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.
Her devout expression of gratitude for mere existence usually included
the monument in the centre of the square, all bristling with wings as if
about to fly away from the ground. Victor Hugo! . . . It was enough
for her to have heard this name on the lips of her son to make her
contemplate the statue with a family interest.
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