A shell had exploded over his battery, killing
many of his comrades. The young officer had been dragged out from a
mountain of dead, one hand was gone, he had injuries in the legs, chest
and head.
"I've got to see him!" reiterated Chichi.
And Don Marcelo had to concentrate all his efforts in making his
daughter give up this dolorous insistence which made her exact an
immediate journey to the front, trampling down all obstacles, in order
to reach her wounded lover. The senator finally convinced her of the
uselessness of it all. She would simply have to wait; he, the father,
had to be patient. He was negotiating for Rene to be transferred to a
hospital in Paris.
The great man moved Desnoyers to pity. He was making such heroic efforts
to preserve the stoic serenity of ancient days by recalling his glorious
ancestors and all the illustrious figures of the Roman Republic. But
these oratorical illusions had suddenly fallen flat, and his old friend
surprised him weeping more than once. An only child, and he might
have to lose him! . . . Chichi's dumb woe made him feel even greater
commiseration. Her grief was without tears or faintings. Her sallow
face, the feverish brilliancy of her eyes, and the rigidity that made
her move like an automaton were the only signs of her emotion. She was
living with her thoughts far away, with no knowledge of what was going
on around her.
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