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It was becoming annoying to stroll through the streets with Rene； a simple soldier and in the auxiliary service； besides。 。 。 。 The women of the town； excited by the recollection of their men fighting at the front； or clad in mourning because of the death of some loved one； would look at them with aggressive insolence。 The refinement and elegance of the Republican Prince seemed to irritate them。 Several times； she overheard uncomplimentary words hurled against the 〃embusques。〃
The fact that her brother who was not French was in the thick of the fighting； made the Lacour situation still more intolerable。 She had an 〃embusque〃 for a lover。 How her friends would laugh at her！ 。 。 。
The senator's son soon read her thoughts and began to lose some of his smiling serenity。 For three days he did not present himself at the Desnoyers' home； and they all supposed that he was detained by work at the office。
One morning as Chichi was going toward the Bois de Boulogne； escorted by one of the nut…brown maids； she noticed a soldier coming toward her。 He was wearing a bright uniform of the new gray…blue； the 〃horizon blue〃 just adopted by the French army。 The chin strap of his kepi was gilt； and on his sleeve there was a little strip of gold。 His smile； his outstretched hands； the confidence with which he advanced toward her made her recognize him。 Rene an officer！ Her betrothed a sub…lieutenant！
〃Yes； of course！ I could do nothing else。 。 。 。 I had heard enough！〃
Without his father's knowledge； and assisted by his friends； he had in a few days； wrought this wonderful transformation。 As a graduate of the Ecole Centrale； he held the rank of a sub…lieutenant of the Reserve Artillery； and he had requested to be sent to the front。 Good…bye to the auxiliary service！ 。 。 。 Within two days； he was going to start for the war。
〃You have done this！〃 exclaimed Chichi。 〃You have done this！〃
Although very pale； she gazed fondly at him with her great eyes eyes that seemed to devour him with admiration。
〃Come here； my poor boy。 。 。 。 Come here； my sweet little soldier！ 。 。 。 I owe you something。〃
And turning her back on the maid； she asked him to come with her round the corner。 It was just the same there。 The cross street was just as thronged as the avenue。 But what did she care for the stare of the curious！ Rapturously she flung her arms around his neck； blind and insensible to everything and everybody but him。
〃There。 。 。 。 There！〃 And she planted on his face two vehement； sonorous； aggressive kisses。
Then； trembling and shuddering； she suddenly weakened； and fumbling for her handkerchief； broke down in desperate weeping。
CHAPTER II
IN THE STUDIO
Upon opening the studio door one afternoon； Argensola stood motionless with surprise； as though rooted to the ground。
An old gentleman was greeting him with an amiable smile。
〃I am the father of Julio。〃
And he walked into the apartment with the confidence of a man entirely familiar with his surroundings。
By good luck； the artist was alone； and was not obliged to tear frantically from one end of the room to the other； hiding the traces of convivial company； but he was a little slow in regaining his self…control。 He had heard so much about Don Marcelo and his bad temper； that he was very uncomfortable at this unexpected appearance in the studio。 。 。 。 What could the fearful man want？
His tranquillity was restored after a furtive； appraising glance。 His friend's father had aged greatly since the beginning of the war。 He no longer had that air of tenacity and ill…humor that had made him unapproachable。 His eyes were sparkling with childish glee； his hands were trembling slightly； and his back was bent。 Argensola； who had always dodged him in the street and had thrilled with fear when sneaking up the stairway in the avenue home； now felt a sudden confidence。 The transformed old man was beaming on him like a comrade； and making excuses to justify his visit。
He had wished to see his son's home。 Poor old man！ He was drawn thither by the same attraction which leads the lover to lessen his solitude by haunting the places that his beloved has frequented。 The letters from Julio were not enough； he needed to see his old abode； to be on familiar terms with the objects which had surrounded him； to breathe the same air； to chat with the young man who was his boon companion。
His fatherly glance now included Argensola。 。 。 。 〃A very interesting fellow； that Argensola！〃 And as he thought this； he forgot completely that； without knowing him； he had been accustomed to refer to him as 〃shameless；〃 just because he was sharing his son's prodigal life。
Desnoyers' glance roamed delightedly around the studio。 He knew well these tapestries and furnishings； all the decorations of the former owner。 He easily remembered everything that he had ever bought； in spite of the fact that they were so many。 His eyes then sought the personal effects； everything that would call the absent occupant to mind； and he pored over the miserably executed paintings； the unfinished dabs which filled all the corners。
Were they all Julio's？ 。 。 。 Many of the canvases belonged to Argensola； but affected by the old man's emotion； the artist displayed a marvellous generosity。 Yes； everything was Julio's handiwork 。 。 。 and the father went from canvas to canvas； halting admiringly before the vaguest daubs as though he could almost detect signs of genius in their nebulous confusion。
〃You think he has talent； really？〃 he asked in a tone that implored a favorable reply。 〃I always thought him very intelligent 。 。 。 a little of the diable； perhaps； but character changes with years。 。 。 。 Now he is an altogether different man。〃
And he almost wept at hearing the Spaniard； with his ready； enthusiastic speech； lauding the departed 〃diable；〃 graphically setting forth the way in which his great genius was going to take the world when his turn should come。
The painter of souls finally worked himself up into feeling as much affected as the father； and began to admire this old Frenchman with a certain remorse； not wishing to remember how he had ranted against him not so very long ago。 What injustice！ 。 。 。
Don Marcelo clasped his hand like an old comrade。 All of his son's friends were his friends。 He knew the life that young men lived。 。 。 。 If at any time； he should be in any difficulties； if he needed an allowance so as to keep on with his paintingthere he was； anxious to help him！ He then and there invited him to dine at his home that very night； and if he would care to come every evening； so much the better。 He would eat a family dinner； entirely informal。 War had brought about a great many changes； but he would always be as welcome to the intimacy of the hearth as though he were in his father's home。
Then he spoke of Spain； in order to place himself on a more congenial footing with the artist。 He had never been there but once； and then only for a short time； but after the war； he was going to know it better。 His father…in…law was a Spaniard； his wife had Spanish blood； and in his home the language of the family was always Castilian。 Ah； Spain； the