life of his son. Nobody could kill him; and when, by
chance, he had received a wound, the scars had immediately disappeared
without detriment to his handsome person.

Sometimes, especially at night, Desnoyers senior would show an
unexpected magnanimity, letting Julio fare forth alone. Since before the
war, his son had led a life filled with triumphant love-affairs, what
might he not achieve now with the added prestige of a distinguished
officer! . . .

Passing through his room on his way to bed, the father imagined the hero
in the charming company of some aristocratic lady. None but a feminine
celebrity was worthy of him; his paternal pride could accept nothing
less. . . . And it never occurred to him that Julio might be with
Argensola in a music-hall or in a moving-picture show, enjoying the
simple and monotonous diversions of a Paris sobered by war, with the
homely tastes of a sub-lieutenant whose amorous conquests were no more
than the renewal of some old friendships.

One evening as Don Marcelo was accompanying his son down the Champs
Elysees, he started at recognizing a lady approaching from the opposite
direction. It was Madame Laurier. . . . Would she recognize Julio? He
noted that the youth turned pale and began looking at the other people
with feigned interest. She continued straight ahead, erect, unseeing.
The old gentleman was almost irritated at such coldness. To pass by his
son without feeling his presence instinctively! Ah, these women! . . .
He turned his head involuntarily to look after her, but had to avert his
inquisitive glance immediately. He had surprised Marguerite motionless
behind them, pallid with surprise, and fixing her gaze earnestly on the
soldier who was separating himself from her. Don Marcelo read in her
eyes admiration, love, all of the past that was suddenly surging up in
her memory. Poor woman! . . . He felt for her a paternal affection as
though she were the wife of Julio. His friend Lacour had again spoken
to him about the Lauriers. He knew that Marguerite was going to become a
mother, and the old man, without taking into account the reconciliation
nor the passage of time, felt as much moved at the thought of this
approaching maternity as though the child were going to be Julio's.

Meanwhile Julio was marching right on, without turning his head, without
being conscious of the burning gaze fixed upon him, colorless, but
humming a tune to hide his emotion. He always believed that Ma