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[Illustration: Frontispiece: THE CITY OF SANTANDER, SPAIN

THE "SARRIO" OF THE FOURTH ESTATE]

_The Fourth Estate Vol. 1_




PALACIO VALDES

The Fourth

Estate

_VOLUME I_

TRANSLATED FROM
THE SPANISH

[Illustration: colophon]

A FRONTISPIECE AND A
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY

BRENTANO'S

_The Fourth Estate_




THE FOURTH ESTATE

VOLUME ONE




CONTENTS


PAGE

LIFE OF VALDES                                                         5

CHAPTER I
THE CURTAIN RISES                                                      9

CHAPTER II
THE PERFORMANCE CONTINUES                                             20

CHAPTER III
SAFE ARRIVAL OF THE "BELLA PAULA"                                     34

CHAPTER IV
THE BETROTHAL                                                         48

CHAPTER V
PLANNING THE HOME                                                     61

CHAPTER VI
THE CHIEF RESIDENTS OF SARRIO AT THEIR CLUB                           80

CHAPTER VII
BURGLARS                                                             115

CHAPTER VIII
CECILIA'S TROUSSEAU                                                  134

CHAPTER IX
A CHANGE OF HEART                                                    156

CHAPTER X
TWO TRAITORS                                                         173

CHAPTER XI
MEETING IN SUPPORT OF THE FOURTH ESTATE                              191

CHAPTER XII
THE STORY OF A TEAR                                                  218

CHAPTER XIII
"THE LIGHT OF SARRIO"                                                249

CHAPTER XIV
VIOLENT RECRIMINATIONS                                               274

CHAPTER XV
GONZALO MARRIES                                                      288

CHAPTER XVI
MARTIAL DOINGS                                                       304




LIFE OF VALDES


The early writings of this distinguished native of Asturias partake of a
peculiar interest, strongly appealing to one's human sympathies. On his
thirtieth birthday Senor Valdes married a young lady scarcely more than
half his age. She was very frail, and after eighteen months of tenderly
devoted love on both sides, the husband was left alone with an infant
son. The charming and pathetic little tale "The Idyl of an Invalid"
describes the earlier portion of the author's brief wedded life, and in
fact was written during that happy period. The year after his wife's
death he published "Riverita," in which novel his late partner was made
to appear as a child, and in the sequel to "Riverita," "Maximina,"
published still a year later, we find her depicted as ripening to
womanhood. Thus, out of Valdes's early novels three bear this melancholy
yet attractive personal quality.

His beginning in the field of fiction, Armando Palacio Valdes made in
1881, with "Young Mr. Octavio," following it up, in 1883, with "Martha
and Mary." Then, between "The Idyl of an Invalid" and "Riverita" came
"Jose." The novel here offered, a specimen of his work combining pathos
with humor, was printed the year after "Maximina," that is to say, in
1888.

When "The Fourth Estate" was brought out Valdes was thirty-five. He was
born on the 4th of October, 1853, in a little village called Entralgo,
where his family owned a summer villa. The greater part of the year they
spent at Aviles, at which place young Armando first went to school. He
continued his studies at Oviedo, and then went to Madrid, with the
object of graduating as a lawyer.

His real bent, that of authorship, however, soon declared itself, so
that while yet occupied with his legal studies he contributed articles
on philosophical and theological subjects to the Spanish "Revista
Europea"--of which periodical he eventually joined the staff and became
the editor. In this capacity he earned a national reputation as a censor
of literature, his articles and sketches pertaining to literary
criticism being collected in several volumes. But after 1881 he devoted
little time to commenting on other people's books, preferring to bend
his main energies to creative endeavor.

Seven of his novels have been mentioned above, and among those
subsequently produced seven more complete the list of his novels best
known to the Spanish public. These are "Sister Saint Sulpice," "Foam,"
"Faith," "The Grandee," "The Origin of Thought," "The Dandies of Cadiz,"
and "The Joy of Captain Ribot."

In a letter sent a few years ago to an English literary friend Senor
Valdes wrote as follows:

"Since my wife died my life has been tranquil and melancholy, dedicated
to work and to my son. During the summers I live in Asturias, and during
the winters in Madrid. I like the company of men of the world better
than that of literary folks, because the former teach me more. I am
given up to the study of metaphysics. I have a passion for physical
exercises, for gymnastics, for fencing, and I try to live in an evenly
balanced temper, nothing being so repugnant to me as affectation and
emphasis. I find a good deal of pleasure in going to bull-fights
(although I do not take my son to the Plaza dressed up like a miniature
bull-slayer, as an American writer declares I do), and I cultivate the
theatre, because to see life from the stage point of view helps me in
the composition of my stories."




THE FOURTH ESTATE




CHAPTER I

THE CURTAIN RISES


Sarrio, the well-known town on the Cantabrian coast, boasted some years
ago of a theatre neither bright, light, nor commodious, but quite good
enough to afford entertainment to the pacific, industrious residents
during the long winter evenings.

It was built, as such places usually are, in the form of a horseshoe,
and it consisted of two floors besides the ground floor. On the first
were the boxes--goodness knows why they were so called, for they were
nothing but a few benches stuffed with goat's hair and upholstered with
scarlet flannel, placed behind a balustrade. To take one of these
places, a push had to be given to the back, which raised the seat with a
spring, and once the person was in it readjusted itself, and he was as
comfortable as a human being can be on an instrument of torture. On the
second floor all the rabble vociferated, scuffled, and pushed,
irrespective of social distinctions between the well-to-do seaman, the
poor mussel-picker from the rocks and pier, and Amalia, the respected
dealer, and the sellers in the streets. This part of the house was
called the gallery. The stage-boxes were of the same wretched style as
the others, and the upholstering seemed to be the same, as far as one
could see. Beyond them came the "front rows," reserved, according to the
old-fashioned way, for certain handicraftsmen, who, from their calling,
their position as employers, or for any reason, were averse to going up
into the gallery and mixing with the common herd. From the roof hung a
prismatic cut-glass chandelier, lighted with fish oil, which was
subsequently replaced by petroleum; but that reform I never saw. Under
the staircase leading to the boxes there was an alcove, enclosed by a
curtain, which went by the name of "Don Mateo's box." Of this Don Mateo
more anon.

Then you must know that in this provincial theatre the same dramas and
comedies were played as in the capital, and the same operas given as at
La Scala in Milan. Incredible as it seems, it is perfectly true. There
the narrator of this story heard for the first time the famous lines:

    "When you hearken to a story of shipwreck,
     All on earth, e'en to love, is forgotten."

They certainly struck him as splendid, and the theatre a marvel of
luxury and good taste. Everything in the world depends on imagination.
Would that mine were as fresh and vivid as it was in those days, so as
to be able to give you a few hours' pleasant amusement!

There it was I saw "Don Juan Tenorio," with its flour-whitened corpses,
its commander gliding away on a door pulled with cords, its infernal
regions made of lighted spirits of wine; and its apotheosis of paper,
stuffing, and packing-cases made such an impression on me that I never
slept that night. In the auditorium the same things went on more or less
as in the grandest houses of the capital. However, more attention was
given to the performance here than in Court theatres, because we had not
arrived at that high state of culture in which behavior is in direct
contradiction to the place--swearing and chattering in playhouses,
laughing and giggling in church, and silence and sedateness at the
promenade, after the delightful fashion in Madrid. Even now I do not
know if they have attained to this state of culture in Sarrio.

But it must not be thought that there were not some enlightened spirits
who were sufficiently advanced to give a sample of correct manners at
the theatre. Pablito de Belinchon was one of these. With three or four
kindred spirits he had a season ticket for one of the stage-boxes, and
from thence they spoke across to other gentlemen, older men, who
subscribed to the opposite stage-box. They cracked jokes, they turned
the soprano or bass into ridicule, and they threw sweets and pellets of
paper. The people in the gallery, not yet conversant with this advanced
stage of refinement, loudly insisted on silence. The families of
importance arriving, as usual, after the curtain had risen, came in with
as much fuss as if they were passing into the dress-circle of the Royal
Theatre, and, be it said, with much more noise, for it is impossible to
imagine the horrible sounds with which the backs of the boxes were
pushed back, and the seats dropped, as if on purpose to attract
attention.

The party now making its pompous entry into one of these boxes remains
standing until all wraps are removed, while the eyes of the audience are
instantly turned from the stage and fixed upon the newcomers until they
are seated. They are the Belinchons. The head of the family is a tall,
spare gentleman, with bent shoulders, bald head, small sharp eyes, a
large mouth, wreathed with a Mephistophelian smile, disclosing two long
even rows of teeth, the masterpiece of a certain dentist, recently
established in Sarrio; he has whiskers and mustache, and his age is
about sixty.

He is reported to be the richest merchant in the town, being one of the
chief importers of codfish on the Biscayan coast. For many years he had
the entire monopoly of the wholesale trade of this commodity, not only
in the town, but in the provinces, and had thus amassed a considerable
fortune.

His wife, Dona Paula--but why does her arrival excite so much talk in
the theatre? The good lady, hearing it, trembles, looks confused, and,
being unable to collect herself sufficiently to take off her cloak by
herself, she is relieved of it by her daughter, who says in her ear:

"Sit down, mama."

Dona Paula sits down, or, to speak more correctly, she drops into a
seat, and casts an anxious look at the audience, while her cheeks are
suffused with crimson. In vain she tries to collect and calm herself,
but the more she tries to keep the blood from rushing to her face the
more it mounts to that prominent position.

"Mama, how red you are!" said Venturita, her younger daughter, trying
not to laugh.

The mother looked at her with a pained expression.

"Hush, Ventura, hush," said Cecilia.

Dona Paula then murmured: "The child delights in upsetting me," and
nearly burst into tears.

At last the audience, wearied of tormenting her with their glances,
smiles, and whispers, turned their attention to the stage. Dona Paula's
distress gradually diminished, but the traces remained for the rest of
the evening.

The cause of the excitement was the velvet mantle, trimmed with fur,
that the good lady had donned. It was always like this whenever she
appeared for the first time in any fine article of apparel. And this for
no other reason than because Dona Paula was not a lady by birth.

She had belonged to the cigarette-maker class. Don Rosendo had made love
to her when she was quite a young girl, and then came the birth of
Pablito. However, Don Rosendo let five or six years elapse without
marrying, not wishing to hear of matrimony, but continuing to pay court
to her and assisting her with money, until finally, vanquished more by
the love of the boy than the mother, and more than all by the
admonitions of his friends, he decided to offer his hand to Paulina.

The town knew nothing of the marriage until it had taken place, secrecy
being considered the safest course. From thenceforth the life of the
cigarette-maker can be divided into different epochs. The first, which
lasted for a year, dated from the time of her marriage until the
"mantilla appeared." During this epoch she did not go out much, nor was
she often seen in public. On Sundays she attended early mass, and the
rest of the time she was shut up in the house. When she decided to don
the aforementioned mantilla and attend eleven o'clock mass she was the
cynosure of all eyes, in church as well as on her way through the
streets; and the event was talked about for eight days afterward.

The second epoch, which lasted three years, was from the "mantilla
episode" to that of "the gloves." The sight of such an adornment on the
large dark hands of the ex-cigarette-maker produced an indescribable
sensation in the feminine element of the neighborhood; in the streets,
in church, and on visits, the ladies met each other with the question:

"Have you seen?"

"Yes, yes; I have seen."

And then the tongues were loosed in cruel remarks.

Then came the third epoch, which lasted four years, and ended with the
silk dress, which gave almost as much cause of complaint as the gloves,
and produced universal indignation in Sarrio.

"Do you really mean to say so, Dona Dolores?"

"Who would have thought it?"

Dona Dolores lowered her eyes with a despairing gesture.

Finally the last epoch, the longest of all, for it lasted six years,
terminated (oh horror!) with "the hat." The shudder of disgust that went
through the town of Sarrio when Dona Paula appeared one holiday
afternoon at the Promenade with a little hat on her head beggars
description. It caused quite a sensation: the women of the place made
the sign of the cross, as they saw her pass, and remarks were uttered
in loud tones so as to reach the person concerned.

"Look, girl, do for goodness' sake, look at the Serena, and see what she
has got on her head."

Mention must be made that Dona Paula's mother, grandmother, and
great-grandmother had all gone by the name of Serena. It is needless to
add that even when the cigarette-maker attained to the dignity of
senora, she was never by any chance given her proper name.

When the ladies of Sarrio met each other in the street the following day
there were no words to express their horror; they could only raise their
eyes to heaven, make convulsive gesticulations, and utter, with a groan,
the word "Hat!"

So at that deed of daring, only comparable to those of heroes of
antiquity, like Hannibal, Caesar, and Genghis Khan, the town remained
crushed and dumfounded for some months. Nevertheless, whenever Dona
Paula appeared in public with the abhorred hat upon her head, or with
any other departure from her old attire, she was always greeted with a
murmur of disapproval. The fault of the matter lay in her never having
resented, in public or in private, or even in the sanctum of her own
feelings, this malignant treatment of her fellow-townsfolk. She
considered it natural and reasonable, and it never occurred to her that
it ought not to have been; her ideas of conventionality had never
prompted her to rebel against the tyranny of public opinion. She
believed in all good faith that in adopting the gloves, the mantilla, or
the hat, she had committed a breach of laws both human and divine, and
that the murmurs and mocking glances were the just retribution for the
infraction. Hence her terror and dismay every time she appeared at the
theatre or promenade overwhelmed her with confusion.

"Why, then," it will be said, "did Dona Paula dress herself thus?"

Those who ask such questions are not well versed in the mysteries of the
human heart; Dona Paula put on the mantilla, gloves, and hat with the
full knowledge of the retribution to come, just as a boy stuffs himself
from the sideboard, knowing that he will be punished for the act. Those
who have not been brought up in a little town can never know how
ardently the hat is desired by the artisan.

It was so with Dona Paula, old, faded, and withered as she was. As a
young girl, she had been pretty, but years, her secluded life, to which
she could never accustom herself, and, above all, her struggle against
public opinion in the adoption of appropriate attire, had prematurely
aged her; but she still had beautiful black eyes set in regular and
pleasing features.

The first act was nearly over. A fantastic melodrama, the name I do not
remember, was being performed, and the company had brought into play
all the scenic apparatus at its disposal. The audience was impressed,
and received every change of scene with enthusiastic applause.

Pablito, who had spent a month in Madrid the previous year, made light
of the performance and winked knowingly at his friend in the front row
of the stalls. Then, to show how boring he found it all, he ended by
turning his back on the stage, and leveling his opera-glass at the local
beauties. Every time that the Russian-leather lorgnette was turned on
one of the fair sex the girl trembled slightly, changed her position,
and raised her hand, which slightly shook, to adjust her hair, smiled
meaninglessly at her mama or sister, settled herself afresh, and fixed
her eyes on the stage with insistence and decision, but a quick shy
glance was soon raised to those round, bright glasses directed at her,
and she ended by blushing.

Then Pablito, having carried his point, turned his attention to another
beauty. He knew them all as well as if they were his sisters, he thee'd
and thou'd the majority of them, and to several he had even been
engaged; but he was as light and inconsistent in his love affairs as a
feather in the air; the girls had all had to undergo the painful process
of disillusion, and finally, wearied of courting his neighbors, he
proceeded to exercise his charms on some of the visitors to Sarrio,
only, of course, to throw them over, if they imprudently stayed more
than a month or two in the town.

There were weighty reasons for Pablito's power to thus make havoc at his
own sweet will in the hearts of all the girls of the place, as well as
of those from other parts.

He was a very aristocratic-looking young fellow of four or five and
twenty, of a handsome, manly countenance, and slight well-formed figure.
Then, he rode splendidly, and drove a tilbury or drag and four with an
ease only seen in Sarrio among coachmen. When wide trousers were worn,
Pablito's looked like skirts, and when tight ones were the fashion his
legs looked as slender as a stork's. When high collars were in vogue,
Pablito went about half-strangled with his tongue hanging out, and when
low ones came in, he had them cut down to his breastbone.

These and other striking characteristics made him irresistible. Perhaps
some people will not quite credit the universal admiration he excited,
but I am certain that the girls of the province who read this story will
testify to the truth of the fact.




CHAPTER II

THE PERFORMANCE CONTINUES


When the curtain fell, a bent old man with spectacles and a long white
beard crept, rather than walked, to the Belinchons' box.

"Don Mateo! You never miss a performance," exclaimed Dona Paula.

"Well, what would you have me do at home, Papulina?"

"Tell your beads and go to bed," said Venturita.

Don Mateo smiled benignantly and answered the pert remark by giving the
girl an affectionate tap on her cheek.

"It is true I ought to do so, my child--but what is to be done? If I go
to bed early I do not sleep--and then I can not resist the temptation of
seeing you pretty little dears."

Venturita's coquettish expression betrayed her satisfaction at seeing
herself admired.

"Now, if you were a handsome young man!"

"I have been one."

"In what year was that?"

"How naughty! how naughty the child is!" exclaimed Don Mateo, laughing;
but he was here interrupted by a fit of coughing which lasted for some
minutes.

Don Mateo, an old man, and decrepit not only with age, but with
infirmities brought on by a dissipated life, was the delight of the town
of Sarrio. No festivity and no public or private entertainment could
take place without him. He had been president of the Lyceum, a dancing
club, for many years, and nobody thought of having him supplanted. He
was also president of an academy of music, of which he was the founder;
he was treasurer of the artisans' club; the rebuilding of the theatre
now mentioned was due to him; and as an acknowledgment of the time and
money he spent on it, the company permitted him to have the box, already
alluded to, in the alcove under the staircase, enclosed with curtains.

He lived on his pension as colonel; he was married, and had a daughter
over thirty years of age, who still went by the name of "the child." It
must not be thought by this that Don Mateo was a skittish old man. If he
had been, the weaker sex would not have been so profuse in their
sympathy and respect for him. His sole pleasure was to see other people
amused and happy about him, and he spared himself neither trouble nor
efforts in getting up any fresh entertainment. Once his mind was set
upon a new idea, his energy never flagged. Sometimes he organized a
country ball; another time he had a stage put up in the large room of
the Lyceum, and got up a play; and he occasionally chartered a
mountebank or musical company. If a week went by without Sarrio having
some entertainment or other, Don Mateo was in a great state of mind, and
had no rest until he had started something.

Thanks to him, we can safely say that at this period there was no place
in Spain where life was rendered so easy and pleasant as at Sarrio, for
a constant round of simple amusements engenders union and friendliness
among the townsfolk. Moreover, Don Mateo was a professional peace-maker,
for he made a point of smoothing away all the bad feelings and
misunderstandings that always crop up in a town. Unlike bad persons who
delight in fanning the flame of dissension, he found delight in
repeating to people all the pleasant things he heard of them.

"Pepita, do you know what Dona Rosario said just now about the dress you
have on?--that it is most elegant, exquisite, and tasteful."

Whereupon Pepita, filled with pride as she sat in her box, cast quite an
affectionate glance at Dona Rosario, little as she liked her.

Then, again, "How well you managed Villamor's chocolate business for the
widow and children, friend Eugenio--you did, indeed. Don Rosendo was
just telling me he let the business slip through his fingers like a
fool."

As Don Rosendo was the best man of business in the town, Don Eugenio
could not help feeling flattered at these words.

After chatting for some little time with the Belinchon family, Don Mateo
took leave, to prosecute, as usual, his visits to the other boxes; but
before going he turned to Cecilia, and said:

"When does he arrive?"

The young girl flushed slightly, and replied:

"I can not tell you, Don Mateo."

Then Dona Paula, smiling mischievously, came to her daughter's rescue,
by saying:

"He ought to arrive in the 'Bella Paula,' which sailed from Liverpool."

