Bored with all this grandeur, Madariaga interrupted him.  “Lies . . . nonsense . . . hot air!” The very idea of a gringo talking to him about nobility! . . .  He had left Europe when very young in order to cast in his lot with the revolting democracies of America, and although nobility now seemed to him something out-of-date and incomprehensible, still he stoutly maintained that the only true nobility was that of his own country.  He would yield first place to the gringoes for the invention of machinery and ships, and for breeding priceless animals, but all the Counts and Marquises of Gringo-land appeared to him to be fictitious characters.

“All tomfoolery!” he blustered.  “There isn’t any nobility in your country, nor have you five dollars all told to rub against each other.  If you had, you wouldn’t come over here to play the gallant to women who are . . . you know what they are as well as I do.”

To the astonishment of Desnoyers, the German received this onslaught with much humility, nodding his head in agreement with the Patron’s last words.

“If there’s any truth in all this twaddle about titles,” continued Madariaga implacably, “swords and uniforms, what did you come here for?  What in the devil did you do in your own country that you had to leave it?”

Now Karl hung his head, confused and stuttering.

“Papa, papa,” pleaded Elena.  “The poor little fellow!  How can you humiliate him so just because he is poor?”

And she felt a deep gratitude toward her brother-in-law when he broke through his usual reserve in order to come to the rescue of the German.

“Oh, yes, of course, he’s a good-enough fellow,” said Madariaga, excusing himself.  “But he comes from a land that I detest.”

When Desnoyers made a trip to Buenos Aires a few days afterward, the cause of the old man’s wrath was explained.  It appeared that for some months past Madariaga had been the financial guarantor and devoted swain of a German prima donna stranded in South America with an Italian opera company.  It was she who had recommended Karl—­an unfortunate countryman, who after wandering through many parts of the continent, was now living with her as a sort of gentlemanly singer.  Madariaga had joyously expended upon this courtesan many thousands of dollars.  A childish enthusiasm had accompanied him in this novel existence midst urban dissipations until he happened to discover that his Fraulein was leading another life during his absence, laughing at him with the parasites of her retinue; whereupon he arose in his wrath and bade her farewell to the accompaniment of blows and broken furniture.

The last adventure of his life! . . .  Desnoyers suspected his abdication upon hearing him admit his age, for the first time.  He did not intend to return to the capital.  It was all false glitter.  Existence in the country, surrounded by all his family and doing good to the poor was the only sure thing.  And the terrible centaur expressed himself with the idyllic tenderness and firm virtue of seventy-five years, already insensible to temptation.