He took what comfort he could out of the situation.  What more did they want?  Chichi was happy—­with a rollicking and selfish happiness which took no interest in anything but her own love-affairs.  The Desnoyers business returns could not be improved upon;—­after the first crisis had passed, the necessities of the belligerents had begun utilizing the output of his ranches, and never before had meat brought such high prices.  Money was flowing in with greater volume than formerly, while the expenses were diminishing. . . .  Julio was in daily danger of death, but the old ranchman was buoyed up by his conviction that his son led a charmed life—­no harm could touch him.  His chief preoccupation, therefore, was to keep himself tranquil, avoiding all emotional storms.  He had been reading with considerable alarm of the frequency with which well-known persons, politicians, artists and writers, were dying in Paris.  War was not doing all its killing at the front; its shocks were falling like arrows over the land, causing the fall of the weak, the crushed and the exhausted who, in normal times, would probably have lived to a far greater age.

“Attention, Marcelo!” he said to himself with grim humor.  “Keep cool now! . . .  You must avoid Friend Tchernoff’s four horsemen, you know!”

He spent an afternoon in the studio going over the war news in the papers.  The French had begun an offensive in Champagne with great advances and many prisoners.

Desnoyers could not but think of the loss of life that this must represent.  Julio’s fate, however, gave him no uneasiness, for his son was not in that part of the front.  But yesterday he had received a letter from him, dated the week before; they all took about that length of time to reach him.  Sub-lieutenant Desnoyers was as blithe and reckless as ever.  They were going to promote him again—­he was among those proposed for the Legion d’Honneur.  These facts intensified Don Marcelo’s vision of himself as the father of a general as young as those of the revolution; and as he contemplated the daubs and sketches around him, he marvelled at the extraordinary way in which the war had twisted his son’s career.

On his way home, he passed Marguerite Laurier dressed in mourning.  The senator had told him a few days before that her brother, the artilleryman, had just been killed at Verdun.

“How many are falling!” he said mournfully to himself.  “How hard it will be for his poor mother!”

But he smiled immediately after at the thought of those to be born.  Never before had the people been so occupied in accelerating their reproduction.  Even Madame Laurier now showed with pride the very visible curves of her approaching maternity, and Desnoyers noted sympathetically the vital volume apparent beneath her long mourning veil.  Again he thought of Julio, without taking into account the flight of time.  He felt as interested in the little newcomer as though he were in some way related to it, and he promised himself to aid generously the Laurier baby if he ever had the opportunity.