g 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.

"I have lived ten years in Germany," he continued, connecting up his
words, now that he found himself listened to. "I was daily correspondent
for a paper in Berlin and I know these people. Passing along these
thronged boulevards, I have been seeing in my imagination what must be
happening there at this hour. They, too, are singing and shouting with
enthusiasm as they wave their flags. On the outside, they seem just
alike--but oh, what a difference within! . . . Last night the people
beset a few babblers in the boulevard who were yelling, 'To Berlin!'--a
slogan of bad memories and worse taste. France does not wish
conquests; her only desire is to be respected, to live in peace without
humiliations or disturbances. To-night two of the mobilized men said on
leaving, 'When we enter Germany we are going to make it a republic!'
. . . A republic is not a perfect thing, but it is better than living
under an irresponsible monarchy by the grace of God. It