them, agitating the horizon with its incessant
uproar. Everywhere red pantaloons were sticking up out of the stubble,
hobnailed boots glistening in upright position near the roadside,
livid heads, amputated bodies, stray limbs--and, scattered through this
funereal medley, red kepis and Oriental caps, helmets with tufts of
horse hair, twisted swords, broken bayonets, guns and great mounds
of cannon cartridges. Dead horses were strewing the plain with their
swollen carcasses. Artillery wagons with their charred wood and bent
iron frames revealed the tragic moment of the explosion. Rectangles of
overturned earth marked the situation of the enemy's batteries before
their retreat. Amidst the broken cannons and trucks were cones of
carbonized material, the remains of men and horses burned by the Germans
on the night before their withdrawal.

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