When General Barrios stopped to address Mrs. Gould, Antonia raised negligently her hand holding an open fan, as if to shade from the sun her head, wrapped in a light lace shawl.  The clear gleam of her blue eyes gliding behind the black fringe of eyelashes paused for a moment upon her father, then travelled further to the figure of a young man of thirty at most, of medium height, rather thick-set, wearing a light overcoat.  Bearing down with the open palm of his hand upon the knob of a flexible cane, he had been looking on from a distance; but directly he saw himself noticed, he approached quietly and put his elbow over the door of the landau.

The shirt collar, cut low in the neck, the big bow of his cravat, the style of his clothing, from the round hat to the varnished shoes, suggested an idea of French elegance; but otherwise he was the very type of a fair Spanish créole.  The fluffy moustache and the short, curly, golden beard did not conceal his lips, rosy, fresh, almost pouting in expression.  His full, round face was of that warm, healthy créole white which is never tanned by its native sunshine.  Martin Decoud was seldom exposed to the Costaguana sun under which he was born.  His people had been long settled in Paris, where he had studied law, had dabbled in literature, had hoped now and then in moments of exaltation to become a poet like that other foreigner of Spanish blood, Jose Maria Heredia.  In other moments he had, to pass the time, condescended to write articles on European affairs for the Semenario, the principal newspaper in Sta.  Marta, which printed them under the heading “From our special correspondent,” though the authorship was an open secret.  Everybody in Costaguana, where the tale of compatriots in Europe is jealously kept, knew that it was “the son Decoud,” a talented young man, supposed to be moving in the higher spheres of Society.  As a matter of fact, he was an idle boulevardier, in touch with some smart journalists, made free of a few newspaper offices, and welcomed in the pleasure haunts of pressmen.  This life, whose dreary superficiality is covered by the glitter of universal blague, like the stupid clowning of a harlequin by the spangles of a motley costume, induced in him a Frenchified ­but most un-French ­cosmopolitanism, in reality a mere barren indifferentism posing as intellectual superiority.  Of his own country he used to say to his French associates:  “Imagine an atmosphere of opera-bouffe in which all the comic business of stage statesmen, brigands, etc., etc., all their farcical stealing, intriguing, and stabbing is done in dead earnest.  It is screamingly funny, the blood flows all the time, and the actors believe themselves to be influencing the fate of the universe.  Of course, government in general, any government anywhere, is a thing of exquisite comicality to a discerning mind; but really we Spanish-Americans do overstep the bounds.  No man of ordinary intelligence can take part in the intrigues of une farce macabre.  However, these Ribierists, of whom we hear so much just now, are really trying in their own comical way to make the country habitable, and even to pay some of its debts.  My friends, you had better write up Senor Ribiera all you can in kindness to your own bondholders.  Really, if what I am told in my letters is true, there is some chance for them at last.”

And he would explain with railing verve what Don Vincente Ribiera stood for ­a mournful little man oppressed by his own good intentions, the significance of battles won, who Montero was (un grotesque vaniteux et féroce), and the manner of the new loan connected with railway development, and the colonization of vast tracts of land in one great financial scheme.

And his French friends would remark that evidently this little fellow Decoud connaissait la question a fond.  An important Parisian review asked him for an article on the situation.  It was composed in a serious tone and in a spirit of levity.  Afterwards he asked one of his intimates ­

“Have you read my thing about the regeneration of Costaguana ­une bonne blague, hein?”

He imagined himself Parisian to the tips of his fingers.  But far from being that he was in danger of remaining a sort of nondescript dilettante all his life.  He had pushed the habit of universal raillery to a point where it blinded him to the genuine impulses of his own nature.  To be suddenly selected for the executive member of the patriotic small-arms committee of Sulaco seemed to him the height of the unexpected, one of those fantastic moves of which only his “dear countrymen” were capable.

“It’s like a tile falling on my head.  I ­I ­executive member!  It’s the first I hear of it!  What do I know of military rifles? C’est funambulesque!” he had exclaimed to his favourite sister; for the Decoud family ­except the old father and mother ­used the French language amongst themselves.  “And you should see the explanatory and confidential letter!  Eight pages of it ­no less!”

