business was the kitchen, with great danger that the terrible Desnoyers
might happen in there, on one of his perambulations as a laboring man,
and surprise the intruder.

Dona Luisa would weep, touched by the heartrending tales of the
messenger. What could she do! She was as poor as her maids; she had
jewels, many jewels, but not a franc. Then Argensola came to the rescue
with a solution worthy of his experience. He would smooth the way for
the good mother, leaving some of her jewels at the Mont-de-Piete. He
knew the way to raise money on them. So the lady accepted his advice,
giving him, however, only jewels of medium value as she suspected that
she might never see them again. Later scruples made her at times refuse
flatly. Suppose Don Marcelo should ever find it out, what a scene! . . .
But the Spaniard deemed it unseemly to return empty-handed, and always
bore away a basket of bottles from the well-stocked wine-cellar of the
Desnoyers.

Every morning Dona Luisa went to Saint-Honore-d'Eylau to pray for her
son. She felt that this was her own church. It was a hospitable and
familiar island in the unexplored ocean of Paris. Here she could
exchange discreet salutations with her neighbors from the different
republics of the new world. She felt nearer to God and the saints when
she could hear in the vestibule conversations in her language.

It was, moreover, a sort of salon in which took place the great events
of the South American colony. One day was a wedding with flowers,
orchestra and chanting chorals. With Chichi beside her, she greeted
those she knew, congratulating the bride and groom. Another day it was
the funeral of an ex-president of some republic, or some other foreign
dignitary ending in Paris his turbulent existence. Poor President! Poor