ete. He
knew the way to raise money on them. So the lady accepted his advice,
giving him, however, only jewels of medium value as she suspected that
she might never see them again. Later scruples made her at times refuse
flatly. Suppose Don Marcelo should ever find it out, what a scene! . . .
But the Spaniard deemed it unseemly to return empty-handed, and always
bore away a basket of bottles from the well-stocked wine-cellar of the
Desnoyers.

Every morning Dona Luisa went to Saint-Honore-d'Eylau to pray for her
son. She felt that this was her own church. It was a hospitable and
familiar island in the unexplored ocean of Paris. Here she could
exchange discreet salutations with her neighbors from the different
republics of the new world. She felt nearer to God and the saints when
she could hear in the vestibule conversations in her language.

It was, moreover, a sort of salon in which took place the great events
of the South American colony. One day was a wedding with flowers,
orchestra and chanting chorals. With Chichi beside her, she greeted
those she knew, congratulating the bride and groom. Another day it was
the funeral of an ex-president of some republic, or some other foreign
dignitary ending in Paris his turbulent existence. Poor President! Poor
General! . . .

Dona Luisa remembered the dead man. She had seen him many times in that
church devoutly attending mass and she was indignant at the evil tongues
which, under the cover of a funeral oration, recalled the shootings and
bank failures in his country. Such a good and religious gentleman! May
God receive his soul in glory! . . . And upon going out into the
square, she would look with tender eyes upon the young men and women on
horseback going to the Bois de Boulogne, the luxurious automobiles, the
morning radiant in the sunshine, all the primeval freshness of the early
hours--realizing what a beautiful thing it is to live.

Her devout expression of gratitude for mere existence usually included
the monument in the centre of the square, all bristling with wings as if
about to fly away from the ground. Victor Hugo! . . . It was enough
for her to have heard this name on the lips of her son to make her
contemplate the statue with a family interest. The only thing that she
knew about the poet was that he had died. Of this she was almost sure,
and she imagined that in life, he was a great friend of Julio's because
she had so often heard her son repeat his name.