"Oh! then we shall be having him here to-morrow or next day. You have
prayed a good deal to the Virgin de las Tormentas--the Virgin of the
Storms--eh?"

"She has actually had a _nones_--six candles have been burning for days
before the image," said Venturita.

Cecilia's blush deepened, and she smiled. She was a young woman of
twenty years of age, neither beautiful in face nor graceful in figure;
the harmony of her features was spoiled by her nose being too aquiline.
Without this drawback she would not have been plain, for her eyes were
extremely good--so soft and expressive that few beauties could rival
them. She was neither tall nor short, but rather thin, and her shoulders
slightly bent. Her sister Venturita was sixteen years of age, and as
full of grace and beauty as a lovely flower. Her oval cheeks seemed made
of roses and pinks; she was somewhat small, but so perfectly made that
she looked like a wax model. Her jasmine-like hands and her fairy-like
feet were the talk of Sarrio.

The softness and smoothness of her skin were like mother-of-pearl and
alabaster; her creamy forehead, high and narrow as that of a Greek
Venus, was shaded by fair curls; and rich, abundant golden tresses
covered her shoulders and fell below her waist.

"You may laugh at your sister, little one; but it will not be long
before you do the same!" said Don Mateo.

"I pray for a man! You are getting imbecile, senor."

"It won't be long before I hear of it," returned the old man, as he
passed on to another box to greet the Senores de Maza.

At that moment Pablito joined his family, accompanied by his faithful
friend, who merits special notice.

He was the son of the _picador_, the famous bull slayer, of the place,
and the cast of the lad's features was such as would have been the
delight of the spectators at a circus. His face would have required no
addition in the way of powder, rouge, or dye to convert him into a
clown. The nose, highly  by nature, the narrow slits of eyes, the
lack of any mustache or whiskers, the thick lips, the excessive width of
his shoulders, the bow of his legs, and, above all, the facial
contortions which accompanied every word he uttered, were provocative of
mirth without the aid of paint or wig. Piscis, for so he was called, was
aware of this peculiarity, and resented it so intensely that he resolved
to counteract the ludicrous cast of his features by determining never to
laugh, and he religiously kept to his decision. Moreover, he, for the
same reason, interspersed his remarks with the sharpest, strongest
interjections of the vernacular, varied by those of his own invention.
But this, instead of producing the desired effect, only added to the
amusement he provoked among his acquaintances.

The only person who ever took him seriously--up to a certain point--was
Pablito. Piscis and Pablito were born to inspire each other with mutual
love and admiration. The point of union between the two kindred spirits
was "the cult of the horse-god." Piscis, through his father, was an
adept in that line from a child; and as the best mount in Sarrio, he was
the object of Pablito's warmest admiration, and the son of Don Rosendo
being the richest young fellow of the place, there was, according to
Piscis, no person in the world more deserving of respect and admiration.

Nobody knew when this friendship had begun; Pablito and Piscis had
always been inseparable from the time they were children, and the
difference of their social positions did not separate them as they grew
up to manhood. Don Rosendo's stable was their constant place of meeting;
from thence, after a long and erudite conference, partly theoretical,
partly practical on the horses, they proceeded to betake their presence
and their profound knowledge to the town, where they took a few turns,
sometimes on high-spirited horses, and at other times in a smart trap,
with Pablito driving, and Piscis absorbed in affectionate contemplation
of the backs of the animals. On some occasions, however, they gave the
town a lesson of humility by perambulating on their own legs. Pablito
now came up to his family party convulsed with laughter.

"What has come over you?" asked Dona Paula, smiling in sympathy.

"We just followed Periquito to the gallery, and there we found him hand
in hand with Ramona," whispered the young man into his sister
Venturita's ear.

"Well, what did he say?" she asked with great curiosity.

"He said"--and here a burst of laughter interrupted him for some
minutes--"he said, 'Ramona, I love you.'"

"Ave Maria! and an anchovy seller, too!" exclaimed the girl, joining in
the laugh, and making the sign of the cross.

"If you could have heard the trembling voice in which he said it, and
the way in which he turned up the whites of his eyes---- Ah! here is
Piscis, who was also witness of it."

Piscis gave vent to a corroborative grunt. At that moment Periquito, a
pallid, lean lad, with blue eyes and a little, thin red beard, appeared
in one of the stage boxes; the eyes of the whole Belinchon family were
at once turned on him with mocking and smiling glances, Pablito and
Venturita evincing particular delight at the sight of the young man.
Periquito raised his head and saluted them, and the Belinchon family
responded to the greeting without ceasing laughing. He raised his eyes
two or three times, but those continual mocking glances so confused him
that he at last retired into the narrow foyer. The curtain then rose
again: the scene now represented caverns in the infernal regions,
although it was not impossible for them to be mistaken for the hold of a
ship.

The act opened with a prelude by the orchestra, worthily conducted by
Senor Anselmo, the cabinet-maker of the town.

Senor Matias, the sacristan, and Senor Manola, the barber, took part in
the performance as bassoon-players. Don Juan, the "old salt," as he was
nicknamed, and Prospero, the carpenter, played the clarinets; the
trumpet-players were Mechacan, the shoemaker, and Senor Romualdo, the
undertaker; Pepe de la Esquila, the lawyer's clerk, and Maroto, "the
watchman," were the cornet-players; and the fiddle was played by Senor
Benito, the violinist of the church and a clerk in a business house;
while the minor accompanists consisted of four or five apprentice youths
of the town.

Instead of a baton, Senor Anselmo held in his hand an enormous bright
key, which was that of his shop, and served to conduct the music.

The prelude was very sad and mournful, suggestive of a fitting state of
mind for the infernal regions. The audience preserved absolute silence,
and in anxious expectation of what was to come all eyes were fixed on
the open trap-doors in the stage floor. A discordant note suddenly broke
in upon the soft, mysterious music. Senor Anselmo turned and cast a
reproachful look at the offending musician, who  up to his eyes;
and there came a loud, prolonged murmur of disapproval from the
audience, while from the gallery a voice cried:

"It was Pepe de la Esquila!"

All eyes were then directed to the delinquent, who, drawing the
mouthpiece from his cornet, shook it with assumed indifference while
his face became redder and redder.

"Those who can not play should go to bed," cried the same voice.

Then the abashed and ashamed Pepe de la Esquila was fraught with fury.
He threw his instrument upon the floor, rose from his seat with his eyes
aflame with rage, shook his fist at the gallery, and cried:

"I'll settle you when we get out, see if I don't."

"Sh! sh! Silence, silence!" exclaimed the audience in a breath.

"What is there to settle, man? Get on and play the cornet better."

"Silence, silence! Shame!" cried the audience again, and all eyes were
then turned to the mayor's box.

He was a man of sixty or seventy years of age, short of stature and very
high-; his hair was still thick and quite white, his cheeks were
shaven, his nose Roman, his eyes large, round, and prominent. He looked
like a courtier of the time of Louis XV, or a coachman of some grand
house.

Don Roque, for such was his name, turned round in his seat, and called
out in a stentorian voice:

"Marcones."

Whereupon an octogenarian official approached the door of the box with
his shiny, peaked, blue cloth cap in his hand.

The mayor conferred with him for some minutes; and then Marcones
ascended the gallery, and reappeared holding a young man in sailor dress
by the arm. They both approached the mayor's box, and then Don Roque
proceeded to rebuke the offender in a voice which he only partially
succeeded in modulating, for, from time to time, one overheard such
remarks as: "Disturber of the peace! Have you no manners whatsoever! You
are a belligerent animal! Do you think you are in a tavern?"

The sailor received the reprimand with his eyes on the ground.

A voice cried from the pit:

"Let him be taken to prison."

Then another voice from the gallery immediately returned:

"Let Pepe de la Esquila be taken too."

"Silence! Silence!"

The mayor, after having sharply rebuked Percebe, let him return to his
seat, to the great delight of the gallery, who received him back with
hurrahs and applause.

The orchestra, silenced for a time, now resumed the prelude to the
infernal regions, and before it was finished a dozen devils were seen
emerging through the trap-doors on to the stage with masks, enormous tow
wigs, the inevitable tails, and with lighted torches in their hands.
Then, when they were all assembled on the boarded floor and the
trap-doors were conveniently closed, they began the fantastic dance
befitting the occasion. But it is known of old that four demons can not
join together in a dance without getting excited. The spectators
followed their swift, measured movements with extreme interest. A child
began to cry, and the audience made its mother withdraw him from the
house.

But, lo and behold! with so much passing to and fro of Beelzebub's
ministers in that not very spacious place, a torch ignited the tow wig
of one of the party. The poor devil, in ignorance of the fact, continued
the dance with most diabolical energy; the audience went into fits of
laughter awaiting the issue of the accident. Eventually, when he felt
his head grow hot, he promptly tore off the wig and mask, and disclosed
the countenance of Levita, distorted with terror.

"Levita!" cried the delighted audience.

The owner of this nickname, deprived of his demoniacal disguise, retired
from the scene, covered with confusion.

In a short time another wig was set on fire. Fresh cries of excitement
at the approaching metamorphosis of the demon. There was not long to
wait, for in a few minutes the wig and the mask flew through the air
like a flaming comet.

"Matalaosa!" was the universal cry, and a shout of laughter rang through
the theatre.

"Matala, don't be afraid that you will catch cold," said a voice from
the gallery.

Matalaosa retired, discomfited, like his companion Levita.

Two or three more wigs were set on fire, exposing to shame as many more
well-known faces of townfolk who acted as supers at the theatre. The
dance finally terminated without further mishap.

The demons who had escaped any catastrophe being once more relegated to
the infernal regions, there appeared on the scene a fine young fellow,
who, to judge from the skin which hung from his shoulder, was evidently
a shepherd, with a pretty young girl of the same profession, and,
according to the old rule which obliges every shepherd to be in love,
and every shepherdess to be coquettish, the dialogue began, in which the
affectionate entreaties and tender reproaches of the man contrasted
strongly with the light laughter and jokes of the girl.

Everybody was pleased and delighted, the gallery as well as the pit,
with the touching scene enacted, when a loud voice was heard at the
theatre door saying:

"Don Rosendo, the 'Bella Paula,' is coming in."

The effect that this unexpected news produced was indescribable, for not
only did Don Rosendo jump up, as if he were pulled by a spring, and
hasten to put on his cloak with a trembling hand, but such excitement
pervaded the whole gathering that the pastoral dialogue was all but
interrupted. The patrons of the "front rows" rushed with one accord into
the street, all the sailors made their exit from the gallery with a
great clatter, and many people also left the stalls and boxes. In a few
minutes there was hardly anybody in the theatre but women.

Cecilia remained motionless and pale, with her eyes fixed on the stage.
Her mother and sister looked at her with a smile on their faces.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she exclaimed, turning round suddenly
and blushing violently, whereupon Dona Paula and Venturita burst out
laughing.




CHAPTER III

SAFE ARRIVAL OF THE "BELLA PAULA"


The crowd of people ran through the streets in the direction of the
port. Foremost, accompanied by six or eight sailors, his son Pablo and
several friends, came Don Rosendo, silent and preoccupied as he listened
to his companions' remarks, uttered in voices panting from exertion.

"Don Domingo is in luck to get in at nearly high tide," said a sailor,
alluding to the captain of the "Bella Paula."

"How do you know he is coming in? He may have cast anchor this
afternoon," remarked another.

"Where?"

"You ask 'where?' you fool! Why, in the Bay, of course," replied the
other in a rage.

"If so, we should see her, Uncle Miguel."

"How could we see her, you idiot? Why shouldn't she have dropped anchor
behind the Corvera Rock?"

"The flag of the 'Bella Paula' would float higher than the rock, Uncle
Miguel."

"Whatever do you know about it?"

"What cargo does she carry?" asked a bystander of the owner.

"Four thousand hundredweight."

"From Scotland?"

"No, all from Norway."

"Is the Senorita de las Cuevas on board?"

Don Rosendo did not reply; but after a few more quick steps he turned
round, saying:

"Don Melchor must be told that the 'Bella Paula' is coming in."

"I'll go," said a sailor, detaching himself from the crowd, and turning
back to the town.

They arrived at the mole. The night was starless, the wind had sunk, the
sea was calm. They passed the little old mole, and directed their steps
to the end of the new mole, which had been recently built, and stretched
some little distance out to sea. Lights from the moored boats shone here
and there in the darkness; the thick network of riggings was scarcely
discernible, and the hulks looked like formless black masses.

The newcomers did not at first perceive another group of people at the
end of the mole until they came upon them. They were all silent, with
their eyes fixed on the sea, trying to make out the lines of the ship in
the mist. The waves breaking monotonously against the rocks near by
occasionally shimmered in the darkness.

"Where is she?" asked several of the comers from the theatre, as they
cast their eyes around.

"There!"

"Where?"

"Don't you see a little green light there to the left? Follow my hand."

"Ah! Yes, now I see."

Don Rosendo went on to the second stage of the mole, and there ran
against Don Melchor de las Cuevas. He was an old, very tall, wiry man;
he wore his beard sailor fashion, that is to say, he let it hang round
his neck like a bag. He had a stronger reason for doing this than the
majority of the people of Sarrio who do so, for he belonged to the
honored profession of the navy, although he was now on the retired list.
But in seaport towns, and particularly when the place is small like that
of which we are speaking, the maritime element preponderates, and so
permeates the place that the inhabitants, unintentionally, and in spite
of themselves, adopt certain sailor customs, words, and fashions.

The Senor de las Cuevas had been a gallant, fine fellow when he was
young, and now at seventy-four he was still a vigorous, active man, with
bright, penetrating eyes, aquiline nose, a fine, open countenance, and a
bearing full of energy and decision.

He was standing on one of the seats fixed against the wall of the mole,
with an enormous telescope turned toward the little green light which
shone intermittently in the distance. He was by far the tallest figure
in the group of spectators.

"Don Melchor, you here already! I have just sent a messenger to your
house."

"I have been here for an hour," returned the Senor de las Cuevas, taking
his glass from his eye. "I saw the ship from the observatory a little
after sunset."

"Who would have thought it? How is it that nothing at sea escapes your
observation?"

"I have better sight than when I was a lad of twenty," said Don Melchor
in a loud, decided voice for all to hear.

"I believe it, I believe it, Don Melchor."

"I can see a little launch tack twenty miles off."

"I believe it, I believe it, Don Melchor."

"And if I were put to it," continued the old officer, in a louder tone,
"I could count the masts of the frigates that pass the Ferrol."

"Draw it mild, Don Melchor," said a voice. There was a round of
suppressed laughter in the dark, for Senor de las Cuevas inspired all
the sea-folk with profound respect.

The old sailor turned his head angrily in the direction of the jeering
remark, and, after silently trying to pierce the gloom, he said in a
severe tone:

"If I knew who that was who said that I would chuck him into the sea."

Nobody dared say a word, nor was a sign of a smile seen, for it was well
known in Sarrio that the Senor de las Cuevas was quite equal to
fulfilling his threat.

He had served more than forty years in the navy, and had won the
reputation of being a brave, punctilious officer; but his severity
bordered on cruelty. When no commander of a ship exercised the old
maritime laws, Don Melchor still strove to keep them in practise. It was
told with horror in the town that a sailor was drowned through his
making him pass three times under the keel according to the old
punishment for certain transgressions; and more than a hundred men had
been crippled by his blows, or had had the skin taken off their backs by
his use of the rope.

However, there was no pilot or sailor who could be compared with him in
his knowledge of all pertaining to the sea, the weather, ships, and all
the secrets of navigation.

The little green light continued its slow approach until the form of the
"Bella Paula" was visible to the naked eye, and, moreover, two or three
black spots could be seen hovering around her from different sides. They
were the pilot's launch and the auxiliary boats, ready to tow the ship
when necessary. Sail was crowded on the ship, as there was scarcely any
wind. However, it was too near the breakwater not to be dangerous. At
least Don Melchor thought so, for he began to swear under his breath,
and to seem uneasy. At last, no longer able to restrain himself,
although he knew he was not within earshot, he cried out:

"Furl the maintopsail, Domingo! What are you waiting for?"

He had scarcely uttered these words when the almost imperceptible forms
of the sailors were seen on the mastheads.

"We shall be all right now," exclaimed Don Melchor.

"Don Domingo would snap his finger at you," murmured the sailor who had
incurred the old officer's wrath, under his breath.

The hulk of the ship, painted black, with a line of white on the upper
decks, now stood out clearly from the dark background.

The eyes of the spectators, grown accustomed to the gloom, could discern
perfectly all that was passing on board.

Two figures were on the quarter-deck, the captain and the coasting
pilot, and at the bow stood the ship pilot.

"And the gaff-sail?" shouted Don Melchor again.

The sail of the mizzen-mast fell, as if in obedience to his voice. The
wind was insufficient to fill the lower sails, and the canvas hung from
the mast, limp and dilapidated as a draggled ball-dress. Soon all sails
were furled and the ship was motionless until it slowly made way when
taken in tow by the two boats. The figures of the rowers moved
measuredly on the benches and the voices of the coxswains singing out,
"Pull ahead; pull ahead!" broke the silence of the night.

But the rowers were so feeble in comparison to the bulk in tow that the
ship made but slow way. When at the end of a quarter of an hour she
managed to get some thirty lengths off the head of the mole, a rope was
thrown from one of the boats on to the sea wall to help tack the ship.

"Captain, captain!" cried a stentorian voice from the crowd.

"What is it?" they replied from the ship.

"Is the Senorita de las Cuevas on board?"

"Yes."

"Then as long as the Senorita de las Cuevas is all right, all the rest
may go to the devil."

The joke provoked much merriment in the crowd, until silence again
reigned.

The ship now began to tack, being dragged ashore by the rope, which
creaked with the tension of the hold; the people on the mole began
talking with those on board, but they were silent and taciturn, being
more concerned with the management of the ship than the questions
directed to them. Then came a fresh ebullition of the jocose spirit of
the sailors of the place, and fun was poked at those on board, more
especially at a certain fellow who looked like a heap of skins, and whom
they nicknamed Bruin, as he moved from one side to another with the
awkwardness of a bear, handling the ropes and casting grunts of scorn at
the crowd.

"I say, Bruin, you will be glad to have a dish of fish, eh?"

"Rejoice, O Bruin, for there is cider in Llandone's cellar."

"Is it hot in Norway?"

"Too hot for a rogue like you," growled Bruin, as he furled a sail.

This remark was received by the sailors with shouts of laughter.

"Keep clear," called the pilot from the quarter-deck.

"Hold there, on board!" returned the sailor who held the slack end of
the rope.

The rope fell into the sea and dashed against the side of the ship. She
was now close to the breakwater. The tide was not high enough to anchor
by the old mole. The captain called out to the pilot:

"Sound."

The pilot said to the sailor at his side:

"Drop anchor."

The anchor fell into the sea with a strident sound of chains. Then the
windlass was heard at work.

"Are you going to moor the ship, Domingo?" asked Don Melchor.

"Yes, senor," returned the captain.

"It is not necessary; you can warp ahead with two anchors. In an hour
you will be able to get in."

"One way is as good as another for me," said the officer in a low voice,
shrugging his shoulders, and then, in a loud tone, he added:

"Drop a second anchor," whereupon a second anchor fell into the sea with
the same harsh sound as the first.

"How are you, uncle?" cried a clear boyish voice from the ship.

"Hello, Gonzalito! arrived all right, my boy?"

"Perfectly; here I come."

And with great agility the young fellow swung himself down by a rope
into the boat.

"Let us go and meet him," said Don Rosendo, taking a step or two
forward.

But Senor de las Cuevas caught the merchant by the arm and held him like
a vise.

"Where are you going?"

