Who was he? . . .
Suddenly in his mind's eye, Julio saw the heaving ocean, a great
steamer, a tall, blonde woman looking at him with half-closed eyes of
invitation, a corpulent, moustached man making speeches in the style of
the Kaiser. "Rest in peace, Captain Erckmann!" . . . Thus culminated in
a corner of France the discussions started at table in mid-ocean.
He excused himself mentally as though he were in the presence of the
sweet Bertha. He had had to kill, in order not to be killed. Such is
war. He tried to console himself by thinking that Erckmann, perhaps,
had failed to identify him, without realizing that his slayer was the
shipmate of the summer. . . . And he kept carefully hidden in the depths
of his memory this encounter arranged by Fate. He did not even tell
Argensola who knew of the incidents of the trans-atlantic passage.
When he least expected it, Don Marcelo found himself at the end of that
delightful and proud existence which his son's presence had brought him.
The fortnight had flown by so swiftly! The sub-lieutenant had returned
to his post, and all the family, after this period of reality, had
had to fall back on the fond illusions of hope, watching again for the
arrival of his letters, making conjectures about the silence of the
absent one, sending him packet after packet of everything that the
market was offering for the soldiery--for the most part, useless and
absurd things.
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