"
But Desnoyers was not there to confirm his mother's artless opinions.
Just as soon as he had found a room in a hotel near the river, he had
hastened to the big hostelry, now converted into a hospital. The guard
told him that he could not speak to the Director until the afternoon. In
order to curb his impatience he walked through the street leading to
the basilica, past all the booths and shops with pictures and pious
souvenirs which have converted the place into a big bazaar. Here and
in the gardens adjoining the church, he saw wounded convalescents with
uniforms stained with traces of the combat. Their cloaks were greatly
soiled in spite of repeated brushings. The mud, the blood and the rain
had left indelible spots and made them as stiff as cardboard. Some of
the wounded had cut their sleeves in order to avoid the cruel friction
on their shattered arms, others still showed on their trousers the rents
made by the devastating shells.
They were fighters of all ranks and of many races--infantry, cavalry,
artillerymen; soldiers from the metropolis and from the colonies; French
farmers and African sharpshooters; red heads, faces of Mohammedan olive
and the black countenances of the Sengalese, with eyes of fire, and
thick, bluish blubber lips; some showing the good-nature and sedentary
obesity of the middle-class man suddenly converted into a warrior;
others sinewy, alert, with the aggressive profile of men born to fight,
and experienced in foreign fields.
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