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 Señor 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 à 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