the four horsemen of the apocalypse-第73节
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now in the destroyed castle？ 。 。 。 The presence of so many dead was racking his nerves。 There were hundreds； there were thousands。 The soldiers and the farmers were interring great heaps of them wherever he went； digging burial trenches close to the castle； in all the avenues of the park； in the garden paths； around the outbuildings。 Even the depths of the circular lagoon were filled with corpses。 How could he ever live again in that tragic community composed mostly of his enemies？ 。 。 。 Farewell forever； castle of Villeblanche！
He turned his steps toward Paris； planning to get there the best way he could。 He came upon corpses everywhere； but they were not all the gray…green uniform。 Many of his countrymen had fallen in the gallant offensive。 Many would still fall in the last throes of the battle that was going on behind them； agitating the horizon with its incessant uproar。 Everywhere red pantaloons were sticking up out of the stubble； hobnailed boots glistening in upright position near the roadside； livid heads； amputated bodies； stray limbsand； scattered through this funereal medley； red kepis and Oriental caps； helmets with tufts of horse hair； twisted swords； broken bayonets； guns and great mounds of cannon cartridges。 Dead horses were strewing the plain with their swollen carcasses。 Artillery wagons with their charred wood and bent iron frames revealed the tragic moment of the explosion。 Rectangles of overturned earth marked the situation of the enemy's batteries before their retreat。 Amidst the broken cannons and trucks were cones of carbonized material； the remains of men and horses burned by the Germans on the night before their withdrawal。
In spite of these barbarian holocausts corpses were every where in infinite numbers。 There seemed to be no end to their number； it seemed as though the earth had expelled all the bodies that it had received since the beginning of the world。 The sun was impassively flooding the fields of death with its waves of light。 In its yellowish glow； the pieces of the bayonets； the metal plates； the fittings of the guns were sparkling like bits of crystal。 The damp night； the rain； the rust of time had not yet modified with their corrosive action these relics of combat。
But decomposition had begun to set in。 Graveyard odors were all along the road； increasing in intensity as Desnoyers plodded on toward Paris。 Every half hour； the evidence of corruption became more pronouncedmany of the dead on this side of the river having lain there for three or four days。 Bands of crows； at the sound of his footsteps； rose up； lazily flapping their wings； but returning soon to blacken the earth； surfeited but not satisfied； having lost all fear of mankind。
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 soldiersmany of them slightly woundedwere 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 townsfarms 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。 〃The plague is going to break out among us。〃
The water of the river must also be contaminated by this contagion； so when his thirst became intolerable he drank； in preference； from a nearby pond。 。 。 。 But； alas； on raising his head； he saw some greenish legs on the surface of the shallow water； the boots sunk in the muddy banks。 The head of the German was in the depths of the pool。
He had been trudging on for several hours when he stopped before a ruined house which he believed that he recognized。 Yes； it was the tavern where he had lunched a few days ago on his way to the castle。 He forced his way in among the blackened walls where a persistent swarm of flies came buzzing around him。 The smell of decomposing flesh attracted his attention； a leg which looked like a piece of charred cardboard was wedged in the ruins。 Looking at it bitterly he seemed to hear again the old woman with her grandchildren clinging to her skirts〃Monsieur； why are the people fleeing？ War only concerns the soldiers。 We countryfolk have done no wrong to anybody； and we ought not to be afraid。〃
Half an hour later； on descending a hilly path； the traveller had the most unexpected of encounters。 He saw there a taxicab； an automobile from Paris。 The chauffeur was walking tranquilly around the vehicle as if it were at the cab stand； and he promptly entered into conversation with this gentleman who appeared to him as downcast and dirty as a tramp； with half of his livid face discolored from a blow。 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。 。 。 。 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 soldiera 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 never had his son appeared to him so elegant； so distinguished… looking as now； fitted out in these rough ready…made clothes。
〃You！ 。 。 。 You！ 。 。 。〃
The father embraced him convulsively； crying like a child； and trembling so that he could no longer stand。
He had always hoped that they would finally understand each other。 His blood was coursing through the boy's veins； he was good； with no other defect than a certain obstinacy。 He was excusing him now for all the past； blaming himself for a great part of it。 He had been too hard。
〃You a soldier！〃 he kept exclaiming over and over。 〃You defending my country； when it is not yours！〃 。 。 。
And he kissed him again； receding a few steps so as to get a better look at him。 Decidedly he was more fascinating now in his grotesque uniform； than when he was so celebrated for his skill as a dancer and idolized by the women。
When the delighted father was finally able to control his emotion； his eyes； still filled with tears； glowed with a malignant light。 A spas
