A street door on two wooden horses served as a table;
the ceilings and walls were covered with cretonnes from the Paris
warehouses; photographs of women and children adorned the side wall
between the nickeled glitter of telegraphic and telephonic instruments.
Desnoyers saw above one door an ivory crucifix, yellowed with years,
probably with centuries, transmitted from generation to generation, that
must have witnessed many agonies of soul. In another den he noticed in
a conspicuous place, a horseshoe with seven holes. Religious creeds
were spreading their wings very widely in this atmosphere of danger and
death, and yet at the same time, the most grotesque superstitions were
acquiring new values without any one laughing at them.
Upon leaving one of the cells, in the middle of an open space, the
yearning father met his son. He knew that it must be Julio by the
Chief's gesture and because the smiling soldier was coming toward him,
holding out his hands; but this time his paternal instinct which he had
heretofore considered an infallible thing, had given him no warning. How
could he recognize Julio in that sergeant whose feet were two cakes of
moist earth, whose faded cloak was a mass of tatters covered with mud,
even up to the shoulders, smelling of damp wool and leather? . . . After
the first embrace, he drew back his head in order to get a good look at
him without letting go of him.
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