off all this as though he had witnessed it, as if he had
just come from the seat of war, making Dona Luisa tremble and pour forth
tears of joy mingled with fear over the glories and dangers of her son.
That Argensola certainly possessed the gift of affecting his hearers by
the realism with which he told his stories!

In gratitude for these eulogies, she felt that she ought to show some
interest in his affairs. . . . What had he been doing of late?

"I, Madame, have been where I ought to be. I have not budged from this
spot. I have witnessed the siege of Paris."

In vain, his reason protested against the inexactitude of that word,
"siege." Under the influence of his readings about the war of 1870, he
had classed as a siege all those events which had developed near Paris
during the course of the battle of the Marne.

He pointed modestly to a diploma in a gold frame hanging above the piano
against a tricolored flag. It was one of the papers sold in the streets,
a certificate of residence in the Capital during the week of danger. He
had filled in the blanks with his name and description of his person;
and at the foot were very conspicuous the signatures of two residents of
the rue de la Pompe--a tavern-keeper, and a friend of the concierge. The
district Commissary of Police, with stamp and seal, had guaranteed the
respectability of these honorable witnesses. Nobody could remain in
doubt, after such precautions, as to whether he had or had not witnessed
the siege of Paris. He had such incredulous friends! . . .

In order to bring the scene more dramatically before his amiable
listener, he recalled the most striking of his impressions for her
special benefit. Once, in broad daylight, he had seen a flock of sheep
in the boulevard near the Madeleine. Their tread had resounded through
the deserted streets like echoes from the city of the dead. He was the
only pedestrian on the sidewalks thronged with cats and dogs.

His military recollections excited him like tales of glory.

"I have seen the march of the soldiers from Morocco. . . . I have seen
the Zouaves in automobiles!"

The very night that Julio had gone to Bordeaux, he had wandered around
till sunrise, traversing half of Paris, from the Lion of Belfort, to
the Gare de l'Est. Twenty thousand men, with all their campaign outfit,
coming from Morocco, had disembarked at Marseilles and arrived at the
Capital, making part of the trip by rail and the rest afoot. They had