In spite of such aid, young Desnoyers was suffering great want.  He was gambling now in an elegant circle, thinking thus to compensate for his periodical scrimpings; but this resort was only making the remittances from America disappear with greater rapidity. . . .  That such a man as he was should be tormented so for the lack of a few thousand francs!  What else was a millionaire father for?

If the creditors began threatening, the poor youth had to bring the secretary into play, ordering him to see the mother immediately; he himself wished to avoid her tears and reproaches.  So Argensola would slip like a pickpocket up the service stairway of the great house on the avenue Victor Hugo.  The place in which he transacted his ambassadorial business was the kitchen, with great danger that the terrible Desnoyers might happen in there, on one of his perambulations as a laboring man, and surprise the intruder.

Dona Luisa would weep, touched by the heartrending tales of the messenger.  What could she do!  She was as poor as her maids; she had jewels, many jewels, but not a franc.  Then Argensola came to the rescue with a solution worthy of his experience.  He would smooth the way for the good mother, leaving some of her jewels at the Mont-de-Piete.  He knew the way to raise money on them.  So the lady accepted his advice, giving him, however, only jewels of medium value as she suspected that she might never see them again.  Later scruples made her at times refuse flatly.  Suppose Don Marcelo should ever find it out, what a scene! . . .  But the Spaniard deemed it unseemly to return empty-handed, and always bore away a basket of bottles from the well-stocked wine-cellar of the Desnoyers.

Every morning Dona Luisa went to Saint-Honore-d’Eylau to pray for her son.  She felt that this was her own church.  It was a hospitable and familiar island in the unexplored ocean of Paris.  Here she could exchange discreet salutations with her neighbors from the different republics of the new world.  She felt nearer to God and the saints when she could hear in the vestibule conversations in her language.

It was, moreover, a sort of salon in which took place the great events of the South American colony.  One day was a wedding with flowers, orchestra and chanting chorals.  With Chichi beside her, she greeted those she knew, congratulating the bride and groom.  Another day it was the funeral of an ex-president of some republic, or some other foreign dignitary ending in Paris his turbulent existence.  Poor President!  Poor General! . . .

Dona Luisa remembered the dead man.  She had seen him many times in that church devoutly attending mass and she was indignant at the evil tongues which, under the cover of a funeral oration, recalled the shootings and bank failures in his country.  Such a good and religious gentleman!  May God receive his soul in glory! . . .  And upon going out into the square, she would look with tender eyes upon the young men and women on horseback going to the Bois de Boulogne, the luxurious automobiles, the morning radiant in the sunshine, all the primeval freshness of the early hours—­realizing what a beautiful thing it is to live.