s, of course! I could do nothing else. . . . I had heard enough!"

Without his father's knowledge, and assisted by his friends, he had in
a few days, wrought this wonderful transformation. As a graduate of
the Ecole Centrale, he held the rank of a sub-lieutenant of the Reserve
Artillery, and he had requested to be sent to the front. Good-bye to the
auxiliary service! . . . Within two days, he was going to start for the
war.

"You have done this!" exclaimed Chichi. "You have done this!"

Although very pale, she gazed fondly at him with her great eyes--eyes
that seemed to devour him with admiration.

"Come here, my poor boy. . . . Come here, my sweet little soldier! . . .
I owe you something."

And turning her back on the maid, she asked him to come with her round
the corner. It was just the same there. The cross street was just as
thronged as the avenue. But what did she care for the stare of the
curious! Rapturously she flung her arms around his neck, blind and
insensible to everything and everybody but him.

"There. . . . There!" And she planted on his face two vehement,
sonorous, aggressive kisses.

Then, trembling and shuddering, she suddenly weakened, and fumbling for
her handkerchief, broke down in desperate weeping.

CHAPTER II

IN THE STUDIO

Upon opening the studio door one afternoon, Argensola stood motionless
with surprise, as though rooted to the ground.

An old gentleman was greeting him with an amiable smile.

"I am the father of Julio."

And he walked into the apartment with the confidence of a man entirely
familiar with his surroundings.

By good luck, the artist was alone, and was not obliged to tear
frantically from one end of the room to the other, hiding the traces
of convivial company; but he was a little slow in regaining his
self-control. He had heard so much about Don Marcelo and his bad temper,
that he was very uncomfortable at this unexpected appearance in the
studio. . . . What could the fearful man want?

His tranquillity was restored after a furtive, appraising glance. His
friend's father had aged greatly since the beginning of the war. He
no longer had that air of tenacity and ill-humor that had made him
unapproachable. His eyes were sparkling with childish glee; his hands
were trembling slightly, and his back was bent. Argensola, who had
always dodged him in the street and had thrilled with fear when sneaking
up the stairway in the avenue home, now felt a sudden con