It was close upon half&ndash;past six and the evening shadows were growing denser when two soldiers reached the little space, planted with trees, opposite the Mus&eacute;e Galli&eacute;ra, where the Rue de Chaillot and the Rue Pierre&ndash;Charron meet. One wore an infantryman&#39;s sky&ndash;blue great&ndash;coat; the other, a Senegalese, those clothes of undyed wool, with baggy breeches and a belted jacket, in which the Zouaves and the native African troops have been dressed since the war. One of them had lost his right leg, the other his left arm.<br />They walked round the open space, in the center of which stands a fine group of Silenus figures, and stopped. The infantryman threw away his cigarette. The Senegalese picked it up, took a few quick puffs at it, put it out by squeezing it between his fore&ndash;finger and thumb and stuffed it into his pocket. All this without a word.<br />Almost at the same time two more soldiers came out of the Rue Galli&eacute;ra. It would have been impossible to say to what branch they belonged, for their military attire was composed of the most incongruous civilian garments. However, one of them sported a Zouave&#39;s chechia, the other an artilleryman&#39;s k&eacute;pi. The first walked on crutches, the other on two sticks. These two kept near the newspaper&ndash;kiosk which stands at the edge of the pavement.