Finally the Captain-Counsellor raised his glass in a toast to France.  “Hoch!” he yelled as though he were commanding an evolution of his soldierly Reserves.  Three times he sounded the cry and all the German contingent springing to their feet, responded with a lusty Hoch while the band in the corridor blared forth the Marseillaise.

Desnoyers was greatly moved.  Thrills of enthusiasm were coursing up and down his spine.  His eyes became so moist that, when drinking his champagne, he almost believed that he had swallowed some tears.  He bore a French name.  He had French blood in his veins, and this that the gringoes were doing—­although generally they seemed to him ridiculous and ordinary—­was really worth acknowledging.  The subjects of the Kaiser celebrating the great date of the Revolution!  He believed that he was witnessing a great historic event.

“Very well done!” he said to the other South Americans at the near tables.  “We must admit that they have done the handsome thing.”

Then with the vehemence of his twenty-seven years, he accosted the jeweller in the passage way, reproaching him for his silence.  He was the only French citizen aboard.  He should have made a few words of acknowledgment.  The fiesta was ending awkwardly through his fault.

“And why have you not spoken as a son of France?” retorted the jeweller.

“I am an Argentinian citizen,” replied Julio.

And he left the older man believing that he ought to have spoken and making explanations to those around him.  It was a very dangerous thing, he protested, to meddle in diplomatic affairs.  Furthermore, he had not instructions from his government.  And for a few hours he believed that he had been on the point of playing a great role in history.

Desnoyers passed the rest of the evening in the smoking room attracted thither by the presence of the Counsellor’s Lady.  The Captain of the Landsturm, sticking a preposterous cigar between his moustachios, was playing poker with his countrymen ranking next to him in dignity and riches.  His wife stayed beside him most of the time, watching the goings and comings of the stewards carrying great bocks, without daring to share in this tremendous consumption of beer.  Her special preoccupation was to keep vacant near her a seat which Desnoyers might occupy.  She considered him the most distinguished man on board because he was accustomed to taking champagne with all his meals.  He was of medium height, a decided brunette, with a small foot, which obliged her to tuck hers under her skirts, and a triangular face under two masses of hair, straight, black and glossy as lacquer, the very opposite of the type of men about her.  Besides, he was living in Paris, in the city which she had never seen after numerous trips in both hemispheres.

“Oh, Paris!  Paris!” she sighed, opening her eyes and pursing her lips in order to express her admiration when she was speaking alone to the Argentinian.  “How I should love to go there!”