"What is it?" asked the cod-merchant, in alarm. "Ah! it is true I did
not recollect that this was the lower stage, the darkness--such a long
time here, the dizziness from keeping one's eyes on the ship. My God!
what would have become of me if you had not caught hold of me?"

"Nothing, you would only have been stunned on the stones below."

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Don Rosendo, turning dreadfully pale, while a
cold sweat bathed his brow, and his legs trembled.

"Don't be alarmed at what is past and gone, but let us go down and meet
Gonzalito!"

So they went to the end of the mole, where a manly, tall, red-haired,
fine young fellow had just landed, dressed in a cloak which nearly
reached down to his heels.

"Uncle!"

"Gonzalo!"

The two tall men then fell into each other's arms. Don Rosendo also
received the young man with effusion. But he was so taken up with the
narrow escape he had just had from losing his life, that he soon
relapsed into his gloomy and melancholy mood, and he could hardly reply
to the dock-yard master's questions as to the disposition of the
captain's cargo.

They then started off to Don Melchor's house, which was situated in the
highest part of the town, commanding an extensive view of the sea.
During the walk Gonzalo left his uncle to go on in front, while he
diffidently asked Don Rosendo a few questions about his family.

"How is Dona Paula? Is she as smiling as ever? And Pablo? Is he still as
fond of horses? And Venturita? I suppose she has grown a big girl now?"
Pause. "And Cecilia, is she well?" he finally asked abruptly.

But the Senor de Belinchon only gave monosyllabic answers to all these
questions.

"Do you know, Gonzalo," he said, stopping suddenly, "that I might have
killed myself just now?"

"How?"

He then gave a full account of the incident of the mole, and when the
story was ended, he again relapsed into a state of profound melancholy.

"I suppose the family is in bed," said Gonzalo, after he had
sufficiently sympathized (at least in his own opinion) with the late
peril of the merchant.

"No, they are at the theatre--one never knows what may happen, eh?"

"So you've got a theatrical company here, eh?"

"Yes, for some days past. Do you know I thought I should have been
killed, Gonzalo?"

"Tush! You might, perhaps, have broken a leg, or at the worst, a rib or
two."

"Well, that would have been bad enough!" exclaimed the Senor de
Belinchon, with a sigh.

By this time they had proceeded some distance into the town, and
arriving at a certain street, Don Rosendo took leave of the uncle and
nephew. He held out his hand in a sad way, saying:

"I must go and fetch my family from the theatre. Until to-morrow, and a
good night's rest to you, Gonzalo."

"Until to-morrow--kind regards to all."

Then the Senor de las Cuevas and his nephew went on together to their
house; and the traveler had to undergo a torrent of questions not
relative to his visit to England, but concerning particulars of the
voyage home.

"What wind did you have? Pretty blusterous, eh? I suppose it hardly sank
once? The ship didn't pitch much, eh? She was well loaded. You never
sailed with all that canvas, eh? You had to reef on leaving Liverpool,
eh? I know the course well."

Gonzalo replied to the questions in an absent-minded manner, for he
really hardly took them in, as he was walking along in a state of
abstraction, with his head down.

"What is the matter, Gonzalito? You seem low-spirited."

"I? Bah! no, senor."

"I know you are."

They proceeded some distance in silence, and Don Melchor, striking his
forehead, exclaimed:

"I know what it is!"

"What?"

"You are longing for the sea again. I have gone through just the same. I
used to leap ashore after any voyage, and then I was seized with a fit
of depression and a strong desire to return to the ship! This lasted two
or three days, until I got accustomed to it. The fact is, I longed to
get into port, but once there, I wished to be on board again. I don't
know what there is so attractive in the sea, eh? That air so pure! The
motion! The freedom! I know you are longing to return to the ship, eh?"
he concluded, with a mischievous smile, to show his perspicacity.

"Bother it all! what I am longing for, uncle, is to go and see my
sweetheart."

Don Melchor was dumfounded.

"Is that true?"

"Of course it is."

The Senor de las Cuevas reflected a minute, and then said:

"All right; perhaps you would like to go and meet her at the theatre? In
the meanwhile I will go and see if Domingo has improved."

"How can he improve? He is a first-rate fellow," returned the youth,
smiling.

The uncle, oblivious of the irony, looked at him with scorn.

"Get along! I see you return as silly as you went. I will wait supper
for you."

"Don't wait for me, uncle," replied Gonzalo, already some distance off.
"Perhaps I shall not want supper."

Then, without running, but with extraordinary swiftness, thanks to his
unusually long legs, he strode through the streets, lighted here and
there by oil lamps, in the direction of the theatre. Any one meeting him
just then would have taken him for one of the many Englishmen who
occasionally come to Sarrio on shipping business, to reconnoitre mining
districts, or to start some industry. His colossal height and his stout,
robust appearance are not characteristic features of the Spanish race,
although one comes across them in the north; then that long coat, those
double-soled boots, and strange-shaped hat denoted the foreigner. A
glance at the face completed the illusion, for it was fair; and the long
red beard, and blue, or, more properly called, azure eyes are almost
always seen in the northern races.




CHAPTER IV

THE BETROTHAL


The family of Las Cuevas, to which Gonzalo belonged, had from time
immemorial been huge in stature, and seafaring by profession. His father
had been a sailor, his grandfather a sailor, his uncles sailors, and the
sons of these uncles also sailors. Gonzalo when not eight years of age
was left orphaned of both father and mother, and possessed of a
considerable fortune, managed by his uncle and guardian, Don Melchor, in
whose care he had been left by his father at his death. The old sailor
greatly wished his ward to continue the uninterrupted course of the
Cuevas with regard to a profession. To awaken in him a love of the sea,
or to make him take a fancy to it, he bought him a beautiful sailing
boat, in which they both took trips, or went on fishing expeditions. But
the good man's plans could not prevail against his nephew's
predisposition for the land. He cared for nothing to do with the sea,
but the fish out of it, and that only when dressed and steaming on the
table. However, he managed sometimes to enjoy himself with a kettle,
cooking an impromptu meal in some out-of-the-way spot on the coast,
seated on a rock whence bubbled beautiful fresh drinking water. At
fourteen Gonzalo had grown into a fine young fellow in the second class
of the private college of Sarrio, which sent him up to the Capital every
year for the examination, where he generally won the qualification
"good," and once and again, but very rarely, that of "highly commended."

He was much liked by his schoolfellows for his open, frank disposition,
while he was respected for his ability to deal powerful blows. The
gentlefolk of the town made much of him on account of his position and
the family to which he belonged, and the sailors and other people of the
place loved him for his frank, equable nature.

After graduating as bachelor of arts, he remained three years in Sarrio
without doing anything. He got up late, and spent the greater part of
the day at the casino playing billiards, in which game he became an
expert. In spite of being the spoiled child of the place, he visited at
few houses, preferring the stupid, demoralizing life of the cafe, to
which he had become accustomed. Nevertheless, as he was not wanting in
intelligence, and being of a naturally active turn of mind, he sometimes
turned his attention to the study of some branch of science. He liked
mineralogy, and many afternoons he left the casino and the billiards to
repair to the suburbs of the town, in search of minerals and fossils,
until he had quite a valuable collection. Then he took up the microscope
for a time, and after sending for a costly one from Germany he devoted
himself to the examination of diatomaceae, and he arranged them admirably
well upon the little crystals, which he cut himself. Finally, a book
upon brewing having fallen into his hands, he devoted himself
enthusiastically to its study. He ordered several works on the subject
from England, and began to think that this unpractised industry might be
started with advantage in Sarrio. He seriously thought of opening a
brewery, but, confiding the project to his uncle, the old man was
furious, and gave vent to a series of inarticulate grunts, all beyond
the normal diapason, which ended with the exclamation:

"What! a Cuevas start a brewery! The son of a captain, the nephew of a
rear-admiral! Impossible! You are off your head, Gonzalo. It is well
said that idleness is the mother of every vice. If you had passed
through the naval college, as I advised you, you would have been first
lieutenant by now, and would not be running about with such mad ideas."

Gonzalo was silent, but he did not cease reading his treatises on the
industry. He soon saw that, without visiting the chief breweries, and
without studying the subject seriously, he could never attain any real
knowledge of it, and so he determined to go to England and learn the
business of a civil engineer. When he ventured to broach the subject to
his uncle, the sailor did not object to the word engineer, but the
attributive adjunct of civil aroused the same storm of invectives as the
brewery had called forth.

"Civil, civil! nowadays everything shady is called civil. Be a
straightforward engineer of roads, and bridges or mines."

At this time he knew, or, to speak more correctly, for everybody knows
each other in Sarrio, he became acquainted with, the Senorita de
Belinchon. One day his uncle sent him to the rich merchant's house to
ask him if he could give him a bill of exchange on Manila. Don Rosendo
was not in his office, which was on the ground floor of the house, but
as the business was urgent, Gonzalo decided to go upstairs. The maid who
opened the door was very alert.

"Come this way, Don Gonzalo; the Senorita Cecilia will tell you where
the master is."

He was taken into an untidy room, with heaps of clothes upon the floor
and on the table, at which the eldest daughter of the Belinchons was
ironing a shirt, in a costume not befitting her station, for it was a
scanty, narrow skirt, an apron tied round her waist like a workwoman,
and her feet in shabby slippers. She did not blush at the young man
finding her in such an attire and engaged in such a menial occupation,
nor did she exclaim, as many girls would have done in her place:
"Goodness, what a state you find me in!" putting her hands to her hair
and her throat.

Nothing of the sort; she suspended her task for a minute, smiled
sweetly, and waited to hear what the youth had to say.

"Good-evening," he said with a blush.

"Good-evening, Gonzalo," she returned.

"Can I see your father?"

"I do not know if he is at home; I will go and see," replied the girl,
leaving the ironing upon the table, and passing in front of him.

When she had proceeded a few steps she turned back and said:

"Is your uncle well?"

"Yes, senora, yes--I mean no; for some days he has not left his bed--he
has a dreadful cold."

"It is nothing serious?"

"I think not, senora."

The girl went on her way smiling; she was pleased at Gonzalo calling her
senora, for she was not sixteen, and he spoke as if she were over
twenty. They knew each other like brother and sister, but they had never
hitherto behaved like grown-up people. They met every day in the street,
at the promenade, at the theatre, or at church. When they were quite
little, Cecilia recollected that one afternoon at the Elorrio Fair,
when dancing the giraldilla with some other little girls of her own age,
some rough boys began teasing them, pulling their hair, pushing them
about, and running in the way so as to spoil their dance, and upset
them. Gonzalo, then a boy of thirteen, seeing this rude conduct, ran to
the little girls' assistance; and with a kick here, a push there, and a
few blows all round, he soon dispersed the rude boys. The eyes of the
little dancers gazed at him in admiration, and an undying feeling of
gratitude toward the heroic lad filled those tender hearts of five to
ten years.

Another time, years afterward, on St. John's Day, Gonzalo lent his boat
to her and her family, for a little sea trip, as all the boats and
launches were full on that occasion.

But neither of these circumstances had constituted much intercourse
between the young people. If they met face to face, Gonzalo would raise
his hand to his hat; if not, they would pass as if they did not see each
other, in spite of the acquaintance, if not intimate friendship,
existing between his uncle and Senor Belinchon. For the Bohemian life of
the cafe, his rare association with girls, had made Gonzalo a shy,
retiring youth.

"Come this way, Gonzalo; papa is waiting for you in the dining-room,"
said the girl, when she reappeared. "I hope your uncle will get
better."

"Many thanks," he returned abruptly, and being so tall, he knocked
against the lamp hanging in the hall so that it nearly fell to the
ground.

He cast an agonized look at it, and quickly steadied it, while his face
grew red with confusion.

"Has it hurt you?" asked Cecilia, anxiously.

"No, indeed, senora--on the contrary, dear me! I nearly broke it."

And he became more and more confused.

Our young friend was at that time of life when he would fall in love
with a broom. He was rather late in reaching this susceptible stage, as
is often the case when the physical organism overbalances the nervous.
Therefore, Senorita de Belinchon, with no claim to prettiness, suddenly
aroused a sort of feeling in him easily mistaken for love, and the
result of that short interview was that Gonzalo henceforth went out of
his way to pass the house of the De Belinchons, with his longing eyes
fixed on the windows for a chance glimpse of the young lady; he went on
Sunday to eight o'clock mass at St. Andrew's Church, because Dona Paula
and her family went there; at the theatre he ventured to cast many a
glance in her direction, and he occasionally dared to raise his hat to
her, but when he did so, he blushed violently and cast furtive looks
around, trembling lest he should have betrayed the nascent feeling of
his heart.

Innocent Gonzalo! Long before he was aware himself of his state of mind
the whole town knew of it. Nothing could be hidden, especially anything
to do with a young man and woman, from the sharp eyes of the gossips of
a place so small as Sarrio. And not only did they know what was going
on, but they made up their minds that the marriage was certain to come
off sooner or later.

Nevertheless, months went by and the matter did not advance one step.
However, Gonzalo continued to give the same signs of his fancy for the
girl, and he spent a long time every day after dinner in walking up and
down in front of the rich merchant's house on his way to the casino.
Cecilia would be at the window sewing; he would raise his hat and then
go to the billiard table, and so it was the next day. Don Melchor sent
him twice on messages to Don Rosendo, but he always had the good luck to
find him in his office. We say good luck because Gonzalo trembled at the
idea of going upstairs and meeting Cecilia.

He was now twenty years of age. The idea of qualifying himself as a
civil engineer and taking up some occupation occasionally crossed his
mind in this idle life. A friend at this time returning from a military
academy, a conversation with an English engineer, the tone of contempt
in which those who have no occupation were spoken of in the casino,
suddenly awoke in him a desire for work. At last he told his uncle
that, with his permission, he would go to England to study something and
see the world.

As Don Melchor could make no objection to this just and laudable
suggestion, Gonzalo a few days later appeared at several houses of
relations and friends, where he had not set foot for years, to take his
leave of them, and on a beautiful, balmy spring afternoon he embarked
with great pomp on the big "Vigia" for England.

Did he recollect Cecilia? We do not know. Temperaments like those of our
friend are a long time falling a prey to passion--great havoc as it may
make in the end.

Three years went by. He finished his course as an engineer, which is
brief and practical in England, and then made up his mind to visit the
factories of England, Spain, and Germany. During the time of his studies
the recollection of Cecilia occasionally occurred to him without
arousing any very deep feeling. But in the spring, when the blood
circulates more freely in the veins, and Mother Nature gives her lesson
in the verdure of the fields, the vivid colors of the flowers, the
effects of sunshine, the soft, balmy air, and above all in her more
faithful interpreters, the birds, Gonzalo's thoughts turned to
matrimony. And whenever the idea crossed his mind, it was accompanied by
the image of the eldest daughter of the De Belinchons.

"This way, Gonzalo; papa is waiting for you. Have you hurt yourself?"

The words still rang in his ears, and the recollection of the kind tone
in which they were said filled his young heart with a feeling of love.
The girl was not beautiful, but her eyes were, and her modest, pleasant
manner and the tone of her voice were all full of the charm so
attractive in her sex.

"I should not mind marrying her," he said with a sigh to himself, as he
thought how impossible it would be for him to breathe a word of love in
her ears, or in those of any girl.

One day, when writing to a great friend in Sarrio, he suddenly thought
of asking if Cecilia Belinchon were married. In reply, he learned that
she was still single, and that, although young men frequented the house,
probably more attracted by De Belinchon's money than his daughter's
charms, it was not known that she had so far listened to any one of
them.

On reading this letter the blood mounted to the cheek of the civil
engineer, and he was foolish enough to think (will the reader think him
very conceited?) that if Cecilia turned the cold shoulder on her
admirers it was, perhaps, because she was prepossessed in his favor.
Then he formed the plan of declaring his feelings in a letter, for he
thought it would be less awkward to do it thus while far away.

Nevertheless, he hesitated, and when he took the pen in his hand to
write the first line he dropped it at the thought of the surprise of the
girl on the receipt of the letter. Some days elapsed. He could not get
rid of the idea. At last, by dint of much subtle reasoning, he
determined to write the letter. If she laughed at him, what of it? He
would not be there to see, for in that case he would stay away from
Sarrio; and if perchance he ever returned, he would manage to keep clear
of her.

So at last the letter was written, but terrified at the idea of posting
it, he kept it in his writing-case for some days. A few glasses of
spirits were required to give him courage to post it, and when slightly
elevated by the potation he took the letter from his writing-case,
rushed into the street and dropped it into the first letter-box he came
across.

"My God! What have I done?"

The effects of the libation had suddenly vanished, and he  up to
the roots of his hair, as if the mocking eyes of all the people of
Sarrio were gazing at him through the gaping mouth of the letter-box.

He put his fingers into the aperture, in the vain attempt to withdraw
the ill-fated epistle, but a shark could not hive swallowed it more
effectually, and the mouth of the box looked gaping and ready for more.
For one moment he thought of going to the post-office to reclaim it, but
the thought of the particulars which would have to be given so alarmed
him that he preferred leaving the matter to fate rather than undergo
such an ordeal.

Eight days of trembling suspense went by. By the time he could expect an
answer his anxiety was overwhelming, and he even began to think he might
see his own bold, ugly handwriting returned to him in an envelope.

A week, and then a fortnight, elapsed, but still no answer came.

He calmed himself with the vague hope of the non-arrival of his letter
at its destination; then he fancied that Cecilia might have torn it up,
without mentioning it to anybody. But, lo and behold, when he had given
up all hope, he found on his plate, at breakfast-time, a letter from
Spain, in an unknown lady's writing. His excitement at the sight was
indescribable. He turned as white as the mantelpiece--his heart seemed
to jump into his mouth. He opened the envelope with a trembling hand.

"Ah-a-a!" he sighed, with relief, after devouring the contents in two
seconds. He then put his hand to his side, wiped the sweat from his brow
with his pocket-handkerchief, took up the letter again, and reread it
quietly.

It was really from Cecilia; it was slightly ironical in tone--however,
it was not a rebuff.

What fancy could have seized him for her after four years' absence? Her
parents--who had opened the letter before she did--were equally
surprised, and thought it was a rash act, peculiar to youth--a passing
idea, of which he had probably already repented. She quite coincided
with their opinion, although she had consented to follow their advice of
writing to him, as they had always maintained friendly relations with
his family. This letter filled him with delight; it was not the scornful
refusal he had expected. Then he grew sad, and then cheerful, as he read
and reread the letter in search of a clear meaning. Was it kind--or was
it unkind? He hastened to reply, imploring forgiveness for his boldness,
and confirming his previous declaration with renewed and more vehement
protestations.

The girl wrote again in a few days, in a kinder and more affectionate
manner, and then Gonzalo sent another letter. An interchange of
photographs followed, and sometimes Dona Paula enclosed a few lines in
the letters sent by her daughter.

In time the young people were formally engaged, and the marriage was
arranged.

Don Melchor corresponded with his nephew on the subject, and he called
upon Don Rosendo. It was at last settled that Gonzalo should return in
the spring, when the wedding was to take place.




CHAPTER V

PLANNING THE HOME


The rest of the audience was leaving the theatre, and as Gonzalo met the
people pouring from the door, many of them recognized him, and he was
soon surrounded by old friends who were all warm in their welcome.

The first to throw his arms around his neck was Don Mateo; then came Don
Pedro Miranda; then the mayor, Don Roque; then Don Victoriano and his
wife, Dona Rosario, and their three daughters.

Thus a circle soon gathered round the young man, who responded
effusively to the greetings, embraces, and hand-pressures which reached
him from all sides.

The sailors and women of the place also joined the senores in this
demonstration of affection, and nothing was heard but exclamations of
delight and admiration.

