue of the ruins.  A street door on two wooden horses served as a table; the ceilings and walls were covered with cretonnes from the Paris warehouses; photographs of women and children adorned the side wall between the nickeled glitter of telegraphic and telephonic instruments.

Desnoyers saw above one door an ivory crucifix, yellowed with years, probably with centuries, transmitted from generation to generation, that must have witnessed many agonies of soul.  In another den he noticed in a conspicuous place, a horseshoe with seven holes.  Religious creeds were spreading their wings very widely in this atmosphere of danger and death, and yet at the same time, the most grotesque superstitions were acquiring new values without any one laughing at them.