. . . No; it was too late. He could not
even leave an illustrious name that might serve as an example.
Instinctively he glanced behind. He was not alone in the world; he had a
son who could assume his father's debt . . . but that hope only lasted
a minute. His son was not French; he belonged to another people; half
of his blood was from another source. Besides, how could the boy be
expected to feel as he did? Would he even understand if his father
should explain it to him? . . . It was useless to expect anything from
this lady-killing, dancing clown, from this fellow of senseless bravado,
who was constantly exposing his life in duels in order to satisfy a
silly sense of honor.
Oh, the meekness of the bluff Senor Desnoyers after these reflections!
. . . His family felt alarmed at seeing the humility and gentleness with
which he moved around the house. The two men-servants had gone to
join their regiments, and to them the most surprising result of
the declaration of war was the sudden kindness of their master, the
lavishness of his farewell gifts, the paternal care with which he
supervised their preparations for departure. The terrible Don Marcelo
embraced them with moist eyes, and the two had to exert themselves to
prevent his accompanying them to the station.
Outside of his home he was slipping about humbly as though mutely asking
pardon of the many people around him.
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