"How stout you have grown, Gonzalito!"

"You are a fine young man!"

"Why don't you grow like that, Periquito?"

"Don Gonzalo, you are a head taller than all the other fellows of
Sarrio!"

"Grow! He has not grown; he has doubled his height. Come here,
Grenadier, and embrace me directly."

A shipmaster declared that the youth was as like the Prince of Wales as
two drops of water, although Gonzalo might be taller.

The tall figure of the youth certainly towered above the group, and he
reached his hand over the heads of those about him to the friends who
could not get close to him, and his fine, open countenance beamed on
all.

Don Mateo, on tiptoe, pulled him by the arm so that he bent down, and
then he whispered in his ear:

"What a performance you have lost, Gonzalo! It is a pity you did not
arrive in the afternoon. The soprano sings like an angel! And the
dancing! The dancing! I tell you, boy, they don't have better in Bilbao
or Corunna. But never mind, I will have the performance again before the
company leaves--or it won't say much for my influence."

But Gonzalo paid little heed to these words. With his eyes fixed on the
door, he was waiting in breathless expectation for the appearance of the
De Belinchon family, which, as one of the first and most patrician of
the place, always waited behind to avoid mixing with the plebeians. At
last, by the light of the lamp burning under the archway of the
entrance, he caught sight of the face of Dona Paula, followed by that of
Cecilia, and he tremulously advanced to greet them.

The girl turned as red as a poppy. This was natural, but for the mother
to do so also was less natural. What was he to her? Why was she to blush
as much as the daughter? But it was what she did to perfection. The
voices of all three trembled, and after inquiring after each other's
health, their tongues seemed tied. The looks of curiosity from the
people added to their embarrassment. Fortunately, Pablito now approached
with Venturita, and our young friend greeted the former affectionately
and gave a ceremonious bow to the latter.

Pablo smiled.

"Don't you know her? She is my sister, Venturita."

"Oh! How could I know her? She is a woman. How do you do, Ventura?"

The girl gave him her hand with a mocking, roguish expression that quite
confused him.

They then all turned toward home. Venturita ran in front, dragging her
brother with her. Dona Paula, Cecilia, and Gonzalo walked behind. Don
Rosendo closed the procession with his old friend, Don Pedro Miranda.
The streets were dark, for it was only at the corners that there were
lamps.

The distance between the three groups of people gradually increased.

Gonzalo made desperate efforts to sustain conversation with his
bride-elect and future mother-in-law; but the girl never opened her
lips, and Dona Paula was very far from being a Madame de Stael, and as
the young man had never consulted the manual of conversation, he could
not be called brilliant. In their letters they had arrived at the
confidential stage. Dona Paula had put post-scripts into Cecilia's
epistles, to which Gonzalo had replied with little jokes; he had sent
stamps and caricatures for Ventura, and in every way had comported
himself as a member of the family. But now the three were quite
embarrassed, for our young friend had never before spoken to the Senora
de Belinchon, and to Cecilia he had only addressed the words that we
have recorded.

But there in front was Venturita, laughing with her brother; and the
engaged couple were quite certain that the merriment was at their
expense. Nevertheless, by the time they reached the house they were more
at home with each other, and there were signs of increasing friendliness
between them. The party collected together on reaching the door of the
De Belinchons' abode, which was situated in the Rua Nueva, the best
street in Sarrio, and, like all the houses in that quarter, it was
large and handsome.

As Gonzalo had not yet supped, Don Rosendo asked him to join them at
their evening meal; and the invitation was given so cordially, that the
young man, who wished for nothing better, willingly accepted it.

Senor Miranda and his son then took leave, and the Belinchon family,
with the newcomer who was soon to be one of them, entered the house.

In the anteroom the ladies took off their cloaks and hats.

The light seemed to make the affianced pair shy. Gonzalo was now well
able to see his betrothed, who had not improved with years. She was
taller, but also thinner--love affairs don't make girls grow plump; her
nose seemed a trifle sharper; but her beautiful eyes, so soft and
intelligent, still shone like two stars.

He was greatly struck with the change in Venturita, the child he had
seen skipping to school on the arm of a schoolfellow.

She was now a woman, a full-grown woman, not so much from her height as
from the roundness and fulness of her figure, and a certain directness
of look touched with a dash of coquetry.

They cast a rapid look at each other, as if they met for the first time;
and Gonzalo said in a low voice to Dona Paula:

"How Venturita has improved! She is a beautiful girl."

Low as it was, the girl overheard the remark; she pouted disdainfully
and went straight to the dining-room, without betraying the
gratification his spontaneous admiration had given her.

The table was laid, a patriarchal provincial board, abundant and clean,
without flowers or any of the elegant accessories which are now the
fashion. All Gonzalo's shyness vanishing at the sight of the meal, he
soon felt quite at home. A feeling of cheerfulness pervaded them all.
They exchanged remarks and smiles; Gonzalo took Pablito by the arm and
asked him after his horses; Dona Paula arranged the order of the places;
Venturita, who was already seated, began eating olives and throwing the
stones at her sister, with knowing winks, while Cecilia, her cheeks
aflame, put her finger on her lip to call her to order. Don Rosendo had
returned from putting on his jacket and smoking cap, as he could not eat
supper without them. His wife now invited the visitor to take the chair
next to Cecilia, but she had taken her seat at the other end of the
table.

"What are you about? Why don't you come to your proper place?" asked
Dona Paula in surprise, whereupon the girl, without replying, quietly
rose and blushingly took the chair next to her betrothed.

The classic dish of buttered eggs was already steaming on the table.

"Come, help Gonzalo--serve him first," said Dona Paula to her daughter,
with the benign smile befitting a wife whose ideas were in accord with
those given by Saint Paul in his celebrated epistle.

Cecilia hastened to obey, and filled the plate of her future husband. He
always had an excellent appetite, fitting for his great size, but now,
sharpened by the sea air and some hours' fasting, he was voracious. He
ate everything that was put before him, without stopping a moment, and
without leaving a morsel, and Cecilia, as we can suppose, was
indefatigable in serving him.

Directly he began to eat Gonzalo lost his shyness, for the pressing
necessity of satisfying his enormous appetite was all-absorbing.
Cecilia, on the contrary, hardly touched her food. Seeing two little
pieces of ham about the size of two filberts on her plate, the young man
said:

"Whom is that plate for--the parrot?"

"No; it is for me."

"And are you not afraid it will give you indigestion?"

It was the first joke that he had ventured to make with his bride-elect.
She smilingly returned:

"I never eat more than that."

Dona Paula whispered into Venturita's ear:

"Don't you think they are very stiff with each other?"

Venturita repeated the remark in an undertone to Pablo, and he passed it
on to his father. All four began laughing and casting glances at the
engaged couple, who looked confused, asking with their eyes the reason
of the sudden merriment.

"Mama, do you want me to tell them what we are laughing at?"

"Tell them."

"Then, senores, we were thinking that you might be less stiff with each
other."

The bride and bridegroom-elect hung their heads and smiled.

The good spirits of the supper party now broke forth in laughter and
jokes. Pablito asked his future brother-in-law questions about horse
racing, skating rinks, and other more or less enthralling topics of the
kind.

Only Cecilia was silent in the intensity of her happiness, shown in the
brilliant scarlet of her cheeks, the heat of which she tried in vain to
cool with the back of her hand.

When she thought she was unobserved she cast long, loving looks at her
fiance, whose fine, insatiable appetite, the sign of life and energy,
surprised and captivated her; and she gazed at him in adoring admiration
as a splendid type of masculine strength.

But these long, ecstatic looks did not escape Venturita, who managed by
signs to draw the attention of Pablo and her mother to them. Gonzalo
acknowledged the attentions of his fiancee with a rapid "Many thanks"
without looking at her, for fear of blushing. When he did look up to
speak to Pablo, his eyes always encountered Venturita's, and her
smiling, mocking glance somewhat disconcerted him.

At last they left the table and dispersed. Don Rosendo and Ventura,
disappeared, and Pablo, after a few minutes, following their example.

Dona Paula and the engaged couple remained alone in the dining-room, and
all three sat on low chairs in a corner together. Soon nothing but soft
whispers were audible, as if they were at the confessional. The three
chairs were close together, and with their heads almost touching, they
began an animated conversation.

Dona Paula soon broached the all-important question.

"This is the twenty-eighth of April. There are only four months from now
to the first of September," and here she cast a long, knowing glance at
the couple.

If it had been possible for Cecilia to get redder, she would have done
so.

Gonzalo's lips wreathed in a meaningless smile, and he lowered his
eyes.

After looking at them for a minute, as if enjoying their confusion, Dona
Paula continued:

"It is necessary to think of the trousseau."

"Heavens! It is early for that," exclaimed the girl in dismay, while her
heart leaped into her mouth.

"It is not so, Cecilia; you do not know the time the embroideresses take
in such matters. Nieves took a month to embroider two petticoats for
Dona Rosario's daughter--and Martina is slower than she."

"Nieves embroiders very well."

"There is no embroideress in the town to hold a candle to Martina. She
has hands of gold."

"I prefer the embroideries of Nieves."

"Then, if you wish it, let her embroider your clothes, but I--" said
Dona Paula, looking at her daughter in an offended, haughty sort of way.

"I don't say so," returned the girl in alarm; "I only say I like the
work of Nieves better than Martina's."

The trousseau soon became the subject of conversation. It was discussed
from every point of view, and with the gravity and the care it deserved.

To whom should they entrust the hemming of the linen sheets? To whom the
common ones? Who should make the underlinen? Where should the mantles be
bought, etc.? All these questions were discussed, weighed, and
considered. Dona Paula gave her opinion; Cecilia affected to
contradict, but in reality what did she care?

Her whole soul was so filled with the thought of her approaching
marriage that her voice trembled with emotion, and she could hardly
speak, while her eyes glowed with rapture, and shone like two fine stars
on a soft summer night.

"How hot it is!" she exclaimed every now and then, putting her hands
upon her flaming cheeks.

Gonzalo assented with an inane smile to what was said, and frequently
changed the position of his long legs, which were cramped from the
lowness of his chair.

When they had discussed the linen of the trousseau, they passed on to
the dresses, and the conversation became more animated, and Cecilia saw
her betrothed without looking at him, and the eyes of Dona Paula, as she
gazed at them both, grew softer and softer, their breath mingled, and
the shoulders of the future bride and bridegroom touched each other.

The soft whispers, the lowered light of the lamp, which scarcely reached
them, the frequent contact with the arm of her beloved, all combined to
fill Cecilia with overwhelming emotion. Quite overcome, she got up two
or three times and kissed her mother warmly; when she did this the third
time, Dona Paula saw what it betokened and, with a compassionate,
smiling glance, said:

"Poor little thing! My poor little thing!"

Cecilia covered her eyes with her hands, and remained so for some time.

"What is the matter?" said Dona Paula at last.

"Nothing, nothing."

But she kept her eyes covered.

"But what is the matter, my daughter?"

"Nothing," she replied at last, taking her hands from her face, and she
smiled, but her eyes were wet.

"I know, I know," returned the mother. "You want the salts; you feel
faint."

"No, I am not faint; I am quite well."

The conversation was then renewed, and Dona Paula expressed her wish
that Gonzalo should come and live with them. This he rather objected to
at first, as he knew his uncle would not like it, nevertheless he ended
by conceding to the entreaties of both ladies. It was so natural that
they should not want to be separated! "You can both be quite
independent, I will take care of that. There is the large room, the blue
one, you know, Cecilia; it has a large alcove; then you only want the
study for Gonzalo. But I have thought of that. Just by the large room
there is the wardrobe-room, that opens on the courtyard; it is nice and
light. It is all in disorder now, but, with a little trouble, it could
be turned into a very nice room. Would you like to see it, Gonzalo?"

The young man replied that it was not necessary, that he believed all
she said, and that he had as good as seen it; but the lady insisted on
it, and, taking a flat candlestick, she escorted him to the other end of
the house.

"This is the room--large, is it not? Two windows. The alcove is large
enough for two beds, let alone for one," she added, with a glance at her
daughter, who turned aside to shut a window.

"Let us go and see the wardrobe-room--"

And leaving the apartment, crossing a passage, and turning round a
corner, they entered another room full of cupboards and lumber.

"Don't mind about the distance, for it is really next to the large room;
it only wants a door of communication to be made between."

Gonzalo turned to his intended and said softly:

"Why does not mama thee and thou me as your papa does? Ask her from
me--I do not like to."

Then Cecilia approached her mother's ear and said in a soft voice, which
trembled with shyness:

"Gonzalo would like you to thee and thou him."

"What do you say, child?" asked Dona Paula, putting her hand to her ear.

Cecilia, with a great effort, raised her voice a little:

"Gonzalo asks why you do not thee and thou him as papa does?"

"Ah! I am glad the suggestion comes from him, otherwise I should not
have ventured. Very well, then, when a door is made here in the wall,
you will be able to go from the large room into this one without
crossing the passage--do you like the room? Is it large enough?"

"Too large; my business at the present moment does not require much
space."

Cecilia looked anxious, as if something were on her mind. She opened her
mouth several times as if about to speak, and then lacked courage. At
last, after a long pause, she ventured to say:

"One thing is wanting, mama."

"What?"

The girl hesitated, as if to gain courage, and then, in a trembling
voice, she said:

"There is no dressing-room for Gonzalo."

"That's true. I never thought of that. Where was my head? There is no
room about here--wait a moment--wait. We might put the pantry
downstairs, and then there would be that little room, which, nicely
furnished, would perhaps do. The only thing is, it does not communicate
with the other rooms; he will have to cross the passage."

"What does that matter?"

They then returned to the dining-room, and to the same seats in the
corner. Presently Venturita came in, in a white peignoir, cut so as to
show her alabaster throat and part of her beautiful neck; her hair hung
loose over her shoulders, and her feet were shod with gorgeously
embroidered Eastern slippers. She came to say "Good-night" before
retiring to rest, and, approaching her mother, she gave her a kiss,
making teasing faces at her sister the while, which Gonzalo could not
see.

"Well, good-night," she said, giving Gonzalo her hand.

"Good-night," he returned, with an admiring glance, and in a tone of
admiration not unnoticed by the girl.

She was just going away when a coquettish feeling made her turn back at
the door and say to Cecilia:

"Where did you put the shoe-horn? I had to come in with slippers, as I
could not find it."

Then she took the opportunity of showing her pretty foot.

"But it is there in the table drawer."

"If you only knew how sleepy I am," she said, advancing a step, and
putting her hand on the head of her sister--"Do you know what I ought to
do for it?" she added, with a smile. Gonzalo looked at her attentively.
She was really a perfect creature; the more he looked at her, the more
he admired her particular charms. Her skin was soft, and shining as
silk; her complexion pink and white; her mouth like a budding rose; her
lips red and full enough to show two rows of even teeth; her hair
golden, silky, and abundant; a drawing-room magazine would say that it
fell over her shoulders like a cascade of sunbeams, or something to that
effect.

Her only imperfection was her height. If she had taken after her mother
in this respect, nobody could have found any fault with her excepting,
perhaps, her friends.

Seeing she was an object of admiration, she went on walking about,
turning herself round to be seen from all sides, posing in affected
attitudes, asking impertinent questions of her sister, then laughing
aimlessly and covering her with kisses, or pinching her unmercifully.

"Let me alone, Venturita; how wild you are to-day!" exclaimed Cecilia,
with her kind, frank smile as she tried to get away from her.

"Go to bed!" said Dona Paula.

"I am going."

But instead of going, she embraced Cecilia again, and, tickling her, she
managed to whisper into her ear:

"How are you enjoying yourself, you rogue? Don't make those large eyes
at him, or you will frighten him. Good-by, good-by, Senores," she said
in a louder voice, "and leave something for to-morrow, eh?"

"What a little silly!" cried Cecilia, blushing.

Dona Paula and Gonzalo smiled, and he said in a low voice:

"What lovely hair!"

Ventura overheard him, and shaking her locks, she said:

"It is false."

They all burst out laughing.

"Don't you believe it?" she asked in a serious tone, and approaching
nearer.

"Pull it, and you will see it will come off in your hand."

The young man did not dare to comply, and continued to smile.

"Pull, pull," she insisted, turning her back to him, and holding her
hair before his face.

Gonzalo raised his hand to the hair, but he only ventured to touch it
caressingly.

"What! it has not come off! That is because it is well tied on."

And she ran out of the room.

The private conclave was prolonged for some time, and many more points
of their future life were touched upon; and as Cecilia listened to her
mother descanting upon what they should do when once they were married,
she could hardly conceal the tremor of emotion that possessed her. She
had taken her mother's hand, and she pressed it and caressed it in a
nervous way; sometimes she raised it to her lips and kissed it
passionately.

Dona Paula looked at her with sympathy, and smiled kindly at the joy
that filled her daughter's heart.

The clock in the dining-room struck half-past twelve.

"Oh, how late! What will Don Rosendo say?"

"He never goes to bed before this time," replied Cecilia.

"Yes; but you know he takes some time to lock up," returned Dona Paula.

Cecilia was silent. Gonzalo shook hands with them warmly, promising to
come the following day. Then he went to Senor Belinchon's study to take
leave of him.

The mother and daughter went on talking in the same corner on the same
theme, the former being the object of countless embraces and fervent
kisses.

"These are not for me," said the lady, in a tone of mingled joy and
sadness.

"Yes, mama; yes!" replied the girl, embracing her with still greater
effusion.

In the meanwhile Don Rosendo was bringing the arduous and complicated
task of locking and bolting the doors and windows to a successful
termination.

He was not contented with locks and iron bars, but, to insure the
non-violation of the sanctuary of his dwelling during the night, the
rich merchant was in the habit of gumming pieces of paper over all the
locks. These he examined carefully in the morning, to be quite certain
that nobody had tampered with them. Then he put various bottles and pots
upon the doorstep, so that if thieves came they would fall over them.




CHAPTER VI

THE CHIEF RESIDENTS OF SARRIO AT THEIR CLUB


Don Melchor de Las Cuevas rose from the table, lighted a cigar and,
offering one to his nephew, said:

"Let us go and have coffee."

Gonzalo was about to put the cigar in his pocket, not having hitherto
been permitted to smoke in his uncle's presence; but the old man touched
his arm, saying:

"Light it, my boy, light it; you are not a yunker now."

So the young fellow took out a match and began puffing at the Havana
with enjoyment, and the men then left the house together, and proceeded
slowly down the street with the air of utter comfort worn by
powerful-looking men after a heavy meal. They were as silent and
majestic as two magnificent cedars unrustled by a breeze. The women at
work in their doorways looked after them with interest and admiration.

"Who's the young man with Don Melchor?"

"What! don't you know? 'Tis his nephew, Senor Gonzalo, who arrived last
night in the 'Bella Paula.'"

"He is a fine, strapping fellow."

"Like his father, Don Martos, God rest his soul."

"And like his grandfather, Don Benito," added an old woman. "What a
noble, fine-looking family they are!"

At the top of a street which commanded a view to the sea, Senor de las
Cuevas stopped a minute to cast his eye over the waters.

"Fine weather at sea! a slight breeze coming up! Do you see them?" he
added, with an expression of triumph after a minute.

"What?"

"The launches, man, the launches. Don't you see them?"

"I see nothing," returned Gonzalo, fixing his eyes on the horizon.

"You are just as you were; you see nothing but the soup in your plate,"
said the uncle, with a sarcastic smile.

The Cafe de la Marina was already full of people. The clatter of
conversation and disputes, the clink of the glasses, the ring of the
domino pieces on the marble table, made a deafening noise. The place was
situated in the small square formed by the junction of the Rua Nueva
with the harbor, and one side of the house looked on to the sea. Most
of the captains and pilots who stopped at Sarrio on their cruises
resorted thither, as did the majority of the residents, who, without
being sailors, had a partiality for what was maritime.

