He had his private library, vastly more important and glorious, and occupying less space.  In his desk, adorned with guns, thongs, and chaps studded with silver, was a little compartment containing deeds and various legal documents which the ranchman surveyed with great pride.

“Pay attention, now and hear marvellous things,” announced the master to Desnoyers, as he took out one of his memorandum books.

This volume contained the pedigree of the famous animals which had improved his breeds of stock, the genealogical trees, the patents of nobility of his aristocratic beasts.  He would have to read its contents to him since he did not permit even his family to touch these records.  And with his spectacles on the end of his nose, he would spell out the credentials of each animal celebrity.  “Diamond III, grandson of Diamond I, owned by the King of England, son of Diamond II, winner in the races.”  His Diamond had cost him many thousands, but the finest horses on the ranch, those which brought the most marvellous prices, were his descendants.

“That horse had more sense than most people.  He only lacked the power to talk.  He’s the one that’s stuffed, near the door of the parlor.  The girls wanted him thrown out. . . .  Just let them dare to touch him!  I’d chuck them out first!”

Then he would continue reading the history of a dynasty of bulls with distinctive names and a succession of Roman numbers, the same as kings—­animals acquired by the stubborn ranchman in the great cattle fairs of England.  He had never been there, but he had used the cable in order to compete in pounds sterling with the British owners who wished to keep such valuable stock in their own country.  Thanks to these blue-blooded sires that had crossed the ocean with all the luxury of millionaire passengers, he had been able to exhibit in the concourses of Buenos Aires animals which were veritable towers of meat, edible elephants with their sides as fit and sleek as a table.

“That book amounts to something!  Don’t you think so, Frenchy?  It is worth more than all those pictures of moons, lakes, lovers and other gewgaws that my Romantica puts on the walls to catch the dust.”

And he would point out, in contrast, the precious diplomas which were adorning his desk, the metal vases and other trophies won in the fairs by the descendants of his blooded stock.

Luisa, the elder daughter, called Chicha, in the South American fashion, was much more respected by her father.  “She is my poor China right over again,” he said, “the same good nature, and the same faculty for work, but more of a lady.”  Desnoyers entirely agreed with him, and yet the father’s description seemed to him weak and incomplete.  He could not admit that the pale, modest girl with the great black eyes and smile of childish mischief bore the slightest resemblance to the respectable matron who had brought her into existence.

The great fiesta for Chicha was the Sunday mass.  It represented a journey of three leagues to the nearest village, a weekly contact with people unlike those of the ranch.  A carriage drawn by four horses took the senora and the two senoritas in the latest suits and hats arrived, via Buenos Aires, from Europe.  At the suggestion of Chicha, Desnoyers accompanied them in the capacity of driver.