And he repeated the word “musician” with contempt, as though it were the sum and substance of everything vile.

Very firmly and with few words, Desnoyers brought the wrangling to an end.  While her brother-in-law protected her retreat, the Romantica, clinging to her mother, had taken refuge in the top of the house, sobbing and moaning, “Oh, the poor little fellow!  Everybody against him!” Her sister meanwhile was exerting all the powers of a discreet daughter with the rampageous old man in the office, and Desnoyers had gone in search of Karl.  Finding that he had not yet recovered from the shock of his terrible surprise, he gave him a horse, advising him to betake himself as quickly as possible to the nearest railway station.

Although the German was soon far from the ranch, he did not long remain alone.  In a few days, the Romantica followed him. . . .  Iseult of the white hands went in search of Tristan, the knight.

This event did not cause Madariaga’s desperation to break out as violently as his son-in-law had expected.  For the first time, he saw him weep.  His gay and robust old age had suddenly fallen from him, the news having clapped ten years on to his four score.  Like a child, whimpering and tremulous, he threw his arms around Desnoyers, moistening his neck with tears.

“He has taken her away!  That son of a great flea . . . has taken her away!”

This time he did not lay all the blame on his China.  He wept with her, and as if trying to console her by a public confession, kept saying over and over: 

“It is my fault. . . .  It has all been because of my very, very great sins.”

Now began for Desnoyers a period of difficulties and conflicts.  The fugitives, on one of his visits to the Capital, threw themselves on his mercy, imploring his protection.  The Romantica wept, declaring that only her brother-in-law, “the most knightly man in the world,” could save her.  Karl gazed at him like a faithful hound trusting in his master.  These trying interviews were repeated on all his trips.  Then, on returning to the ranch, he would find the old man ill-humored, moody, looking fixedly ahead of him as though seeing invisible power and wailing, “It is my punishment—­the punishment for my sins.”

The memory of the discreditable circumstances under which he had made Karl’s acquaintance, before bringing him into his home, tormented the old centaur with remorse.  Some afternoons, he would have a horse saddled, going full gallop toward the neighboring village.  But he was no longer hunting hospitable ranches.  He needed to pass some time in the church, speaking alone with the images that were there only for him—­since he had footed the bills for them. . . .  “Through my sin, through my very great sin!”

But in spite of his self-reproach, Desnoyers had to work very hard to get any kind of a settlement out of the old penitent.  Whenever he suggested legalizing the situation and making the necessary arrangements for their marriage, the old tyrant would not let him go on.  “Do what you think best, but don’t say anything to me about it.”