Dona Luisa imagined that in the avenue Victor Hugo, she could hear the mother’s tears falling in her home in Berlin.  “You will understand, Luisa, my despair. . . .  We were all so happy!  May God punish those who have brought such sorrow on the world!  The Emperor is innocent.  His adversaries are to blame for it all . . .”

Don Marcelo was silent about the letter in his wife’s presence.  He pitied Elena for her losses, so he overlooked her political connections.  He was touched, too, at Dona Luisa’s distress about Otto.  She had been his godmother and Desnoyers his godfather.  That was so—­Don Marcelo had forgotten all about it; and the fact recalled to his mental vision the placid life of the ranch, and the play of the blonde children that he had petted behind their grandfather’s back, before Julio was born.  For many years, he had lavished great 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.