ever
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 spasm of
hatred furrowed his face.

"Go," he said simply. "You do not know what war is; I have just come
from it; I have seen it close by. This is not a war like other wars,
with rational enemies; it is a hunt of wild beasts. . . . Shoot without
a scruple against them all. . . . Every one that you overcome, rids
humanity of a dangerous menace."

He hesitated a few seconds, and then added with tragic calm:

"Perhaps you may encounter familiar faces. Family ties are not always
formed to our tastes. Men of your blood are on the other side. If you
see any one of them . . . do not hesitate. Shoot! He is your enemy. Kill
him! . . . Kill him!"

PART III

CHAPTER I

AFTER THE MARNE

At the end of October, the Desnoyers family returned to Paris. Dona
Luisa could no longer live in Biarritz, so far from her husband. In vain
la Romantica discoursed on the dangers of a return. The Government was
still in Bordeaux, the President of the Republic and the Ministry making
only the most hurried apparitions in the Capital. The course of the war
might change at any minute; that little affair of the Marne was but
a momentary relief. . . . But the good senora, after having read
Don Marcelo's letters, opposed an adamantine will to all contrary
suggestions. Besides, she was thinking of her son, her Julio, now a
soldier. . . . She believed that, by returning to Paris, she might in
some ways be more in touch with him than at