His olive pallor had turned to a bronze
tone. He was growing a beard, a beard black and curly, which reminded
Don Marcelo of his father-in-law. The centaur, Madariaga, had certainly
come to life in this warrior hardened by camping in the open air. At
first, the father grieved over his dirty and tired aspect, but a second
glance made him sure that he was now far more handsome and interesting
than in his days of society glory.
"What do you need? . . . What do you want?"
His voice was trembling with tenderness. He was speaking to the tanned
and robust combatant in the same tone that he was wont to use twenty
years ago when, holding the child by the hand, he had halted before the
preserve cupboards of Buenos Aires.
"Would you like money? . . ."
He had brought a large sum with him to give to his son, but the soldier
gave a shrug of indifference as though he had offered him a plaything.
He had never been so rich as at this moment; he had a lot of money in
Paris and he didn't know what to do with it--he didn't need anything.
"Send me some cigars . . . for me and my comrades."
He was constantly receiving from his mother great baskets full of choice
goodies, tobacco and clothing. But he never kept anything; all was
passed on to his fellow-warriors, sons of poor families or alone in the
world. His munificence had spread from his intimates to the company,
and from that to the entire battalion.
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