on 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! . . .

Two mornings later, the door bell rang. A visitor!

There came toward him a soldier--a little soldier of the infantry,
timid, with his kepis in his hand, stuttering excuses in Spanish:--"I
knew that you were here . . . I come to . . ."

That voice? . . . Dragging him from the dark hallway, Don Marcelo
conducted him to the balcony. . . . How handsome he looked! . . . The
kepis was red, but darkened with wear; the cloak, too large, was torn
and darned; the great shoes had a strong smell of leather. Yet n