He had
brought out here in his machine some Parisians who had wanted to see the
battlefield; they were reporters; and he was waiting there to take them
back at nightfall.
Don 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.
Pages:
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482