The entrance of our friends was hailed with delight from different
tables. Don Melchor was the most popular and the most highly respected
frequenter of the cafe.

He had to greet all the assembled company, and take Gonzalo up to each
of them.

The jolly fellows were all delighted with the young man, and wrung his
hand almost to dislocation, while they were eager and hearty in their
offers of a glass of wine or maraschino; and when this was refused on
the plea of taking coffee upstairs, a profound gloom overspread their
countenances.

As a matter of fact, Don Melchor was accustomed to have his coffee in
the small saloon, which was a room on the first floor of the house,
communicating with the cafe by an iron staircase, which the uncle and
nephew finally ascended.

There the chief residents of the town were congregated, seated on a
circular sofa, with little Japanese tables in front of them, on all of
which coffee was served.

Through one of the doors, which was generally left open, could be seen
the billiard room, where the same people always played, with the same
on-lookers. When Don Melchor and his nephew entered a project was in
course of discussion for keeping the poor women who sell vegetables and
milk from intemperance.

And Gonzalo recollected that on a certain occasion, when he came thither
to see his uncle before going to England, the same matter was then under
discussion. The themes varied little in that assembly. The town
continued its tranquil even course in the midst of its daily work. The
only events that occasionally shook it from its lethargy were the
arrival or departure of some important ship, the death of a well-known
person, a dishonored bill, the paving of some street, the tax on some
merchandise, the lightering of contraband goods, or the bad state of the
harbor.

The women and young people were too much taken up with their own affairs
to trouble about outside matters. But the arrival of any handsome young
stranger caused a great sensation among the marriageable girls; and if
any young man walked for the first time with Margarita at the Promenade,
it was looked upon as a settled affair; if Severino of the ironmongery
administered a beating to his wife, what could she expect after marrying
such a drunken fellow? and the dress that a certain young girl wore on
the Day of Our Lady made quite an excitement.

"You say it came from Madrid! What Madrid? Why, I saw it cut out at
Martina's myself!"

The subscription dance announced at the Lyceum formed a great topic of
discussion.

"I don't believe there will be a ball; the young men fight too shy of
expense."

But the grave elders who frequented the Club despised these themes,
albeit they sometimes condescended to touch upon them.

Gonzalo had seen Don Rosendo, Don Mateo, Don Pedro Miranda, and the
mayor the previous evening. But Gabino Maza, Don Feliciano Gomez, M.
Delaunay, the French engineer, Alvaro Pena, Marin, Don Lorenzo, Don
Agapito, and five or six other men whom he had not yet seen, were there,
and they all rose to embrace the young man.

Don Pedro Miranda, whom we have already mentioned, was a man
considerably past seventy, small and insignificant looking, with a
smooth bald head, large solemn eyes, and of a retiring disposition.

He was the richest landowner in the place, and no titled person in the
town could have been a better representative of the aristocracy, in
virtue of his own descent from an old family of landowners.

To this distinction, however, he attached but small importance. He was
an unpretentious, courteous man, who consorted with all his neighbors
regardless of his superior rank; and he was always extremely particular
not to allude to money, or to be in any wise dictatorial or antagonistic
to anybody.

But if he entirely waived the respect due to his birth, he was very
jealous of his rights as a landowner.

Never was there a proprietor more proprietary than Don Pedro Miranda.

The institutions of ancient as well as modern law, the universities, the
army and navy, the political constitution, and religion itself had no
other excuse for existence in his eyes but that of contributing,
directly or indirectly, to the preservation of his seignorial rights.

The marvelous microcosm of the universe was designed for the support of
his indisputable claim to the full possession of Praducos, a hamlet two
miles from the town, and to his right of an annual fee of a hundred and
fifty ducats in consideration of his title to the land at the mouth of
the river.

This very clear sense of his rights engendered, from very excess of
clearness, several disputes. A laborer would come to him and say:

"Senor, Joaquim the martin-breeder cut to-day some of the branches of
your walnut tree which hung over into his garden."

"But the walnut tree was mine," exclaimed Don Pedro, crimson with rage
and surprise.

"Yes, senor, but it hung over into his garden."

"What! The fellow dared to touch anything which is _mine_--_mine_!"

Thereupon a little lawsuit ensued, which, of course, he lost. He lost
dozens of these lawsuits in the course of his life, without growing any
wiser on the subject.

Don Roque de la Riva, the mayor of Sarrio, whom we had the honor of
comparing, when we first saw him at the theatre, to a courtier of the
time of Louis XV, or a coachman of some great house, was not
distinguished for clearness of speech, for it was so indistinct and
confused that his interlocutors had great difficulty in understanding
him. We do not know whether the mutilation of his words took place in
his mouth, throat, or nose, but it is a fact that they usually came
forth transformed into such mysterious, vague, chaotic utterances that
they were completely unintelligible. More especially was it impossible
to talk with him after dinner, and this for no other reason, according
to report, than because Don Roque would insist on patronizing a wine
called Rivero, so strong that nobody could touch it without fear of
getting intoxicated.

This head of the corporation used to leave home every afternoon,
apparently alone, but in reality with an escort. His enormous shaven
face was very red, and the color was accentuated in his huge Roman nose;
his eyes, bloodshot and half closed, as if unable to bear the weight of
his eyelids, looked slowly into every corner of the street with an
expression of physical comfort; his ponderous, slow, vacillating step
showed the sympathetic state between his psychical and physical
faculties. Don Roque only had to come across some official, sweeper,
watchman, or stone-breaker of the municipality to make his enjoyment
complete.

When from afar he espied one, his eyelids were quickly raised and his
nostrils quivered like those of a tiger at approach of prey. Suppose the
fellow, scenting the approach of the tiger, passed into another street
or tried to hide himself! Don Roque shouted to him, with a voice of
thunder:

"Juan, Juaan, Juaaan!"

The victim heard and bowed his head.

"Have you taken the message to Don Lorenzo?"

"Yes, senor."

"Have you told the secretary that he must let the matter of the cemetery
stand over?"

"Yes, senor."

"Have you taken the documents to the petty court of San Martin?"

"Yes, senor."

"Have you told Don Manuel that he must take away that rubbish in front
of his house?"

In fact, he went on asking questions until the poor official came to a
negative answer.

Then the loud voice of the mayor was heard all down the street, and even
to the end of the town; his eyes became more inflamed, and his
apoplectic face grew quite alarming. It was impossible to understand
what he said. His ejaculations alone would have made his discourse
incomprehensible, but these were enunciated in such a chaotic fashion
that the "h" alone was distinguishable.

The scolding never lasted less than fifteen or twenty minutes; he
required no less time to let off the superfluous spleen which had
accumulated since the previous afternoon. Just as there are people who
put their fingers down their throats in the morning to make themselves
ill, so Don Roque was not happy until he had had this ebullition of
wrath. He had only one interjection in his vocabulary, but this he used
in such abundance that quantity atoned for quality.

The neighbors came out of their doors to hear him, but with a smile on
their faces, as if accustomed to such scenes.

"Don Roque is giving it hot to-day," said one to another in a loud
voice.

"See how Juan is behaving." In fact, every time the mayor turned his
back the clerk put up his thumb and made a long nose at him.

Don Roque liked to come upon a road-sweeper or a stone-breaker at his
work. For he would cautiously approach him from behind and, catching him
by the collar, exclaim:

"Ah! so that's the way you sweep, is it!--ah! Do you think I pay you to
leave half the dirt between the stones?--ah! Is this gratitude?--ah! It
is shameful!--ah!"

Once the zeal for his office led him to seize the broom and give the man
an object-lesson in the art of sweeping.

The townsfolk, the few passers-by in the street, and also some young
ladies whom the noise had brought to a window went into fits of
laughter. The sweeper himself, in spite of his awkward position, could
not help smiling at the energy with which the figure, with its
coat-tails flying, made erratic and angry dashes at the ground.

"Is that the way you sweep?--ah!" (Terrible bang with the broom.) "That
is the way--ah!" (another bang). "That is the way to sweep!--ah!"

Not until worn out, heated, and nearly falling from fatigue, did the
mayor hand back the broom, and take up his tasseled stick again.

Having thus relieved his noble heart of the superfluous ah's which
weighted it, he resumed his way, and arrived at the Club in a very happy
state of body and mind.

Gabino Maza was a man of about five-and-forty years of age, a naval
officer who had retired some years before from the service, his
ungovernable temper being unable to brook professional discipline.

He had an olive complexion, and small bright eyes, with dark lines
underneath which showed his bilious temperament. He was tall, wiry, and
masculine, and his hair and beard were of a blue-black hue; his gestures
were always nervous and violent; his voice was indefinable, sometimes
quiet, but when he was at all agitated, which was almost always the case
when he began to speak, it was loud and shrill, and of such a discordant
falsetto that it was deafening.

With his little income, and a tiny pension, he was able to support his
family in Sarrio with the comfort of a gentleman at ease, which in the
capital of the province would have been impossible.

A born disputant, he brought into every question, trivial as it might
be, an amount of passion and violence that was truly alarming, so
anxious was he to contradict whatever was said, although it might be as
clear as noonday. He judged people in such a severe and pessimistic
spirit that he never believed in the pure motive of a kind action,
however noble and honorable it might seem; and his spite and malignity
bordered on madness. Nevertheless, this man was not so much disliked by
his neighbors as might have been expected. The intimacy of a village or
little town gives greater scope for learning the true character of each
individual than is possible in large places, where a merely superficial
intercourse may permit many cold, selfish, bad-tempered men to disguise
their true selves with a sympathetic veneer, and polite words, courteous
manners, and an insinuating smile win the encomium, "nice, agreeable
sort of a person."

But in the country that all goes for naught, and, on the contrary,
excessive amiability and very sweet smiles excite distrust. The
character of everybody is as ruthless and as minutely examined as if it
were a bundle of nerves under the dissector's knife; so that many people
are hated who seemed at first attractive; and others liked who were at
first sight considered aggressive, hard, and violent.

Dissimulation, so much practised in great towns, is never tolerated in
the provinces, albeit it is the prevailing vice of all social
relationships. Quick tempers and excitable natures do not arouse
mistrust, as they are at least "clear and aboveboard." There is always a
sense of justice in such people which, distorted and overbalanced by
passion as it may be, does not make them disliked. Besides, as quick
temper and excitability are a constant cause of self-suffering and
discomfort, both physical and moral, it is justly considered that men of
this temperament reap their own retribution.

Gabino Maza was neither disliked nor very much liked; those who were
offended by him grumbled at him and kept him at a distance, terming him
a malignant, sharp-tongued fellow; and the others laughed at his
exaggerated style, and enjoyed a conversation with him without
professing any great regard for him.

Another of the characters frequenting this cafe was Don Feliciano Gomez,
a retail merchant in ultramarine goods, and also the owner of three or
four vessels and several smacks which traded along the Biscayan coast,
the largest sometimes going even as far as Seville. He was of middle
height; his head, destitute of hair, was pyramidal in form; his waxed
mustaches were turned up to his nose, and his voice was almost always
hoarse. He was a cheerful, kind, optimistic sort of fellow; he was a
confirmed bachelor, and lived with his three elder sisters, whom he had
made real "senoras" by dint of his own hard work and economy. The reward
they gave him, according to public report, was to keep him in hand like
a child, admonish his slightest faults, and worry and torment him in
every imaginable way. Nevertheless, he was never heard to utter a single
word of complaint against them.

M. Delaunay, the Belgian engineer, arrived at Sarrio a few years before
our story opens, with the object of managing a mining district for an
imposing English company. The working was a failure, and the company
deprived him of his post and his pay. But Delaunay, who was a born
speculator, undertook seven or eight other commercial enterprises. First
he started a manufactory of paper, then one of French nails, then he
conceived the idea of cultivating oysters, then he tried a cheese
factory, and ice factory; and finally he thought of turning to account
some large, uncultivated tracts of land near Sarrio.

All the enterprises had failed without anybody knowing why. Delaunay was
certainly intelligent, clear-headed, and industrious. He was complete
master of every trade that he entered into; he ordered all the apparatus
from England, set it up, and it worked well and produced very
satisfactory results. He attributed his failures to the lack of means of
transport. The last of his famous enterprises, which died before it came
into practise, brought more discredit on him than any other.

In one of his excursions in the environs of the town he noticed close to
a little river some uncultivated land, which he thought could easily,
with a little trouble, be cultivated; he computed its value, drew out a
plan, and when, a few months later, he found himself compelled to close
the ice factory and to dismiss the workmen, he recollected this low land
and mentioned it to Don Rosendo Belinchon, Don Feliciano Gomez, and two
West Indians, so that they might aid him in his grand scheme. They
replied that it would be necessary to see the district, and an
expedition was arranged. One morning they set off on horseback, and took
the direction of the river Orleo, six miles from Sarrio. Arriving there,
they left the horses and ascended the hill on foot, from whence they
could see the marsh land.

What was Delaunay's shame and confusion, when he saw the tract that he
intended to cultivate covered with maize, beautifully green and
flourishing. In fact, it had been under cultivation for more than six
years; and his mistake arose from having seen it in December, when it
dies down.

The party returned to the town, and one can imagine what a joke was made
of the incident.

He was ruined at last, and he found himself obliged to live in a
wretched fashion.

But his rage for speculation increased instead of being dampened by
failure, and this to such a degree that there was not a single
capitalist in Sarrio whom he had not tried to inveigle into some of his
enterprises.

At one time it was a road to the capital, another a port of refuge, or
stone moles, and another time a grand hotel. Some West Indians,
certainly only a few, fell victims to his persuasions, and paid for
their innocence with the loss of some thousands of pesetas.

However, Delaunay was a man of talent, and studious, and he was well
informed in all the improvements of science, so to depreciate him would
be injustice.

The harbor-master, Alvaro Pena, a young fellow thirty years of age,
dark, with large black eyes, and a mustache like King Victor Emmanuel's,
was noted for his profound, implacable hatred against the ecclesiastical
profession, and all who represented it, even to his own brother.

Without any taste for science or literature, he owned a rather extensive
library, consisting exclusively of books against religion and its
ministers. He was a contributor to two or three periodicals, known by
their anti-clerical opinions; and it was said that he had been occupying
himself for some years past collecting data for a book that he thought
of publishing under the title "Religion, the Most Retrograde of
Sciences," of which several of his acquaintances had been introduced to
different portions. He was cheerful and straightforward, and loved
stories and jokes in which some priest or monk played the chief part.

Don Jaime Marin, the owner of four hundred acres of land which, with the
tax, realized six thousand pesetas, would have been a great scoundrel, a
fast, bad man, if he had not had Dona Brigida for a wife. This important
lady managed, with laudable energy, to prevent her husband ruining the
whole family, and being turned out of doors. Before he finished making
ducks and drakes of the property she succeeded in depriving him
judicially of its control, and having it made over to her.

It is not easy to describe the firmness with which Dona Brigida took the
reins of management. No Roman patrician was ever imbued with a greater
sense of the _sui juris_ of the sacred rights with which "the city" had
invested her. From the time of this occurrence Don Jaime, who was then
over fifty years of age, dropped into being a mere _thing_ in her hands,
according to the law's decree. In his character of _alieni juris_ he had
to submit to the direct and constant sway of his lord and master, and to
bow in all ways to her universal will.

Farewell to sumptuous suppers of shellfish and Rueda wine in the Cafe de
la Marina! Farewell to hunting the hare with Fermo the butcher and
Mercelino the engraver! Farewell to delightful nights of tresillo!
Farewell to afternoons of peace and happiness on the lake of Sebastian
de la Puente! Farewell! The obdurate lady put three pesetas in his hand
every Sunday, neither more nor less. It was all the pocket money he had
to spend on his pleasures for the week, with the exception of smoking,
which she took in hand herself, buying the cigars and all. When he
required a hat, she bought it for him; when he needed a suit of clothes,
or a pair of boots, she told the tailor or shoemaker to call and
measure him. She even prevented his going to the barber's for fear he
should spend the two reales, and so the barber came on Saturdays to
shave him. It sometimes happened that the barber came when Don Jaime was
still asleep.

"What am I to do?" he asked of Dona Brigida.

"Shave him," returned the inexorable senora.

Obedient to the command, the barber approached the bedside, covered the
face with soap and quietly shaved Don Jaime while still half asleep, and
on his finally rousing himself, he said to the servant who brought him
his chocolate:

"To-day is Saturday; let the barber be brought."

"You ass, you silly, that no priest can shrive," replied his sweet
consort from her room, "don't you see you are shaved already?"

"Ah so I am," returned the good senor, feeling his face.

At first he asked his friends or acquaintances at the cafe for money
with which to play tresillo, and he drank coffee on trust at the cafe.
But the friends soon left off obliging him, and the proprietor of the
establishment declined to even trust him for a peseta, for Dona Brigida
almost knocked him downstairs when he one day brought her a bill for a
hundred and twenty reales.

So Don Jaime was reduced to spending hours in watching the game of
tresillo and in giving advice to the players, which was not wanted. The
winners sometimes rewarded him with a glass of rum.

He occasionally played drafts with Don Lorenzo, but as the latter
declined to play "for love," Marin had to find something to play for
which was not money. He finally decided to have for a stake one of the
cigars that his wife gave him in the morning; when he lost it, he had to
spend the evening without smoking; sometimes, trying to get his revenge,
he lost two or three more, and so he had to hand them over to his
opponent on the ensuing days. In the meanwhile he went from friend to
friend begging a little tobacco to appease his insufferable longing for
a smoke. Poor Marin!

Dona Brigida could never succeed in making him retire to rest early. He
had spent so many years in being up till four or five in the morning
that it was now impossible to break the habit. As, when he was kept at
home, he never went to bed until dawn, and as he spent the night in
wandering about the rooms, and the bad habit of being up at night by
one's self is very inexpensive, the ingenious senora let him retire to
rest at what hour he liked. He remained at the Cafe de la Marina with
the latest customers, and when these had gone he waited while the
servants put away the china and glass, and the proprietor was ready to
shut up. When he was literally sent off from the establishment, he
withdrew to the Rua Nueva, where he sat with his friend the watchman,
and, chatting with him, passed the hours before dawn.

Don Lorenzo, Don Agapito, Don Pancho, Don Aquilino, Don German, and Don
Justo were _Indians_. That is to say, they were people who had been sent
as children to the West Indians by their parents to earn their living,
and they had returned between fifty and sixty years of age with fortunes
varying from one hundred and fifty to half a million pesetas. There were
more than fifty of these Indians in Sarrio. The hard work and the long
state of self-suppression in which they had lived made their ideas of
happiness quite different to ours. We find pleasure in a constant change
of amusement, in going about and traveling, and enjoying with both body
and mind the beautiful variety of things of nature.

But these West Indians looked for nothing more than exemption from the
hard law imposed by God on Adam after his fall; and, in truth, they gave
themselves up to this peculiar delight. The majority of them had their
money invested in government funds, so they had their incomes without
any trouble. They were early risers from force of habit, and they
paraded the streets or the mole every morning in parties of six or
eight. They watched the arrival and departure of boats, and the loading
and unloading of cargoes. After dinner, they retired to the Cafe de la
Marina, or to that of La Amistad, and spent three or four hours
watching or joining in the game of billiards.

"Go, little ivory ball, go into that pocket! See, see, Don Pancho, it
has cannoned." "Come out, my little dear, come out of that pocket." "Ah!
ah! well played, Don Lorenzo!" "Did it not go well, Pancho?"

The game was always seasoned with these remarks, which went on without
pause.

