He was a hero,
and this hero was his son. He accepted as homage to them both the
sympathetic glances of the public in the street cars and subways. The
interest with which the women regarded the fine-looking youth tickled
him immensely. All the other military men that they met, no matter how
many bands and crosses they displayed, appeared to the doting father
mere embusques, unworthy of comparison with his Julio. . . . The
wounded men who got out of the coaches by the aid of staffs and crutches
inspired him with the greatest pity. Poor fellows! . . . They did not
bear the charmed life of his son. Nobody could kill him; and when, by
chance, he had received a wound, the scars had immediately disappeared
without detriment to his handsome person.
Sometimes, especially at night, Desnoyers senior would show an
unexpected magnanimity, letting Julio fare forth alone. Since before the
war, his son had led a life filled with triumphant love-affairs, what
might he not achieve now with the added prestige of a distinguished
officer! . . .
Passing through his room on his way to bed, the father imagined the hero
in the charming company of some aristocratic lady. None but a feminine
celebrity was worthy of him; his paternal pride could accept nothing
less. . . . And it never occurred to him that Julio might be with
Argensola in a music-hall or in a moving-picture show, enjoying the
simple and monotonous diversions of a Paris sobered by war, with the
homely tastes of a sub-lieutenant whose amorous conquests were no more
than the renewal of some old friendships.
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