. . . He couldn't wake up. Was that really his home? . . .
The majestic concierge, unable to understand his forlorn appearance,
greeted him with amazed consternation. "Ah. Monsieur! . . . Where has
Monsieur been?" . . .
"In hell!" muttered Don Marcelo.
His wonderment continued when he found himself actually in his own
apartment, going through its various rooms. He was somebody once more.
The sight of the fruits of his riches and the enjoyment of home comforts
restored his self-respect at the same time that the contrast recalled to
his mind the recollection of all the humiliations and outrages that he
had suffered. . . . Ah, the scoundrels! . . .
Two mornings later, the door bell rang. A visitor!
There came toward him a soldier--a little soldier of the infantry,
timid, with his kepis in his hand, stuttering excuses in Spanish:--"I
knew that you were here . . . I come to . . ."
That voice? . . . Dragging him from the dark hallway, Don Marcelo
conducted him to the balcony. . . . How handsome he looked! . . . The
kepis was red, but darkened with wear; the cloak, too large, was torn
and darned; the great shoes had a strong smell of leather. Yet never
had his son appeared to him so elegant, so distinguished-looking as now,
fitted out in these rough ready-made clothes.
"You! . . . You! . . ."
The father embraced him convulsively, crying like a child, and trembling
so that he could no longer stand.
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