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 convince themselves that he was completely out of danger.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all,” protested the sub-lieutenant.  “A bullet wound in the shoulder.  The doctor feared at first that I might lose my left arm, but it has healed well and it isn’t worth while to think any more about it.”

Chichi’s appraising glance swept Julio from head to foot; taking in all the details of his military elegance.  His cloak was worn thin and dirty; the leggings were spatter-dashed with mud; he smelled of leather, sweaty cloth and strong tobacco; but on one wrist he was wearing a watch, and on the other, his identity medal fastened with a gold chain.  She had always admired her brother for his natural good taste, so she stowed away all these little details in her memory in order to pass them on to Rene.  Then she surprised her mother with a demand for a loan that she might send a little gift to her artilleryman.

Don Marcelo gloated over the fifteen days of satisfaction ahead of him.  Sub-lieutenant Desnoyers found it impossible to go out alone, for his father was always pacing up and down the reception hall before the military cap which was shedding modest splendor and glory upon the hat rack.  Scarcely had Julio put it on his head before his sire appeared, also with hat and cane, ready to sally forth.

“Will you permit me to accompany you? . . .  I will not bother you.”

This would be said so humbly, with such an evident desire to have his request granted, that his son had not the heart to refuse him.  In order to take a walk with Argensola, he had to scurry down the back stairs, or resort to other schoolboy tricks.