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 Doña Luisa with a terrified aspect holding her hands to her head.
"The daughter, Marcelo … our daughter!"
Chichí 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 Chichí show such desperation. His wife was telling him the sad news. René was wounded, very seriously wounded. 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 Chichí.
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 René 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
