That check for four hundred thousand francs which he had brought from America was also worrying him.  The day before, the bank had declined to pay it for lack of the customary official advice.  Afterward they said that they had received the advice, but did not give him the money.  That very afternoon, when the trust companies had closed their doors, the government had already declared a moratorium, in order to prevent a general bankruptcy due to the general panic.  When would they pay him? . . .  Perhaps when the war which had not yet begun was ended—­perhaps never.  He had no other money available except the two thousand francs left over from his travelling expenses.  All of his friends were in the same distressing situation, unable to draw on the sums which they had in the banks.  Those who had any money were obliged to go from shop to shop, or form in line at the bank doors, in order to get a bill changed.  Oh, this war!  This stupid war!

In the Champs Elysees, they saw a man with a broad-brimmed hat who was walking slowly ahead of them and talking to himself.  Argensola recognized him as he passed near the street lamp, “Friend Tchernoff.”  Upon returning their greeting, the Russian betrayed a slight odor of wine.  Uninvited, he had adjusted his steps to theirs, accompanying them toward the Arc de Triomphe.

Julio had merely exchanged silent nods with Argensola’s new acquaintance when encountering him in the vestibule; but sadness softens the heart and makes us seek the friendship of the humble as a refreshing shelter.  Tchernoff, on the contrary, looked at Desnoyers as though he had known him all his life.

The man had interrupted his monologue, heard only by the black masses of vegetation, the blue shadows perforated by the reddish tremors of the street lights, the summer night with its cupola of warm breezes and twinkling stars.  He took a few steps without saying anything, as a mark of consideration to his companions, and then renewed his arguments, taking them up where he had broken off, without offering any explanation, as though he were still talking to himself. . . .

“And at this very minute, they are shouting with enthusiasm the same as they are doing here, honestly believing that they are going to defend their outraged country, wishing to die for their families and firesides that nobody has threatened.”

“Who are ‘they,’ Tchernoff?” asked Argensola.

The Russian stared at him as though surprised at such a question.

“They,” he said laconically.

The two understood. . . .  They!  It could not be anyone else.