Julio spoke without boasting, modestly.  His life was very hard, but just like that of millions of other men.  In his section of a few dozens of soldiers there were many superior to him in intelligence, in studiousness, in character; but they were all courageously undergoing the test, experiencing the satisfaction of duty fulfilled.  The common danger was helping to develop the noblest virtues of these men.  Never, in times of peace, had he known such comradeship.  What magnificent sacrifices he had witnessed!

“When all this is over, men will be better . . . more generous.  Those who survive will do great things.”

Yes, of course, he was content.  For the first time in his life he was tasting the delights of knowing that he was a useful being, that he was good for something, that his passing through the world would not be fruitless.  He recalled with pity that Desnoyers who had not known how to occupy his empty life, and had filled it with every kind of frivolity.  Now he had obligations that were taxing all his powers; he was collaborating in the formation of a future.  He was a man at last!

“I am content,” he repeated with conviction.

His father believed him, yet he fancied that, in a corner of that frank glance, he detected something sorrowful, a memory of a past which perhaps often forced its way among his present emotions.  There flitted through his mind the lovely figure of Madame Laurier.  Her charm was, doubtless, still haunting his son.  And to think that he could not bring her here! . . .  The austere father of the preceding year contemplated himself with astonishment as he caught himself formulating this immoral regret.

They passed a quarter of an hour without loosening hands, looking into each other’s eyes.  Julio asked after his mother and Chichi.  He frequently received letters from them, but that was not enough for his curiosity.  He laughed heartily at hearing of Argensola’s amplified and abundant life.  These interesting bits of news came from a world not much more than sixty miles distant in a direct line . . . but so far, so very far away!

Suddenly the father noticed that his boy was listening with less attention.  His senses, sharpened by a life of alarms and ambushed attacks, appeared to be withdrawing itself from the company, attracted by the firing.  Those were no longer scattered shots; they had combined into a continual crackling.

The senator, who had left father and son together that they might talk more freely, now reappeared.

“We are dismissed from here, my friend,” he announced.  “We have no luck in our visits.”

Soldiers were no longer passing to and fro.  All had hastened to their posts, like the crew of a ship which clears for action.  While Julio was taking up the rifle which he had left against the wall, a bit of dust whirled above his father’s head and a little hole appeared in the ground.

“Quick, get out of here!” he said pushing Don Marcelo.