This letter, in Antonia’s handwriting, was signed by Don Jose, who appealed to the “young and gifted Costaguanero” on public grounds, and privately opened his heart to his talented god-son, a man of wealth and leisure, with wide relations, and by his parentage and bringing-up worthy of all confidence.

“Which means,” Martin commented, cynically, to his sister, “that I am not likely to misappropriate the funds, or go blabbing to our Charge d’Affaires here.”

The whole thing was being carried out behind the back of the War Minister, Montero, a mistrusted member of the Ribiera Government, but difficult to get rid of at once.  He was not to know anything of it till the troops under Barrios’s command had the new rifle in their hands.  The President-Dictator, whose position was very difficult, was alone in the secret.

“How funny!” commented Martin’s sister and confidante; to which the brother, with an air of best Parisian blague, had retorted: 

“It’s immense!  The idea of that Chief of the State engaged, with the help of private citizens, in digging a mine under his own indispensable War Minister.  No!  We are unapproachable!” And he laughed immoderately.

Afterwards his sister was surprised at the earnestness and ability he displayed in carrying out his mission, which circumstances made delicate, and his want of special knowledge rendered difficult.  She had never seen Martin take so much trouble about anything in his whole life.

“It amuses me,” he had explained, briefly.  “I am beset by a lot of swindlers trying to sell all sorts of gaspipe weapons.  They are charming; they invite me to expensive luncheons; I keep up their hopes; it’s extremely entertaining.  Meanwhile, the real affair is being carried through in quite another quarter.”

When the business was concluded he declared suddenly his intention of seeing the precious consignment delivered safely in Sulaco.  The whole burlesque business, he thought, was worth following up to the end.  He mumbled his excuses, tugging at his golden beard, before the acute young lady who (after the first wide stare of astonishment) looked at him with narrowed eyes, and pronounced slowly ­

“I believe you want to see Antonia.”

“What Antonia?” asked the Costaguana boulevardier, in a vexed and disdainful tone.  He shrugged his shoulders, and spun round on his heel.  His sister called out after him joyously ­

“The Antonia you used to know when she wore her hair in two plaits down her back.”

He had known her some eight years since, shortly before the Avellanos had left Europe for good, as a tall girl of sixteen, youthfully austere, and of a character already so formed that she ventured to treat slightingly his pose of disabused wisdom.  On one occasion, as though she had lost all patience, she flew out at him about the aimlessness of his life and the levity of his opinions.  He was twenty then, an only son, spoiled by his adoring family.  This attack disconcerted him so greatly that he had faltered in his affectation of amused superiority before that insignificant chit of a school-girl.  But the impression left was so strong that ever since all the girl friends of his sisters recalled to him Antonia Avellanos by some faint resemblance, or by the great force of contrast.  It was, he told himself, like a ridiculous fatality.  And, of course, in the news the Decouds received regularly from Costaguana, the name of their friends, the Avellanos, cropped up frequently ­the arrest and the abominable treatment of the ex-Minister, the dangers and hardships endured by the family, its withdrawal in poverty to Sulaco, the death of the mother.

The Monterist pronunciamento had taken place before Martin Decoud reached Costaguana.  He came out in a roundabout way, through Magellan’s Straits by the main line and the West Coast Service of the O.S.N.  Company.  His precious consignment arrived just in time to convert the first feelings of consternation into a mood of hope and resolution.  Publicly he was made much of by the familias principales.  Privately Don Jose, still shaken and weak, embraced him with tears in his eyes.

“You have come out yourself!  No less could be expected from a Decoud.  Alas! our worst fears have been realized,” he moaned, affectionately.  And again he hugged his god-son.  This was indeed the time for men of intellect and conscience to rally round the endangered cause.