When the days were long, these West Indians were seen in parties about
the environs of the town, either walking, or seated on the grass on the
banks of a stream. That was the hour of reminiscences of the tropics.

"Do you recollect, Don Agapito, do you recollect that little dark
creature who came to you for a place in the shop?"

"And how well she sang, the little rogue!"

"They said you were smitten with her, quite smitten, Don Agapito."

"How now, Don Pancho--why, she only went to the blacks' ball with the
<DW64> of my partner, Don Justo?"

"Get along, man, don't annoy me; the one who went to the ball was
yourself; I saw you sportive enough with her in the country dance."

There was no counting on this West Indian clique for subscriptions for
the orchestra, theatre, or any public amusement. The young people of
the town had to apply to the purses of their fathers, for they knew it
was useless to expect American money to be forthcoming, which roused
such indignation among the young people that they called them stingy
fellows, boors, and money-laden asses to their faces as well as behind
their backs. But the Indians were thick-skinned, and treated such terms
with contempt. The one who professed an open aversion to them (and for
whom did he not entertain it?) was Gabino Maza.

Why should these fifty idlers spend their days dawdling about the
streets? If they would only devote their money to some industry
profitable to the place!

When Don Melchor de las Cuevas and his nephew entered the saloon, the
only person standing and gesticulating in the middle of the place was
this same Gabino Maza.

He could not remain seated two minutes; the excitement of his nervous
system, the vehemence with which he tried to convince his audience,
obliged him to jump from his seat and dash into the centre of the room,
where he shouted and gesticulated until he had exhausted his breath and
his strength. He was talking of the theatrical company, which had
announced its departure on account of having lost in the receipts of
thirty performances.

Maza was trying to prove that there had not been such losses and it was
all make-up.

"It is not true; it is not true. He who says he has lost a copper,
lies!" (Then lowering his voice and giving his hand to Gonzalo.) "How
are you, Gonzalo? Yes, I know you arrived yesterday. You are all right.
I am glad of it. I repeat, that he lies! Why, they don't dare to tell me
so!"

"They have lost six thousand reals in the thirty performances, according
to the account that the baritone has given me," said Don Mateo.

Maza ground his teeth. His indignation impeded his speech. At last he
burst out:

"And you listen to that drunkard, Don Mateo? Get along! get along!"
(With assumed disdain.) "By dint of consorting with comic players you
have lost your head for business. You have got rusty."

"Listen to me, you blusterer. I did not say I believed him. I said that
was what the baritone's calculations came to."

Maza leaped up, and returned to the centre of the room, tore his hat
violently from his head with both hands, and, waving it frantically, he
vociferated:

"But, senor; but, senor! We seem to be made fools of here! Well, you
tell me what has become of twenty thousand and more reals which the
receipts came to, and almost as much again for admissions paid at the
door?"

"The salaries have very much increased," said the harbor-master.

"You are not drunk, by Gad, Alvaro! You are not drunk--I will tell you
in a minute what the salaries are" (counting on his fingers.) "The
tenor, six crowns; the treble, another six; that's twelve; the bass,
four; that's sixteen; the contralto, three; that's nineteen; the
baritone, four--"

"The baritone, five," interrupted Pena.

"The baritone, four," persisted Maza in a rage.

"I am certain it is five."

"The baritone, four!" roared Maza again.

Alvaro Pena now rose in his turn, fired with the noble desire of getting
the better of his opponent, and then ensued a hot and furious dispute,
which lasted about an hour, and all, or nearly all, the members of that
gathering of celebrities joined in. Such a battle resembled the famous
engagements that took place between the Greeks before the walls of Troy;
there was the same fury and heat, the same primitive simplicity in the
arguments, and the same candid, rough violence in the invectives.

"You are an addle-headed blunderer!"

"Hold your tongue; you are a ruffian!" "You are a bellowing ox!" "I tell
you it is not true, and if you want it plainer, you lie!" "Goodness,
what a goose! You are like a silly woman."

These altercations were very frequent, almost daily incidents at the
Club. As all those who took part in them had a straightforward,
perfectly primitive way of dealing with questions, similar, not to say
equal, to that adopted by the heroes of Homer, the argument started at
the beginning of the dispute continued until the end. There was a man
who would spend an hour incessantly saying: "One has no right to meddle
with anybody's private life!" or "That may do in Germany, but not here
in Spain!"

Then cries briefer, and more to the point, such as "windbags!"
"windbags!" filled the air until the crier collapsed on the sofa with
exhaustion.

But what the arguments lost in variety they gained in intensity, for
they were expressed with great and forcible energy, and in tones raised
to such a pitch that some of the voices became quite hoarse, which was
generally the case with Alvaro Pena and Don Feliciano, who had the
loudest voices, but the weakest throats. When the Corporation had the
trees of the Promenade de Riego trimmed, it caused a commotion in the
Club; when the clerk of the House of Gonzalez and Sons decamped with
fourteen thousand reals, it caused another heated discussion; when the
parish priest declined to give a certificate of good conduct to the
pilot Velasco, Alvaro Pena burst a blood vessel in his excitement. But
no bad feeling remained after these violent scenes were over, neither
were the personal remarks recollected that the discussions gave rise
to.

How could it be otherwise, since there seemed to be a tacit
understanding that none of the ungracious epithets were to be resented?
The local character of the subjects was unique. Politics were little
studied in Sarrio; it was only when the papers noticed some event of
great importance that the inhabitants of the place took a passing
interest in them.

Twenty years ago the rich banker, Rojas Salcedo, was elected
representative of the place in Parliament, and he paid one visit to
Sarrio to make himself acquainted with the town. Nobody thought of
disputing his election. The presidents and secretaries of the colleges
generally met together, and computed from the Acts the number of votes
that he was entitled to. The reason of this was that Sarrio had always
been a commercial town, where everybody could gain a living without
having recourse to Madrid for government appointments.

The majority of the young men, after having passed two or three years in
some college in England or Belgium, took their places in their fathers'
offices as their future successors; the others, the minority, followed
some military or civil career with a fixed income, and only came
occasionally to pass a few days with their families.

It must, in one word, be confessed that Sarrio was a sleepy place,
dormant amid all the great manifestations of mind, amid all the
regenerating lights of contemporary society; nobody studied the profound
problems of politics, and the terrible controversies engaged in by the
different parties in other places, to gain victory and power, left them
utterly unmoved. In short, in the year of grace, 1860, there was no
public life in Sarrio. They ate, they slept, they worked, they danced,
they played, they paid their taxes, but they were absolutely wanting in
public spirit.

When that evening at the club the dispute had utterly worn them out and
spoiled their digestions, Don Mateo, beaming with delight, announced to
the company that he did not mind about the departure of the dramatic
company, for he had for some days past been arranging a surprise for the
Sarrienses; and after a great deal of trouble the matter was concluded.

He was in treaty with the celebrated Marabini, the phrenologist, the
prestidigitator; probably Tuesday, yes, Tuesday or Wednesday, they would
moreover be able to admire his wonderful skill at the theatre; he would,
moreover, bring with him some dissolving views and a tame wolf.

Gonzalo meanwhile had left the billiard-room and was looking at half a
dozen West Indians playing at chapo. When they struck the ball all the
gold seals that hung from their enormous gold chains rang like bells.
These chains and these seals were the greatest inducement and the chief
bait that the artisans of Sarrio used to persuade their sons to go to
Cuba.

"Fool! and you could come back in a few years with a fine cloth coat, a
well-got-up shirt-front, patent boots, and a watch-chain like Don
Pancho's!"

This last inducement was too much for any lad.

"Will it go seven times round my neck, dear father?"

"Yes, boy, yes; and you will have pencil cases and seals hanging on to
it."

And so with their heads full of the prize the poor fellows went off on
the "Bella Paula," the "Carmen," the "Villa de Sarrio," or any other
sailing vessel, to perish with yellow fever or hunger, lured to
destruction by the glitter of the trumpery jewelry like the voices of
the terrible Lorelei.

The gestures of the Indians while at billiards being those of people
unaccustomed to restrain and compose their feelings, were strange and
funny, and a source of delight to the young men of the place, whose
antipathy to the West Indians was always shown in making fun of them.
Who tapped upon the floor while the balls were running like Don Benito?
Who bent from one side to another, and twisted and contorted himself as
if the destination of the ball depended upon his movements, like Don
Lorenzo? And who could equal Don Pancho, who was little and fat, almost
square, in his way of sinking in a heap on the sofa after having struck
a ball, to better see the havoc he had made on the table? Occasionally
one of them addressed a word of impatience to the fellow: "Get up, my
boy; don't excite yourself!"

Don Feliciano Gomez took a seat by Gonzalo, who soon wearied of his
good-tempered, superficial conversation, which he always accompanied by
an affectionate poke in the ribs at every instant.

"When is the great day to be, Gonzalino? Soon, eh? You know I am longing
to see you with your young lady on your arm, going to high mass! All
right, my dear; all right; go and be happy. At home, the girls [it was
thus he always termed his old sisters] don't leave me a moment's peace;
since yesterday it is: 'When is Gonzalino going to be married? Don't
forget to ask him!' Well, the poor things have known you ever since you
were born. There is nothing like matrimony for a peaceful, contented
life. You will say, 'That being so, why have you not married yourself,
Don Feliciano?' Listen my boy, why should I marry, when I can live happy
as a bachelor? What do I want? I have a home, with two dear girls who
take the utmost care of me, whom I adore----

(Poor fellow! report in the place gave quite another version.)

"And so I have nothing to complain of--is it not so, my boy? Certainly,
when I was young I had other ideas, but, as years go by, one ceases to
think of them. Look here, if any one said to me now: 'Feliciano, would
you like to go back twenty years?' Bah! let another dog have that bone.
The best age for a man is fifty. Don't you doubt it, Gonzalino. It is
then that one can eat and sleep in peace. Is there a young woman that is
worth a dish of sardines freshly fried?

"But they have to be fried just before they are eaten; if fried during
the soup, they are not worth a brass farthing. Or a lobster with fresh
draft cider? Doesn't it make your mouth water, my boy? And now you are
going to be married, and there will be a kissing and 'my darling' here
and 'my love' there--is it not so? Well, well, as things go it is a good
thing. The girl is of good family. Don Rosendo is rich--you are doing
well, doing well, my boy. But, I say, why don't you marry the little
one, Venturita, who is pretty? I don't say that the elder one is ugly,
but there is no doubt that the younger one is more attractive; she is
just like a rosebud. What roguish eyes! what teeth! what gracefulness!
But if you are engaged to the other sister, I have nothing to say. But
what comes up to prettiness! And it would be the same family--"

These remarks made a strange impression upon Gonzalo. It was the
formulation of what he had vaguely felt in an uncomfortable way ever
since the previous evening. Yes, it was quite true, what beautiful eyes,
how mischievous, and yet how candid! What an alabaster skin! What lips,
what teeth, what golden hair! Cecilia, poor thing, was plainer than when
he went away and less attractive. How was it possible that she had taken
his fancy? Gonzalo had, in fact, to confess to himself that she had
never taken his fancy as Venturita certainly now had. Why then--?

Well, it was no use asking questions. He was only a lad at the time; he
had not been accustomed to seeing ladies; Cecilia's kindness had
impressed him. Then there was a certain satisfaction in being engaged.
Then the distance which enhances the beauty and increases the value of
things. In fact, everything had combined to bind him to that girl. But,
if only he had seen Venturita sooner! It was better not to think of
that. The affair was too far gone to be retracted. Unlike himself, he
remained a good quarter of an hour pensively looking at the marble balls
without seeing them. Don Feliciano had gone.

At last his healthy, sanguine temperament asserted itself over the
ridiculous fancies that threatened to disturb him. He rose from his
seat, the frown which had momentarily darkened his brow was soon
banished by the genial smile which was his particular attraction. He
shrugged his shoulders with contempt, and that gesture seemed to say: "I
am going to marry the plainer of the De Belinchon girls. Well, and what
then? In any case it would have been with one or the other, unless I
married no one. I want to be happy. It is not necessary for happiness to
come from without; I have it within, in the even temper God has given
me, in the money left me by my parents, in this marvelous health, and in
this ox-like strength."

When he returned to the sitting-room, he found that all the habitues had
been thrown into great perturbation by the news just brought in by
Severino, of the ironmongery shop.

"Don't you know what has happened, sirs?" They all left their seats and
surrounded the store-keeper, who spoke with visible agitation.

"Don Laureano was robbed and assassinated last night."

"What! Don Laureano, who lives in the country house?"

"Yes; he of Las Acenas. They say that, at half past two, or thereabout,
nine masked men entered the house; they knocked the servant down with
sticks, they tied up the senora and the maid-servant, and they killed
Don Laureano. What they must have made them suffer before they gave up
the money! The good man only had twelve thousand reales, and those he
had hidden away, but they tortured the women until they made them
disclose the hiding-place." A shudder of horror went through the
notabilities of Sarrio. They turned as pale as if they had assisted at
that fearful scene.

The house of Las Acenas was a mile from the town, in the solitude of a
pine forest, but nobody took that into account; they imagined themselves
assaulted in their houses in la Rua Nueva or de Caborana and cruelly
assassinated. Oh! what acts of violence! Santo Cristo, what atrocities!

The first moments of surprise that elapsed were followed by remarks in
low voices. The robbers could not be very far off. Such a thing had
never happened before in Sarrio, or its suburbs, in anybody's
recollection. Marin asserted that he had seen some suspicious-looking
men about for some days past. This news gave rise to an inward panic
among the bystanders. They all determined not to go out any more at
night, but this determination they kept to themselves.

The mayor said that, in his opinion, the robbers must have come from
Castile.

"From Castile?"

"Yes, senor; from Castile."

"I have heard my father (who is now in glory) say that in the year 1805,
seventeen men, armed, and on horseback, appeared in Sariego. They
prowled round the place, and finally robbed Don Jose Maria Herrero of
seventy thousand crowns that he had hidden under one of the bricks of
the hearth."

At any other time, the customers of the cafe would have said that
because such an event had happened in the year five, it did not
necessarily imply that the same thing should occur in Las Acenas in the
year sixty, but just then no one felt equal to controverting the
statement.

Then they continued to talk of the event of Las Acenas in subdued tones,
and they seemed all to concur in the wildest, most extravagant ideas.
But as Gabino Maza was never known to agree for more than ten minutes
together to what was said in his presence, he suddenly seized the
opportunity of some very silly remark, made by Don Feliciano Gomez with
the perfect naturalness and modesty that characterized the conversation
of this distinguished merchant, to pounce upon him in a manner as
violent as it was unjustifiable.

"What ridiculous thing will you think of next? What is the good of a
house-to-house visitation? Do you think you are going to find Don
Laureano's money in a heap there?"

"If the money is not found, some trace might be discovered."

"Of what, you dunderhead, of what?"

Then the dispute had full swing. The cries and noise were indescribable.
At last, as usual, nobody could hear anything, nobody could understand
anything. The voices were perfectly audible over the whole Plaza de la
Marina, but the people were so used to it that they did not stop to
listen.




CHAPTER VII

BURGLARS


The notables of Sarrio resolved to abstain from setting foot in the
street at night, therefore the Club, Graell's shop-parlor, and even
Morana's, were all deserted at an early hour. The five or six locksmiths
in the town were given more orders for locks, bolts, iron bars, and
patent keys than they could execute.

The robbers of Las Acenas had not been caught, and every one declared,
with more or less authority, that they were still prowling about the
place, ready to slip in anywhere at some unexpected minute.
Nevertheless, as one gets accustomed to everything, even illness, and
even to the discussions at the atheneum, they became accustomed to the
danger, and again sallied forth of an evening, after taking great
precautions to well lock up their houses.

The first to venture was Marin. As all Dona Brigida's efforts to induce
him to retire to rest at a reasonable hour were of no avail, she let him
go out without any pity.

Don Jaime asked permission to carry under the blue military cloak that
he wore at night an old, short gun kept in the garret, and the
magnanimous senora granted the permission under the condition that he
take it unloaded. Then Alvaro Pena sallied forth, for having a certain
military reputation and being a man of reputed courage, it behooved him
to show bravery at such a critical time.

He carried two saddle pistols in his pockets, and a sword-stick in his
hand.

The mayor, Don Roque, who from time immemorial had repaired to Morana's
with Don Segis, the chaplain of the Augustine convent, and Don Benigno,
the curate of the parish, there to imbibe in the course of the evening
from four to eight quarterns of Rueda wine, could not put up with the
domestic hearth for more than three days; so he also sallied forth into
the town.

The octogenarian official, Marcones, armed with carbine and sword,
accompanied his chief, himself carrying a revolver and a sword-stick.
Don Melchor, Gabino Maza, Don Pedro Miranda, Delaunay, Don Mateo, and
all the others soon followed suit, and repaired to the nocturnal
resorts. The West Indians held out longer. Thus Graell's parlor,
Morana's, and the Club were transformed into veritable arsenals at
nightfall. Each one, on his arrival, put his war accoutrements against
the wall, and on leaving the places they seized them with an intrepid
courage worthy of the Biscayan blood that coursed in the veins of nearly
all of them.

The old-fashioned harquebus stood side by side with the modern repeating
rifle, the cylindrical iron sword by the steel bladed modern
sword-stick, the heavy bronze pistol by the plated revolver. And this
diversity of war accoutrements served to sustain the warlike spirit so
necessary for the occasion.

Certain other measures of great utility had been adopted. The watchmen
had orders not to extinguish any street lamp until twelve o'clock at
night. They were provided with more powerful whistles than the old ones;
and they had orders to keep their eyes on any stranger passing along the
streets at night. The townsfolk wisely agreed among themselves not to
make way on the sidewalk for anybody, as it might not be a friend, and
everybody knows how propitious to criminals the custom of making way on
the sidewalk is. Full of this idea, Don Pedro Miranda and Don Feliciano
Gomez met one night in the Calle de San Florencio. They were both
muffled up in their cloaks, with their swords unsheathed, prepared for
any emergency, when Don Feliciano cried to Don Pedro from afar:

"Well, friend, make way!"

"Bah! bah! make way yourself," returned Don Pedro.

"You are the one to make way," replied the merchant; "make way, make
way."

"Bah, bah, be kind enough to let me pass," returned Senor Miranda.
Neither man budged an inch. They unmuffled themselves and unsheathed
their swords.

"Will you have the kindness?"

"Will you have the goodness?"

Who knows what awful tragedy might not have taken place in Sarrio at
that instant, if they had not recognized each other?

"Does it happen to be Don Feliciano?"

"Is it Don Pedro?"

"Don Feliciano!"

"Don Pedro!"

And rushing to each other, they shook hands with effusion.

"What a fate would have been yours had I not recognized you, Don
Feliciano!" exclaimed Senor Miranda, showing his broad iron sword with
its bone handle.

"And yours would not have been agreeable, Don Pedro!" returned the
merchant, as he made passes in the air with his finely polished Toledo
blade.

One had to go down two steps to enter Morana's shop. The shop was a
confectioner's, although it did not look like it; it was the only
confectioner's in Sarrio. Nowadays there are three, if I am not
mistaken. I say, it did not look like a confectioner's, because church
tapers, wax hands and feet and bodies for votive offerings were sold
there and had gradually become the chief stock in trade instead of a
mere supplementary one; and this was due to the lack of greediness in
the town, which speaks very well for it. It is usual in Spain for the
folk of little villages and towns to be passionately fond of sweets, for
want of the pleasures peculiar to great towns, for, say what one may,
the pleasures of the table even are not equal in small towns to those of
large ones. In the first place, clever cooks are not forthcoming, the
food has not the variety induced by the laws of biology, and the palate
has not risen to the state of culture from a right and just estimate of
the culinary science.

