Never had the elder Desnoyers promenaded the streets of Paris with such solid satisfaction as by the side of this muscular youth in his gloriously worn cloak, on whose breast were glistening his two decorations—­the cross of war and the military medal.  He was a hero, and this hero was his son.  He accepted as homage to them both the sympathetic glances of the public in the street cars and subways.  The interest with which the women regarded the fine-looking youth tickled him immensely.  All the other military men that they met, no matter how many bands and crosses they displayed, appeared to the doting father mere embusques, unworthy of comparison with his Julio. . . .  The wounded men who got out of the coaches by the aid of staffs and crutches inspired him with the greatest pity.  Poor fellows! . . .  They did not bear the charmed 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.