It was then that Martin Decoud, the adopted child of Western Europe, felt the absolute change of atmosphere.  He submitted to being embraced and talked to without a word.  He was moved in spite of himself by that note of passion and sorrow unknown on the more refined stage of European politics.  But when the tall Antonia, advancing with her light step in the dimness of the big bare Sala of the Avellanos house, offered him her hand (in her emancipated way), and murmured, “I am glad to see you here, Don Martin,” he felt how impossible it would be to tell these two people that he had intended to go away by the next month’s packet.  Don Jose, meantime, continued his praises.  Every accession added to public confidence, and, besides, what an example to the young men at home from the brilliant defender of the country’s regeneration, the worthy expounder of the party’s political faith before the world!  Everybody had read the magnificent article in the famous Parisian Review.  The world was now informed:  and the author’s appearance at this moment was like a public act of faith.  Young Decoud felt overcome by a feeling of impatient confusion.  His plan had been to return by way of the United States through California, visit Yellowstone Park, see Chicago, Niagara, have a look at Canada, perhaps make a short stay in New York, a longer one in Newport, use his letters of introduction.  The pressure of Antonia’s hand was so frank, the tone of her voice was so unexpectedly unchanged in its approving warmth, that all he found to say after his low bow was ­

“I am inexpressibly grateful for your welcome; but why need a man be thanked for returning to his native country?  I am sure Dona Antonia does not think so.”

“Certainly not, senor,” she said, with that perfectly calm openness of manner which characterized all her utterances.  “But when he returns, as you return, one may be glad ­for the sake of both.”

Martin Decoud said nothing of his plans.  He not only never breathed a word of them to any one, but only a fortnight later asked the mistress of the Casa Gould (where he had of course obtained admission at once), leaning forward in his chair with an air of well-bred familiarity, whether she could not detect in him that day a marked change ­an air, he explained, of more excellent gravity.  At this Mrs. Gould turned her face full towards him with the silent inquiry of slightly widened eyes and the merest ghost of a smile, an habitual movement with her, which was very fascinating to men by something subtly devoted, finely self-forgetful in its lively readiness of attention.  Because, Decoud continued imperturbably, he felt no longer an idle cumberer of the earth.  She was, he assured her, actually beholding at that moment the Journalist of Sulaco.  At once Mrs. Gould glanced towards Antonia, posed upright in the corner of a high, straight-backed Spanish sofa, a large black fan waving slowly against the curves of her fine figure, the tips of crossed feet peeping from under the hem of the black skirt.  Decoud’s eyes also remained fixed there, while in an undertone he added that Miss Avellanos was quite aware of his new and unexpected vocation, which in Costaguana was generally the speciality of half-educated negroes and wholly penniless lawyers.  Then, confronting with a sort of urbane effrontery Mrs. Gould’s gaze, now turned sympathetically upon himself, he breathed out the words, “Pro Patria!”

What had happened was that he had all at once yielded to Don Jose’s pressing entreaties to take the direction of a newspaper that would “voice the aspirations of the province.”  It had been Don Jose’s old and cherished idea.  The necessary plant (on a modest scale) and a large consignment of paper had been received from America some time before; the right man alone was wanted.  Even Senor Moraga in Sta.  Marta had not been able to find one, and the matter was now becoming pressing; some organ was absolutely needed to counteract the effect of the lies disseminated by the Monterist press:  the atrocious calumnies, the appeals to the people calling upon them to rise with their knives in their hands and put an end once for all to the Blancos, to these Gothic remnants, to these sinister mummies, these impotent paraliticos, who plotted with foreigners for the surrender of the lands and the slavery of the people.

The clamour of this Negro Liberalism frightened Senor Avellanos.  A newspaper was the only remedy.  And now that the right man had been found in Decoud, great black letters appeared painted between the windows above the arcaded ground floor of a house on the Plaza.  It was next to Anzani’s great emporium of boots, silks, ironware, muslins, wooden toys, tiny silver arms, legs, heads, hearts (for ex-voto offerings), rosaries, champagne, women’s hats, patent medicines, even a few dusty books in paper covers and mostly in the French language.  The big black letters formed the words, “Offices of the Porvenir.”  From these offices a single folded sheet of Martin’s journalism issued three times a week; and the sleek yellow Anzani prowling in a suit of ample black and carpet slippers, before the many doors of his establishment, greeted by a deep, side-long inclination of his body the Journalist of Sulaco going to and fro on the business of his august calling.