Perhaps it will be remarked: "But the nuns of St. Augustine used to make
sweets." Yes, but we must remember that this manufacture was limited
exclusively to preserves of cherry, quince, pear, and apricot, almond
tart and burrage tart, and a particular sweetmeat shaped like fishes'
fins, called orange flower.

I can only repeat the fact that there are few high livers in Sarrio.
After all, rare as this abstemiousness may be in towns in the interior,
it is common in maritime places, which are known to be less under
ecclesiastical sway. For observation teaches the visitor of the towns
that more sweets are consumed where church services and religious rites
absorb the greater part of life, and where enthusiasm for the religious
sentiment is evinced in nones, masses, confraternities, and canonries,
which shows that there must be some mysterious affinity between
mysticism and sweetmeats.

This branch of Morana's business was exhibited in the shop by two pine
wood cupboards, painted blue, with glass doors at each end of the
counter. In these cupboards there was a fair show of caramels, spiral
cakes, sugar cakes, almond cakes, madeleines, and above all the
celebrated tablets, the renown of which must certainly have reached the
ears of our readers, as it dates from remotest time. The secret of the
magic composition of these tablets we have never been able to discover,
but their fascination was irresistible, and, strange to say, it was
based upon their extraordinary hardness. At the age when Morana's
tablets are eaten, the chief thing is not that the sweets should be
delicate, savory, and exquisite, but that they should last a long time.
It was not easy to get the teeth into them at all, but once in this
stick-jaw paste, the extrication from it presented a really difficult
problem.

Allow me to offer a delicate tribute of affection and gratitude to
these tablets which, from four to eight years of age, constituted the
greatest joy of my existence.

It is perhaps to their sweet influence that the author of this book owes
the optimistic spirit which, according to the critics, shines in his
works.

Morana, daughter and successor of another Morana, who was dead, was a
woman of forty years of age, of a pallid complexion, with gutta-percha
plaisters on her temples for the severe pains in her head.

She married a Juan Chrysostom, who, according to Don Segis, the
chaplain, did not take after his patron saint.

Nevertheless, when he administered corporal punishment to his wife, he
seasoned it with rather a rare amount of learned talk.

"I who love this woman," he exclaimed, as he commenced operations--"I
who love this woman like a wife, and not like a servant, according to
the Apostle Paul's command--you have read the Apostle Saint Paul?--what
right have you to read, you great ass!"

The wine was very good, one can almost say it was the only good thing in
the place, and that was because it did not remain long in the bottle,
for Don Roque, Don Segis, Don Benigno, Don Juan, "the old Salt," and
Senor Anselmo, the cabinet-maker, took care to empty it. It was a white
wine, strong and superior, and it went to one's head with alarming
facility.

The customers of the shop left every night between eleven and twelve,
rather stumbling in their gaits, but silent and quiet, which prevented
any scandal. They sallied forth arm in arm, leaning one against the
other, and they went along without saying a word, albeit with much
puffing and blowing.

Their instinct, which never completely left them, instigated this
prudent behavior, for they knew if they spoke much or little, some
dispute would arise and then a scandal would ensue. Not a word--not a
word; it was better even not to whisper--and when they arrived at their
houses, they murmured a gruff "good-night" and the one left last was Don
Roque, as he lived further away than anybody.

So these venerable men got intoxicated every night in this solemn,
quiet, patriarchal fashion.

Two of them, Don Juan, "the old Salt," the clerk of the harbor-master,
and Don Segis, were reaping the consequences of that course. "The old
Salt" had a nose enough to frighten one. When least expected, the hour
of retribution came for Don Segis, who, seized with an apoplectic fit,
was left with one leg dragging as if a weight of six pounds were tied to
it. It is true that the insatiable chaplain was not contented with his
four quarterns of wine at the confectioner's; he made Morana give him a
glass of gin in each, which greatly added to the expense; if he had six
quarterns of wine, he had six glasses of gin; if eight, eight; and so
on.

The effect of all this gin was evident.

"But, Don Segis, how can you drink so much gin at a time?"

"There is nothing for it," he replied in a tone of humility; "if I did
not take a glass with every quartern, child of my soul, what would
become of me? I should be ill."

The conversations at Morana's were less exciting and thrilling than
those of the Club. Very few things interested these old parties; the
most important local matters, which excited storms in the Club, were
here treated, or rather touched upon, with indifference.

When the Gonzalezes sent off the captain of the "Carmen" and put an
Andalusian in his place, they only said in a quiet tone:

"If the Gonzalezes have done so, they had reasons for doing it," for
they were quite indifferent on the subject.

"It is true," said another, after some time, raising his glass to his
lips.

"Ripalda seems a good fellow," said a third, after five minutes, as he
put his glass down on the counter.

"Yes, he seems so," replied another gravely.

Ten minutes passed in meditation. The customers gave affectionate kisses
to their glasses, which shone like topaz. Don Roque at last broke the
silence.

"There is no manner of doubt that Don Antonio embraced her."

"Embraced her," said Don Juan, "the Salt."

"Embraced her," echoed Don Benigno.

"Embraced her," corroborated Senor Anselmo.

"Really embraced her," added Don Segis in a lugubrious tone.

Their minds were occasionally exercised on the subject of dovecots.
Senor Anselmo and Don Benigno were devotedly attached to this pursuit;
each had his dovecot, his doves, and mode of management, and long and
lively discussions were held occasionally on the subject. The others
listened without daring to give an opinion, as they raised their glasses
to their lips in solemn silence.

The crime of Las Acenas horrified them, but it did not cause as great a
commotion as in the rest of the neighborhood.

At the end of five or six days they returned to their patriarchal
customs, and such was their bravery that the majority left their arms
behind in the shop.

It was nearer one o'clock than twelve when Don Roque, who had exceeded
by three quarterns his usual six, sallied forth with the other five
frequenters of the confectioner's in a serried line to their different
homes.

Marcones closed the file with his gun on his shoulder. The first of the
line was Don Segis, who lived in a little two-windowed house, close to
the Augustine convent; then came Don Juan "the Salt," then the
coadjutor, and finally Senor Anselmo, pulling out the enormous shining
key with which he beat time when he conducted the orchestra, and opened
the apartment where he slept.

The mayor remained with his aide-de-camp. He said something, but his
aide-de-camp did not hear him. They directed their steps toward home,
which was not far off. But before arriving there, Don Roque, who puffed
and blew like a whale, and whose walk was unmistakably like the gait of
that creature, suddenly stopped and gave a long discourse in a loud
voice, of which Marcones caught nothing but the word "robbers" repeated
several times. The official, alarmed, looked all round to see if he
could see anybody while loading his gun, but he saw nothing to give him
reason to suppose that the villains were at hand. Don Roque made another
remark, if such a term can be applied to a series of strange,
intermittent sounds, both horrible and depressing, but Marcones managed
to gather that his chief wished a hunt made in search of the criminals
of Las Acenas. Marcones thought that the force was hardly equal to the
undertaking; but discipline forbade objections. Moreover, he nourished
the hope that few murderers cared about taking the fresh air at such an
hour. So, after a careful examination of their weapons, they took their
dangerous course through all the streets and alleys of the town.

One is in honor bound to state that Don Roque walked in front as the
leader of the valorous enterprise, with his revolver in his left hand,
and his sword-stick in his right, leaving his noble breast a mark for
the enemy's bullet. Marcones, weighed down by the weight of his gun and
his eighty-two years of age, walked six steps behind.

It was a moonlight night, but great black clouds occasionally darkened
the sky, and the light of the petroleum lamps burning at the corners of
the streets was not sufficient to banish the gloom in them.

Sarrio had five chief streets, known respectively as Rua Nueva, which
runs to the harbor; the Calles of Carborana, of San Florencio, of La
Herreria, and of Atras. These streets, long and narrow, run parallel to
each other. The buildings are generally low and poor. Other smaller
streets cross and communicate with the principal ones, and lead to
branch roads where the spacious residences of the West Indians are
built, and which constitute what may be termed the suburb of Sarrio.

As the party was passing through the Calle de Atras, near to that of
Santa Brigida, they heard cries and lamentations, which obliged them to
halt.

"What's that, Marcones?" asked the mayor.

The old official shrugged his shoulders philosophically:

"Nothing, senor; it is at Patina Santa's."

"How dare they commit these enormities? Let us go there. Let us
proceed."

"Let us proceed," was a phrase both used and abused by Don Roque, as it
conveyed his sense of the decision, rapidity, and energy of his
authority to remedy all grievances. Patina Santa was the great high
priest of one of the two temples of pleasure existing in Sarrio, but the
sordid, wretched appearance of these temples was quite unlike the
ancient famous ones of Greece.

"What scandal is this?" cried Don Roque in his stentorian voice as he
approached the miserable dwelling.

Three or four lads in the street flew away like birds at the sight of
the dignitary, but the doves remained.

Two of them stood at the door and two more were at the windows. Those at
the door wished to withdraw at the sight of the mayor, but he caught
hold of them.

"What is this scandal--eh?" he repeated.

The girls began to explain the cause of the commotion, but hardly had
they uttered a word than Don Roque interrupted them, vociferating:

"To prison with you!"

"Senor, I--"

"To the prison--ah! To the prison, away with you all! Be off, everybody!
Where is the ruffian Patina?"

Merciful heavens, what a commotion then ensued!

The girls at the windows had nothing for it but to come downstairs, and
Patina came with them, for Don Roque brooked no delay. Cries and
lamentations filled the air, while the strident voice of the mayor cried
out incessantly:

"To the prison--ah! To the prison--ah!"

The unhappy creatures called on God and the Virgin; but the mayor, with
his infuriated face and flaming eyes, raised his voice still higher as
he deafened himself with his cry:

"To the prison--ah! To the prison--ah!"

There was no help for it.

The watchman, who had approached at the sound of the first ah's, led
them off to the town prison, in attendance on his worthy chief, while
the neighbors watched the scene from behind their window-panes in
mingled compassion and derision.

Don Roque exercised his authority by locking the door of the dovecot
himself, and handed the key over to Marcones, and with the usual
"Proceed," they continued their perilous course. The mayor and his
aide-de-camp had not gone very far when, in one of the narrowest and
dirtiest streets, they espied a man's figure cautiously approaching a
door, which he tried to open.

"Stop!" whispered Don Roque in the ear of his subordinate. "There is one
of the thieves."

The official only caught the last word, but it was enough to make him
drop his gun.

"Don't tremble, Marcones, for there is only one," said the mayor,
seizing him by the arm.

If the venerable Marcones had been at that moment in full possession of
his faculties of observation, he might have detected a decided tendency
to a convulsive movement in the hand of his chief. The thief, hearing
the steps of the patrol, suddenly turned his head and stood motionless,
with his hand still on the door-handle. Don Roque and his companion also
stood motionless, and the moon appearing from under a cloud shed its
light upon the direful scene.

"Hsh! hsh! friend," said the magistrate at the end of some time, without
advancing a step.

The robber heard this exclamation of authority, and took flight at one
and the same moment.

"At him, Marcones! Fire!" cried Don Roque, courageously running in
pursuit of the criminal.

Marcones wished to follow his chief's injunction, but fear made him
helpless.

The trigger fell without emitting a spark. Then, with martial
promptitude, he cast aside the weapon, which was useless, drew his sword
and made valiant efforts to keep pace with the mayor, who, with intrepid
courage, was at least twenty paces in advance, in pursuit of the robber.

The fellow now disappeared round the corner of a street.

But on their arrival there the pursuers saw him attempting to gain the
next.

"Boom!"

Don Roque fired his revolver, crying at the same time:

"Take that, thief!"

He again disappeared, and again they caught sight of him in the Calle de
la Misericordia.

Boom! Another shot from Don Roque.

"Take that, thief!" But the villain, doubtless as a last resource, and
to prevent any watchman stopping him, began also to cry:

"Thieves! Thieves!"

Then the sharp, long whistles of the watchmen were heard, followed by
another and another.

The street of San Florencio was well lighted, and the criminal was
clearly visible, trying to get quickly under the shadow of the houses.

Boom! Boom!

"Take that, thief!"

"Thieves!" returned the fugitive, without ceasing flight.

Two watchmen joined the column of attack, and ran, brandishing their
pikes, by the side of the mayor.

The thief seemed, at all cost, anxious to reach the Rua Nueva, so as to
gain the harbor, where he could secure himself in a boat, or cast
himself into the water. But before arriving there he stumbled and fell
prostrate on the ground. Thanks to this accident, the patrol gained upon
him considerably, and had almost reached him when the villain jumped up
with great celerity and flew off swifter than the wind. Don Roque fired
off the last two shots of his revolver, still crying:

"Take that, thief!"

He disappeared round the corner of the Rua Nueva. Arrived there, the
magistrate and his force, now near the Plaza de la Marina, saw no sign
of the criminal anywhere. They took a few hesitating steps on to the
said plaza, and there they stopped, not knowing what course to take. "To
the mole! To the mole! He must be there," said a watchman.

They were just about to proceed farther when a window of one of the
houses was suddenly opened and a man in night attire said in sonorous
tones that resounded in the silence of the night:

"The thief has just entered the Cafe de la Marina."

These words were uttered by Don Feliciano Gomez.

When the patrol heard them it rushed to the door of the cafe and
abruptly made its entrance. The sitting-room was empty. There at the
end, by the side of the counter, were three or four lads in white aprons
standing round a man who was lying, more than sitting, upon a chair.

The mayor, the officer, and the watchmen rushed at him with their pikes,
swords, and sword-sticks at his chest, and all with one accord cried:

"Take that, thief!"

The criminal raised his terror-stricken face, now whiter than wax.

"Ah--if it is not Don Jaime, God bless my soul!" exclaimed a watchman,
lowering his pike. All the others did the same, dumb with astonishment.
For indeed it was a fact that the villain they had so hotly pursued was
no other than Don Jaime Marin, taken unawares as he was about to enter
the door of his house.

They had to carry him home and bleed him. On the following day Don Roque
appeared to ask his pardon, which was granted. But Dona Brigida, his
severe spouse, would not grant it until she had given expression to a
storm of recriminatory adjectives, among which that of "drunken" figured
frequently.

Don Roque submitted meekly to the attack, and the matter dropped.




CHAPTER VIII

CECILIA'S TROUSSEAU


Preparations for the wedding had begun in the Belinchon household. They
were started very cautiously. Dona Paula sent for Nieves, the
embroideress, and a long conference ensued with closed doors. Then
patterns were ordered from Madrid, and a few days later the senora,
accompanied by Cecilia and Pablito, took a journey to the capital of the
province in the family coach. The prying Don Petra, who was passing
along the Rua Nueva as Dona Paula and her children returned, saw the
servant take from the carriage large, heavy parcels that looked like
bales of material.

All Sarrio then soon knew that preparations for the trousseau of Don
Rosendo's eldest daughter had commenced, and Dona Paula had one of her
heart attacks when she heard that it was known. The blame was cast on
Nieves, but she declared that she had never breathed a word on the
subject. Dona Paula declared she must have done so; the embroideress
wept, and there was a regular scene.

Well, as the cat was out of the bag, there was no use making any more
mystery about it. The room at the back of the house, the one that looked
on to the Calle de Carborana, was the scene of operations for the staff
working at the linen under Dona Paula's orders and Nieves's instruction.
It consisted of four persons besides the two maids of the house, when
domestic duties permitted, and Venturita, and Cecilia herself. It was a
merry party, as work did not prevent chatting, laughing, and singing all
day long. Merriment welled from the young creatures' hearts, and bubbled
forth in aimless laughter that sometimes lasted a long time. If one of
them dropped the scissors--laughter; if a skein of thread caught on a
neck--laughter; if the cook came with a red face to ask the senora for
the money for the milkwoman--hearty laughter. Not only were those
working at Cecilia's trousseau young and merry, but, from the directress
herself, they were all pretty.

Nieves was a tall, graceful, red-haired girl, with a white, transparent
skin, clear blue eyes, a perfect nose and mouth, twenty years of age,
and endowed with a disposition that was Heaven's own blessing. It was
impossible to be long melancholy in her company. Not that she was
talkative or witty, nothing of the sort; the poor girl had little more
intellect than a fish, but her boundless good-humor shone from her eyes
in such a charming manner, and rang forth from her throat in such clear
tones, that it was quite infectious. By the work of her hands she
supported a paralytic mother, and a bad, idle brother, who treated her
shamefully when she was unable to give him sufficient money with which
to get intoxicated.

Her troubles, which would have been insupportable to anybody else, only
momentarily disturbed her equanimity, and, rising above them, she soon
recovered her habitual cheerful spirits. She enjoyed the blessing of
perfect health, the only pain she ever knew being an occasional stitch
in the side from overmuch laughter. Valentina, also an embroideress, and
also with red hair, was not so pretty; her eyes were smaller, her skin
less delicate, her nose less regular, and she was smaller of stature.

On the other hand, her bright locks were curly, and clustered very
prettily on her forehead, her hands and feet were smaller and more
delicate than those of Nieves, and the striking point of her face was a
constant little trick of knitting her brows, which gave a pleasant
piquancy to her features, as it was not due to bad temper.

Encarnacian was a needlewoman too; she was a great, strong, bouncing
girl with a vulgar face. The artisans of Sarrio thought she was the
flower of the flock, but she would not have pleased the taste of a
refined, intelligent person.

Teresa, also of the same trade, was perfectly Moorish in coloring; her
hair was as black as jet, and her large eyes were as dark as her hair,
and her nose and mouth were regular; she was considered ugly in the town
on account of her swarthiness, but she was really a type of Oriental
beauty. There was nothing remarkable in Generosa, one of the two maids
of the house. Elvira, the other, was a pale little thing, with large,
languid eyes, and very graceful figure.

The working classes of Sarrio have never gone in for the ridiculous
imitation of ladies, which is so frequent nowadays in other places in
Spain. They think, and I am of the same opinion, that the fashions
adopted by ladies would not enhance their natural grace; in fact, they
would lessen it. And this is logical, for, in the first place, they are
not accustomed to drawing their waists in, as fashion demands of its
slaves, and as little towns have no good dressmakers, the imitation
would be both inferior and ugly; whereas, who upon the terrestrial
globe, or upon any other globe, can compete with the charm of the girls
of Sarrio when they don the richly embroidered fichu, crossed in front,
and tied behind? Who can equal their fascinating mode of arranging the
curls on their foreheads with a studied carelessness? Who can take part
in a giraldilla with more consummate grace, or give in a more coquettish
way a push to a young fellow who gets out of his place, while saying
with a mingled smile and frown:

"Good fellow, you are mad, or on the road to it. Look out, or I shall
pinch you!"

Who can sing with more sentiment and with less ear the couplet:

    "When Aben Hamet Granada left,
     He felt his heart of joy bereft."

There is no doubt that the artisan girls of Sarrio, whose strict ideas
of taste are the admiration of both Spaniards and foreigners, especially
nowadays when characteristic features are on the wane, are quite right
to maintain their independence and to hold their own costume in spite of
the dressed-up young ladies of the cities. Because (be it said softly,
so as not to be overheard), the truth is they are much prettier. And
this I say without meaning offense to anybody in particular; Heaven
forbid.

There is no traveler in the Peninsula who, on thinking of Sarrio, will
not echo this assertion with more of the enthusiasm natural to him.

There is no Englishman who stops for a few days at this port but who,
when talking to his friends at Cardiff or Bristol of this _Spanish
town_, will begin by raising his eyebrows and smacking his lips with
delight, with "Oh! oh! oh! Sarrio! the young girls there are very, very,
very beautiful." And if Englishmen say it, what will be said by the
Spaniards, and particularly those who have lived so long under their
beneficent influence?

