As soon as possible
it should be done, and he would erect for him a mausoleum fit for a
king. . . . And what good would that do? He would merely be changing the
location of a mass of bones, but his body, his physical semblance--all
that had contributed to the charm of his personality would be mixed
with the earth. The son of the rich Desnoyers would have become an
inseparable part of a poor field in Champagne. Ah, the pity of it
all! And for this, had he worked so hard and so long to accumulate his
millions? . . .
He could never know how Julio's death had happened. Nobody could tell
him his last words. He was ignorant as to whether his end had been
instantaneous, overwhelming--his idol going out of the world with his
usual gay smile on his lips, or whether he had endured long hours of
agony abandoned in the field, writhing like a reptile or passing through
phases of hellish torment before collapsing in merciful oblivion. He was
also ignorant of just how much was beneath this mound--whether an
entire body discreetly touched by the hand of Death, or an assemblage of
shapeless remnants from the devastating hurricane of steel! . . . And
he would never see him again! And that Julio who had been filling his
thoughts would become simply a memory, a name that would live while
his parents lived, fading away, little by little, after they had
disappeared! .
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