t affection on these youngsters, when
dismayed at Julio's delayed arrival. He was really affected at thinking
of what must be Karl's despair.

But then, as soon as he was alone, a selfish coldness would blot out
this compassion. War was war, and the Germans had sought it. France had
to defend herself, and the more enemies fell the better. . . . The only
soldier who interested him now was Julio. And his faith in the destiny
of his son made him feel a brutal joy, a paternal satisfaction almost
amounting to ferocity.

"No one will kill HIM! . . . My heart tells me so."

A nearer trouble shook his peace of mind. When he returned to his home
one evening, he found Dona Luisa with a terrified aspect holding her
hands to her head.

"The daughter, Marcelo . . . our daughter!"

Chichi was stretched out on a sofa in the salon, pale, with an olive
tinge, looking fixedly ahead of her as if she could see somebody in the
empty air. She was not crying, but a slight palpitation was making her
swollen eyes tremble spasmodically.

"I want to see him," she was saying hoarsely. "I must see him!"

The father conjectured that something terrible must have happened to
Lacour's son. That was the only thing that could make Chichi show such
desperation. His wife was telling him the sad news. Rene was wounded,
very seriously wounded. A shell had exploded over his battery, killing
many of his comrades. The young officer had been dragged out from a
mountain of dead, one hand was gone, he had injuries in the legs, chest
and head.

"I've got to see him!" reiterated Chichi.

And Don Marcelo had to concentrate all his efforts in making his
daughter give up this dolorous insistence which made her exact an
immediate journey to the front, trampling down all obstacles, in order
to reach her wounded lover. The senator finally convinced her of the
uselessness of it all. She would simply have to wait; he, the father,
had to be patient. He was negotiating for Rene to be transferred to a
hospital in Paris.

The great man moved Desnoyers to pity. He was making such heroic efforts
to preserve the stoic serenity of ancient days by recalling his glorious
ancestors and all the illustrious figures of the Roman Republic. But
these oratorical illusions had suddenly fallen flat, and his old friend
surprised him weeping more than once. An only child, and he might
have to lose him! . . . Chichi's dumb woe made him feel even greater
commiseration. Her grief was