His desires were fulfilled.  Luisa gave birth to a boy who bore the name of Julio, and although he did not show in his somewhat sketchy features any striking resemblance to his grandmother, still he had the black hair and eyes and olive skin of a brunette.  Welcome! . . .  This was a grandson!

In the generosity of his joy, he even permitted the German to enter the house for the baptismal ceremony.

When Julio Desnoyers was two years old, his grandfather made the rounds of his estates, holding him on the saddle in front of him.  He went from ranch to ranch in order to show him to the copper-colored populace, like an ancient monarch presenting his heir.  Later on, when the child was able to say a few words, he entertained himself for hours at a time talking with the tot under the shade of the eucalyptus tree.  A certain mental failing was beginning to be noticed in the old man.  Although not exactly in his dotage, his aggressiveness was becoming very childish.  Even in his most affectionate moments, he used to contradict everybody, and hunt up ways of annoying his relatives.

“Come here, you false prophet,” he would say to Julio.  “You are a Frenchy.”

The grandchild protested as though he had been insulted.  His mother had taught him that he was an Argentinian, and his father had suggested that she also add Spanish, in order to please the grandfather.

“Very well, then; if you are not a Frenchy, shout, ’Down with Napoleon!’”

And he looked around him to see if Desnoyers might be near, believing that this would displease him greatly.  But his son-in-law pursued the even tenor of his way, shrugging his shoulders.

“Down with Napoleon!” repeated Julio.

And he instantly held out his hand while his grandfather went through his pockets.

Karl’s sons, now four in number, used to circle around their grandparent like a humble chorus kept at a distance, and stare enviously at these gifts.  In order to win his favor, they one day when they saw him alone, came boldly up to him, shouting in unison, “Down with Napoleon!”

“You insolent gringoes!” ranted the old man.  “That’s what that shameless father has taught you!  If you say that again, I’ll chase you with a cat-o-nine-tails. . . .  The very idea of insulting a great man in that way!”

While he tolerated this blond brood, he never would permit the slightest intimacy.  Desnoyers and his wife often had to come to their rescue, accusing the grandfather of injustice.  And in order to pour the vials of his wrath out on someone, the old plainsman would hunt up Celedonio, the best of his listeners, who invariably replied, “Yes, Patron.  That’s so, Patron.”

“They’re not to blame,” agreed the old man, “but I can’t abide them!  Besides, they are so like their father, so fair, with hair like a shredded carrot, and the two oldest wearing specs as if they were court clerks! . . .  They don’t seem like folks with those glasses; they look like sharks.”