ection.
Dona Luisa tried to object. It was impossible for her to separate
herself from her husband. Never before, in their many years of married
life, had they once been separated. But a harsh negative from Don
Marcelo cut her pleadings short. He would remain. Then the poor senora
ran to the rue de la Pompe. Her son! . . . Julio scarcely listened to
his mother. Ay! he, too, would stay. So finally the imposing automobile
lumbered toward the South carrying Dona Luisa, her sister who hailed
with delight this withdrawal before the admired troops of the Emperor,
and Chichi, pleased that the war was necessitating an excursion to the
fashionable beaches frequented by her friends.

Don Marcelo was at last alone. The two coppery maids had followed by
rail the flight of their mistresses. At first the old man felt a little
bewildered by this solitude, which obliged him to eat uncomfortable
meals in a restaurant and pass the nights in enormous and deserted rooms
still bearing traces of their former occupants. The other apartments in
the building had also been vacated. All the tenants were foreigners, who
had discreetly decamped, or French families surprised by the war when
summering at their country seats.

Instinctively he turned his steps toward the rue de la Pompe gazing from
afar at the studio windows. What was his son doing? . . . Undoubtedly
continuing his gay and useless life. Such men only existed for their own
selfish folly.

Desnoyers felt satisfied with the stand he had taken. To follow the
family would be sheer cowardice. The memory of his youthful flight to
South America was sufficient martyrdom; he would finish his life with
all the compensating bravery that he could muster. "No, they will not
come," he said repeatedly, with the optimism of enthusiasm. "I have
a presentiment that they will never reach Paris. And even if they DO
come!" . . . The absence of his family brought him a joyous valor and a
sense of bold youthfulness. Although his age might prevent his going to
war in the open air, he could still fire a gun, immovable in a trench,
without fear of death. Let them come! . . . He was longing for the
struggle with the anxiety of a punctilious business man wishing to
cancel a former debt as soon as possible.

In the streets of Paris he met many groups of fugitives. They were from
the North and East of France, and had escaped before the German advance.
Of all the tales told by this despondent crowd--not knowing