After his scene with Karl, he had increased the German’s salary, trying as usual, to counteract the effects of his violent outbreaks with generosity.  That which he could not forget was his dependent’s nobility, constantly making it the subject of new jests.  That glorious boast had brought to his mind the genealogical trees of the illustrious ancestry of his prize cattle.  The German was a pedigreed fellow, and thenceforth he called him by that nickname.

Seated on summer nights under the awning, he surveyed his family around him with a sort of patriarchal ecstasy.  In the evening hush could be heard the buzzing of insects and the croaking of the frogs.  From the distant ranches floated the songs of the peons as they prepared their suppers.  It was harvest time, and great bands of immigrants were encamped in the fields for the extra work.

Madariaga had known many of the hard old days of wars and violence.  Upon his arrival in South America, he had witnessed the last years of the tyranny of Rosas.  He loved to enumerate the different provincial and national revolutions in which he had taken part.  But all this had disappeared and would never return.  These were the times of peace, work and abundance.

“Just think of it, Frenchy,” he said, driving away the mosquitoes with the puffs of his cigar.  “I am Spanish, you French, Karl German, my daughters Argentinians, the cook Russian, his assistant Greek, the stable boy English, the kitchen servants Chinas (natives), Galicians or Italians, and among the peons there are many castes and laws. . . .  And yet we all live in peace.  In Europe, we would have probably been in a grand fight by this time, but here we are all friends.”

He took much pleasure in listening to the music of the laborers—­laments from Italian songs to the accompaniment of the accordion, Spanish guitars and Creole choruses, wild voices chanting of love and death.

“This is a regular Noah’s ark,” exulted the vainglorious patriarch.

“He means the tower of Babel,” thought Desnoyers to himself, “but it’s all the same thing to the old man.”

“I believe,” he rambled on, “that we live thus because in this part of the world there are no kings and a very small army—­and mankind is thinking only of enjoying itself as much as possible, thanks to its work.  But I also believe that we live so peacefully because there is such abundance that everyone gets his share. . . .  How quickly we would spring to arms if the rations were less than the people!”

Again he fell into reflective silence, shortly after announcing the result of his meditations.