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
had escaped a few days before, always ending with, "We are going to kick
them across the frontier!" . . .
Their indignation broke forth afresh as they looked around at the
blasted towns--farms and single houses, all burned. Like skeletons
of prehistoric beasts, many steel frames twisted by the flames were
scattered over the plains. The brick chimneys of the factories were
either levelled to the ground or, pierced with the round holes made
by shells, were standing up like giant pastoral flutes forced into the
earth.
Near the ruined villages, the women were removing the earth and trying
to dig burial trenches, but their labor was almost useless because it
required an immense force to inter so many dead. "We are all going to
die after gaining the victory," mused the old man.
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