r months later, Don Marcelo's confidence received a rude shock. Julio
was wounded. But at the same time that Lacour bought him this news,
lamentably delayed, he tranquilized him with the result of his
investigations in the war ministry. Sergeant Desnoyers was now
a sub-lieutenant, his wound was almost healed and, thanks to the
wire-pulling of the senator, he was coming to pass a fortnight with his
family while convalescing.

"An exceptionally brave fellow," concluded the influential man. "I
have read what his chiefs say about him. At the head of his platoon, he
attacked a German company; he killed the captain with his own hand; he
did I don't know how many more brave things besides. . . . They have
presented him with the military medal and have made him an officer.
. . . A regular hero!"

And the rapidly aging father, weeping with emotion, but with increasing
enthusiasm, shook his head and trembled. He repented now of his
momentary lack of faith when the first news of his wounded boy reached
him. How absurd! . . . No one would kill Julio; his heart told him so.

Soon after, he saw him coming home amid the cries and delighted
exclamations of the women. Poor Dona Luisa wept as she embraced him,
hanging on his neck with sobs of emotion. Chichi contemplated him with
grave reflection, putting half of her mind on the recent arrival while
the rest flew far away in search of the other warrior. The dusky,
South American maids fought each other for the opening in the curtains,
peering through the crack with the gaze of an antelope.

The father admired the little scrap of gold on the sleeve of the gray
cloak, with the skirts buttoning behind, examining afterwards the dark
blue cap with its low brim, adopted by the French for the war in the
trenches. The traditional kepi had disappeared. A suitable visor, like
that of the men in the Spanish infantry, now shadowed Julio's face. Don
Marcelo noted, too, the short and well-cared-for beard, very different
from the one he had seen in the trenches. The boy was coming home,
groomed and polished from his recent stay in the hospital.

"Isn't it true that he looks like me?" queried the old man proudly.

Dona Luisa responded with the inconsequence that mothers always show in
matters of resemblance.

"He has always been the living image of you!"

Having made sure that he was well and happy, the entire family suddenly
felt a certain disquietude. They wished to examine his wound so as to