Oh, this war! This stupid war! In the Champs Elysees, they saw a man with a broad-brimmed hat who was walking slowly ahead of them and talking to himself.

Argensola recognized him as he passed near the street lamp, "Friend Tchernoff." Upon returning their greeting, the Russian betrayed a slight odor of wine.

Uninvited, he had adjusted his steps to theirs, accompanying them toward the Arc de Triomphe.
Julio had merely exchanged silent nods with Argensola's new acquaintance when encountering him in the vestibule; but sadness softens the heart and makes us seek the friendship of the humble as a refreshing shelter.
Tchernoff, on the contrary, looked at Desnoyers as though he had known him all his life.
The man had interrupted his monologue, heard only by the black masses of vegetation, the blue shadows perforated by the reddish tremors of the street lights, the summer night with its cupola of warm breezes and twinkling stars.

He took a few steps without saying anything, as a mark of consideration to his companions, and then renewed his arguments, taking them up where he had broken off, without offering any explanation, as though he were still talking to himself.

.