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 without tears or faintings.  Her sallow face, the feverish brilliancy of her eyes, and the rigidity that made her move like an automaton were the only signs of her emotion.  She was living with her thoughts far away, with no knowledge of what was going on around her.

When the patient arrived in Paris, his father and fiancee were transfigured.  They were going to see him, and that was enough to make them imagine that he was already recuperated.

Chichi hastened to the hospital with her mother and the senator.  Then she went alone and insisted on remaining there, on living at the wounded man’s side, waging war on all regulations and clashing with Sisters of Charity, trained nurses, and all who roused in her the hatred of rivalry.  Soon realizing that all her violence accomplished nothing, she humiliated herself and became suddenly very submissive, trying with her wiles, to win the women over one by one.  Finally, she was permitted to spend the greater part of the day with Rene.

When Desnoyers first saw the wounded artilleryman in bed, he had to make a great effort to keep the tears back. . . .  Ay, his son, too, might be brought to this sad pass! . . .  The man looked to him like an Egyptian mummy, because of his complete envelopment in tight bandage wrappings.  The sharp hulls of the shell had fairly riddled him.  There could only be seen a pair of sweet eyes and a blond bit of moustache sticking up between white bands.  The poor fellow was trying to smile at Chichi, who was hovering around him with a certain authority as though she were in her own home.

Two months rolled by.  Rene was better, almost well.  His betrothed had never doubted his recovery from the moment that they permitted her to remain with him.

“No one that I love, ever dies,” she asserted with a ring of her father’s self-confidence.  “As if I would ever permit the Boches to leave me without a husband!”

She had her little sugar soldier back again, but, oh, in what a lamentable state! . . .  Never had Don Marcelo realized the de-personalizing horrors of war as when he saw entering his home this convalescent whom he had known months before—­elegant and slender, with a delicate and somewhat feminine beauty.  His face was now furrowed by a network of scars that had transformed it into a purplish arabesque.  Within his body were hidden many such.  His left hand had disappeared with a part of the forearm, the empty sleeve hanging over the remainder.  The other hand was supported on a cane, a necessary aid in order to be able to move a leg that would never recover its elasticity.