General! . . .

Dona Luisa remembered the dead man. She had seen him many times in that
church devoutly attending mass and she was indignant at the evil tongues
which, under the cover of a funeral oration, recalled the shootings and
bank failures in his country. Such a good and religious gentleman! May
God receive his soul in glory! . . . And upon going out into the
square, she would look with tender eyes upon the young men and women on
horseback going to the Bois de Boulogne, the luxurious automobiles, the
morning radiant in the sunshine, all the primeval freshness of the early
hours--realizing what a beautiful thing it is to live.

Her devout expression of gratitude for mere existence usually included
the monument in the centre of the square, all bristling with wings as if
about to fly away from the ground. Victor Hugo! . . . It was enough
for her to have heard this name on the lips of her son to make her
contemplate the statue with a family interest. The only thing that she
knew about the poet was that he had died. Of this she was almost sure,
and she imagined that in life, he was a great friend of Julio's because
she had so often heard her son repeat his name.

Ay, her son! . . . All her thoughts, her conjectures, her desires,
converged on him and her strong-willed husband. She longed for the men
to come to an understanding and put an end to a struggle in which she
was the principal victim. Would not God work this miracle? . . . Like
an invalid who goes from one sanitarium to another in pursuit of health,
she gave up the church on her street to attend the Spanish chapel on the
avenue Friedland. Here she considered herself even more among her own.

In the midst of the fine and elegant South American ladies who looked