For
many years, he had lavished great affection on these youngsters, when
dismayed at Julio's delayed arrival. He was really affected at thinking
of what must be Karl's despair.
But then, as soon as he was alone, a selfish coldness would blot out
this compassion. War was war, and the Germans had sought it. France had
to defend herself, and the more enemies fell the better. . . . The only
soldier who interested him now was Julio. And his faith in the destiny
of his son made him feel a brutal joy, a paternal satisfaction almost
amounting to ferocity.
"No one will kill HIM! . . . My heart tells me so."
A nearer trouble shook his peace of mind. When he returned to his home
one evening, he found Dona Luisa with a terrified aspect holding her
hands to her head.
"The daughter, Marcelo . . . our daughter!"
Chichi was stretched out on a sofa in the salon, pale, with an olive
tinge, looking fixedly ahead of her as if she could see somebody in the
empty air. She was not crying, but a slight palpitation was making her
swollen eyes tremble spasmodically.
"I want to see him," she was saying hoarsely. "I must see him!"
The father conjectured that something terrible must have happened to
Lacour's son. That was the only thing that could make Chichi show such
desperation. His wife was telling him the sad news. Rene was wounded,
very seriously wounded.
Pages:
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573