The four workers, including Nieves, although she was rather superior,
belonged to this much-admired class of women for whose prosperity and
continuance in their ways I offer daily prayers to Heaven, and advise
every good Catholic to do the same.

On working days they were dressed in cotton gowns, with a little woolen
fichu tied behind and a silk handkerchief falling back on the neck from
the uncovered head. Nieves, as an exception, wore a black fringed fichu.

They had just sat down to work after dinner. The sun poured through the
panes of the two windows despite the blinds. The workers were gathered
together in one of the corners of the room to escape its rays. Teresa,
the most musical of the party, started a sentimental song in sad,
drawn-out cadences in a sweet, timid voice, so that the others should
join in parts; and in effect Nieves soon "took second," and the rest
followed suit, some taking first and others second, which resulted in a
somewhat melancholy harmony, tinged with romance. Romance may vanish
from customs, and be banished from the novel and the stage, but it still
finds a delicious haven of rest in the hearts of the artisans of
Sarrio. The music continued until Pablito saw fit to disturb it by
breaking in suddenly with his bleating voice. The needlewomen stopped
singing, raised their heads in alarm, and then burst out laughing.

"_Madre!_ what a fright you gave me!"

"I thought it was a cow!"

"And I thought it was a cock crowing--and I still think so," said
Venturita.

The handsome Pablito, reclining in his armchair in the other corner,
laughed loudly at his own expense. He certainly was of a jocose turn of
mind, as we shall have occasion to see later on. From the time of the
commencement of his sister's trousseau Pablito evinced a sudden taste
for a sedentary life that had not hitherto been noticeable in him. Who
had ever seen him before stop a minute in the house after dinner? Who
would have thought that he could spend the morning in that armchair
chatting with the workers? Nevertheless, it was a fact. For the last
month he had not been out riding or driving, and he did not spend more
than an hour in the stable during the course of the day.

Piscis was quite upset. He came every day to fetch him out, but it was
in vain.

"Look here, Piscis, I have to clean my silver spurs, so I can not go
out." "I say, Piscis, I have to go and get a bill of exchange cashed for
father."

"Look here, Piscis, Linda is ill and can't be ridden."

"She is all right now," growled Piscis.

"Have you come from the stable?"

"Yes."

"Well, anyhow, I can't go out to-day--am out of sorts."

Sometimes Piscis entered the room and sat waiting silently; it was
certainly not for long, because he was always thinking the women were
making fun of him, and this prevented him being at his ease. When he
thought the right moment had arrived, or when he noticed symptoms of
boredom in Pablo, or when some other circumstance beyond our province
occurred, he rose from his seat and made a sign with his hand to his
friend as he gave a long, low whistle, for they understood each other
better by whistles than by words. They both objected to articulate
sounds and eschewed their use in each other's company, but Pablito did
not relish the sign at that moment.

"I say, Piscis," he said, "I am dreadfully idle. Be so kind as to go to
the stable and ask Pepe to put another oil compress on Romeo."

"I will do it," returned Piscis with a frowning face.

"All right, Piscis; thank you very much. Ta-ta! You will come to-morrow,
eh? Perhaps I shall be able to ride then."

This was said with great suavity and amiability, to throw his friend off
the scent. Piscis growled a "good-day" without turning to the company,
and left with his eyes aflame, uglier and more demoniacal-looking than
ever. The same thing occurred the next day. In spite of his respect for
Pablito, Piscis then came to the conclusion that he admired one of the
needlewomen. Which? His perspicacity could not solve that question.

The young people began singing, but coming to the words:

    "Only thou, Divine woman,
     Said a prayer
     At my solitary tomb,"

Pablito gave vent to such a discordant bellow that they all burst out
laughing; but Venturita became serious.

"Look here, Pablo, if you go on like that, you had better go off with
Piscis."

It was then Pablito's turn to be cross.

"I shall go when I feel inclined. You are always the one to spoil
everything."

Young Belinchon meant to infer that his sister Venturita was the only
one who failed to recognize the gifts which Heaven had bestowed on him,
and this was true; and all the company laughed as if they had heard a
passage from "Rabelais" instead of a cross remark. Dona Paula, who had
an idolatrous admiration for her first-born, and nourished a grudge
against the girl for her sharp remarks, which she considered were not
warranted by her beauty, came to her son's assistance:

"You are quite right, Pablo! She always does throw cold water on any
enjoyment. Goodness, what a girl! The man who takes her will have
something to do to keep her in order."

At that moment Gonzalo appeared at the door of the room; he bent like a
bow to shake hands with his future sister-in-law, Ventura, and Cecilia.
The latter became serious, for, without turning her head, she knew that
all the workers were looking out of the corners of their eyes, and she
knew the kind of smile that wreathed their lips. Every day was alike.
Before Gonzalo arrived the needlewomen lost no opportunity in teasing
the bride.

"Cecilia, which of these garments will you wear the day of your
wedding?"

"Senorita, you _will_ sleep in these sheets, they are so fine."

"You won't be the only one to find them so."

"I say, you rogue, what a fine young man you've got. You won't have such
a handsome fellow, Venturita."

"Who knows!" returned the girl.

Cecilia listened to these words with a smile on her lips, and blushed.
Since the beginning of the preparations for the wedding her cheeks,
formerly so pale, were almost rosy. This animation, and the light which
happiness lent to her eyes, made her look interesting and sweet, if not
pretty. There is not a girl who does not become more or less
good-looking on the approach of marriage.

Cecilia was naturally silent and reserved without being bad-tempered.
She hardly ever spoke, except when she was addressed, and then her
replies were sweet, clear, and to the point. Timidity, which lends a
certain charm to youth, was not the characteristic trait of her
character, but our heroine had a sweet serenity and a certain
sympathetic force in all her actions and words that revealed the perfect
purity of her mind. This serenity was taken by unobservant people, if
not for pride, which certainly could not be laid to the charge of
Cecilia, for cold-heartedness. Even those who were most often at the
house thought she was incapable of conceiving a great and tender
passion. Accustomed to see her fulfil her domestic duties with the
regularity of a clock, they would have required a power of penetration
not possessed by many to divine the true moral worth of the eldest
daughter of the Belinchons. The majority of such beings live and die
unappreciated because they do not possess any of the brilliant qualities
that attract all that see them. Innocence may be ranked among the
virtues of this class of girl, and rare as it is, it is one least
calculated to add to the value of a woman's character. Very few are
those who know how to appreciate the beauty of these crystal souls; see
them without noticing anything to arouse attention. But the same can be
said of certain philters that are poisonous and certain drafts that are
life-giving, and because our unpractised, dull eyes can not discern the
elements of life or death that lie dormant in them, are we to say that
such do not exist?

It was difficult to divine whether sad or pleasant feelings filled
Cecilia's heart, but it was not impossible. I do not know if she tried
to hide them, or whether her particular nature impelled her to do so,
but it was a fact that in her home she was misunderstood, even by her
parents. If perchance it was a question of paying calls, or buying a
dress, Dona Paula would ask her daughter with solicitude:

"And what do you think, Cecilia?"

"I think it is very nice," was the reply.

"Do you really think it is nice?" said the mother, looking into her
eyes.

"Yes, mama; I think it is nice."

But Dona Paula was always left in doubt as to whether the dress pleased
her or not, or what she really thought. She seldom cried, and when she
did, she took such pains to hide it that nobody knew of it. Whatever
distress she felt was only betrayed by a slight line in her forehead,
and great happiness with her was only evinced by a little more intensity
in the gentle smile constantly upon her face. When Gonzalo wrote to her
from abroad, she went to her mother and gave her the letter directly she
read it.

"Do you like the lad?" asked Dona Paula, after reading the letter with
more emotion than her daughter had shown in giving it to her.

"Do you like him?" returned the girl.

"I? Yes."

"Then if you and papa like him, I like him too," said Cecilia.

Who would have thought from those cold words that Cecilia had been in
love with him for some time? Nevertheless, as love is of all human
sentiments the most difficult to conceal, and as there was no need to
hide it when her parents' consent had been given, she let it then be
seen quite clearly. In temperaments like that of our heroine the
slightest indication signifies a good deal. The happiness that filled
her heart was soon seen in her face by all who knew her intimately. Few
beings have known greater joy on earth than that which Cecilia
experienced at that time.

All the litter about the room, the paper patterns, the designs, the
linen stretched in frames, the skeins of thread, all spoke a soft
mysterious language to her; the flashing of the scissors, the darting
of the needles, prophesied future joys to her. Sometimes they said to
her:

"You will be seen, Cecilia, going to mass on Sunday on the arm of your
husband. He will carry your prayer-book, he will leave you to go to the
altar of Our Lady and will stay behind among the men; then he will wait
for you at the door, will offer you the holy water, and then he will
give you his arm again."

At other times they seemed to say to her:

"In the morning you will rise very quietly to keep him from waking, you
will brush his clothes, you will put the buttons on his shirt, and when
the time comes you will give him his chocolate."

Other voices seemed to say:

"And when you have a child!" But here the bride-elect felt her heart
swell with delight, her hands trembled, and she cast a rapid glance at
the needlewomen, fearing they had noticed her emotion. As the different
articles of clothing were finished and ironed Cecilia put them away
carefully in a press, and when that was full she took them to a room
upstairs, where she artistically and carefully arranged the
underclothing, petticoats, nightcaps, and dressing jackets upon long
tables, set out for the purpose; then she covered them delicately with a
linen cloth and left the room, locking the door and putting the key in
her pocket.

After greeting the party Gonzalo took a seat near Pablito, and putting
his hand familiarly on his shoulder he whispered in his ear:

"Which do you like best?"

And as he bent toward his future brother-in-law he cast an earnest look
at Ventura, who returned it with a peculiar glance. Then both turned
their eyes to Cecilia, but she had not raised her head from her
embroidery frame.

"Nieves," replied Pablo, without hesitation, in his falsetto voice.

"I knew it, and I applaud your taste," said Gonzalo, laughing. "What a
smooth skin--what teeth!"

"And what a figure! First rate, don't you know?"

Both looked at the embroideress, who raised her head, and seeing that
the conversation was about her, she made a face.

"Come, don't talk in a whisper," said Dona Paula with asperity peculiar
to the women of the people.

"Let them be, senora," returned Nieves; "they are talking about me, and
in that they show their good taste."

"Certainly. Pablo was calling my attention to the ruddiness of certain
lips, the transparency of a certain skin, and the golden hue of certain
hair."

"Then they were talking of you, Valentina," said Nieves, blushing and
nudging her companion.

"What an idea! Don't worry about that, as if we don't know who is the
prettiest!" said the other, with evident pique.

"Gently, gently, senoras," exclaimed Gonzalo. "It is true that Pablo
began by talking of the perfections of Nieves, but it is certain that he
had meant to go on to those of all the rest, if he had not been
interrupted. Is it not so, Pablo?"

"Yes, I meant to go on to Valentina."

Whereupon the girl referred to raised her head and looked at him with
the half-frowning, half-roguish look that was peculiar to her.

"Take care, Nieves, that these young men don't forget themselves."

Pablo, without heeding the interruption, proceeded:

"And then from Teresa and Encarnacian, Elvira, and Generosa, I should
have gone on to Venturita, for of course all men are at her feet; to
Cecilia, no, for she is engaged; and then I should have said something
about Senora Dona Paula, who, be it said without offense to anybody, is
the most beautiful of all."

"What a humbug!" exclaimed the lady, pleased at her son's flattery.

Then Pablo rose from his armchair and embraced his mother
affectionately.

"Get away, get away, flatterer!" she said, laughing.

"Come, open your purse, mama," said Venturita.

"I see! A spiteful remark as usual," exclaimed the young man in a rage,
as he turned his head to his sister; but she only smiled to herself
maliciously, without raising her head from her embroidery frame.

"You have done a great deal," said Gonzalo in a low voice, as he took a
seat by the side of his fiancee.

"So, so," returned Cecilia, looking at him with her large, luminous
eyes.

"But, indeed, it is a great deal. Yesterday you had not embroidered this
clove. It looks to me like a clove."

"It is jasmine."

"Nor these two leaves, either."

"Bah! That is nothing."

"And what are you embroidering now?"

Cecilia went on plying her needle without answering.

"What are you embroidering now?" asked Gonzalo in a louder voice,
thinking that she had not heard.

"A sheet--hush!" returned the young girl, slightly raising her eyes in
the direction of the embroideresses, and quickly dropping them again.

At that moment Gonzalo's and Venturita's eyes met in a meaning glance
over Cecilia's head.

"Well, you see, every one to his taste," said Pablito, as he looked
fixedly at Nieves, as much as to say:

"Don't pay any attention. I only say that as a duty."

"What is there to suit everybody, Don Pablo?" asked Valentina in an
ironical tone.

"Flowers, girl."

"Give them to the saints."

"And to pretty girls like you."

"If I am not pretty, I precede those that are, without any by your
leave."

"The deuce she does! Valentina puts her back up directly one goes near
her," exclaimed the snubbed young man.

The joke made the needlewomen laugh.

"Valentina does not like young men," said Encarnacian.

"She is quite right; you get nothing from young men but promises, lost
time, and often a lifetime of misery," said Dona Paula sententiously,
unmindful of her own fortunate lot. "As to that, Sarrio is quite
demoralized; there is hardly a girl who keeps company with one of her
own class. The young man is at least expected to wear a cravat, to
carry a cane and a cigarette-holder, although he may not have a plate to
eat off. Young girls do not mind being seen at dusk nowadays with young
gentlemen, nor do they object to returning from fairs on the arm of one
of them, singing at the top of their voices."

"Poor young things! I don't know what you expect. Because the son of Don
Rudesindo married Pepe la Esquilla, and the pilot of the 'Trinidad' the
Mechacan girl, you think all is gold that glitters. But seeing is
believing. Look at Benita, the girl at Senor Matias's, the sacristan.
She does not look very pretty now, eh?"

"Benita has her marriage lines," said Encarnacian.

"Lines, eh? She will see what her lines are worth."

"Senora, the lad can not desert her; if he does, she will pursue him all
her life."

"Silence, silence, chatterbox; who put such ideas into your head?"

"It is a well-known fact that Benita has gone to law."

"Look here, senora," said the dark, sentimental girl, "it is quite true
that we run risks, but what are we to do? The artisans of the town are
just as bad; they mostly spend Sunday and Monday and one day in the week
at the tavern. How many are there who take their wages home to their
wives regularly? If the husband is a sailor, he sends it home one
quarter, keeps it three quarters, and then keeps it altogether. The
supplies ceasing, the unhappy woman is forced to work to get bread for
her children.

"And then in other cases what thanks or reward does the wife get from
her husband? If he does go out with her on a Sunday afternoon, he stops
at every public house on the road and leaves the poor creature at the
door; or if there is some friend with him, he shouts out some insulting
remark at her that makes her blush like a peony.

"Yes, yes, senora, they are all such vagabonds. Goodness knows they are
not worth the bread they eat. The other day I met Tomasina--you know the
girl at Uncle Rufio's who married one of Prospero's clerks less than a
year ago--well, she was at that moment going to get two reales from her
father to buy some bread, for she had not had a mouthful all day. Her
husband drinks nearly all his wages, so the poor thing has nothing to
eat by the middle of the week.

"God help her! And most nights the great pig comes home hopelessly
drunk, and nearly beats her to death. Sometimes the poor thing goes to
bed bruised and supperless.

"And then, seeing these things, people want a--well, better hold one's
tongue! But I do say, caramba, that if one has to go to the devil, it is
better to go in a coach."

"Look here," intervened Valentina, raising her face with its habitual
frown, albeit a trifle more pronounced, "don't go on like that; you say
you like young gentlemen. Well and good. I don't care; but don't you
throw all the dirty water on your own class. If they drink--and there
are those that do--don't I also see gentlemen coming home quite
intoxicated? And if they do beat their wives, half the time they would
not do it if the women's tongues were not so long, don't you see? And
Don Ramon, the music-master, beat his wife when he came home one night.
You must know that, as you live near."

"I don't chatter about everything, girl," returned Teresa, somewhat
dampened by the fear that her swarthy friend would make her reveal her
nocturnal perambulations with Donato Rojo, the medical officer of
health; "only I say there are many asses."

"Very well, leave them in peace, then, and don't talk of them, and they
won't talk of you. Every one for herself, and let sleeping dogs lie."

"Listen, Valentina," said Elvira, smiling maliciously. "Do you think
Cosme will beat you when you marry?"

"If I deserve it, he will. I would rather have a blow or two from my
Cosme than the scorn of a fine gentleman--so there!"

"That's what I like to hear; take a lesson, take a lesson, girls," said
Pablito.




CHAPTER IX

A CHANGE OF HEART


Gonzalo, after talking for some time with his bride-elect, left his
seat, took three or four turns up and down the room, and seated himself
by the side of Venturita, with whom he was always on good terms, for
they liked laughing and joking together after they had once become
friendly. The girl was drawing some letters preparatory to embroidering
them.

"Don't come teasing here, Gonzalo; you know how badly I draw," she said,
while the look that she gave the youth was so flashing and provocative
that it made him drop his eyes.

"I am not so sure of that. You don't draw badly," he replied in a low
voice that slightly trembled, as he bent his face down to the paper
which Venturita had on her lap.

"Pure flattery. You will acknowledge that it might be better."

"Better--better--everything in the world might be better. This is good
enough."

"You are getting quite a flatterer. I don't want you to make fun of me,
do you hear?"

"I don't make fun of anybody, much less of you," he returned, without
raising his eyes from the paper, and with his voice lower every minute,
and evidently agitated. Venturita kept her eyes fixed upon him with a
mocking expression, in which the triumph of satisfied pride was plainly
visible.

"Come, then, you draw them, Mr. Clever," she said, as she passed him the
pencil and paper with gracious condescension.

The youth acceded to the suggestion, as he ventured to raise his eyes to
the girl's, but he quickly dropped them as if he feared their magnetism.
He took the book from her lap on to his knee, put a piece of white paper
on it, and proceeded to draw.

But instead of the letters, he began to sketch, with some skill, the
head of a woman; first the hair parted in two braids, then the straight,
pretty forehead, then a delicate nose, a pretty, short chin joined to
the throat by a soft, graceful curve. It was wonderfully like Venturita.
The girl, leaning on the shoulder of her future brother, followed the
movements of the pencil, and a vain smile gradually overspread her face.
After drawing the head Gonzalo proceeded to delineate the figure, and
the peignoir, or dressing-gown, worn by the girl was soon reproduced;
but he took some time drawing minutely the silk bows with which it was
fastened in front. When the picture was finished, Venturita asked him in
a mischievous tone:

"Now put underneath who it is."

The young man raised his head and their smiling eyes met. Then, quickly
and decisively, he wrote under the drawing:

"The one I love best in all the world."

Venturita took the paper in her hands and looked at it with delight for
some moments; then, with a pout of assumed disdain, she gave it back to
him, saying:

"Take it, take it, you rude fellow."

But before it reached Gonzalo's hands Cecilia stretched out hers and
snatched it from him laughingly, saying:

"What papers are these?"

Then Venturita sprang from her seat, as if she had been stung, and
caught hold of her sister's hand.

"Give it up, give it up, Cecilia! Let go!" she cried, with her face
aflame and distorted with a forced smile.

"No, I want to see it."

"You shall see it afterward; let go!"

"I want to see it now."

"Let be, child; let her see it. What does it signify to you?" said Dona
Paula.

"I don't like anything being taken from me by force," Venturita cried,
turning serious. Then realizing that she was losing ground, she resumed
her smile, saying:

"Come, Cecilia, let go; don't be disagreeable."

"Don't make such a fuss! Let go yourself; you are hurting me."

"Who are you to snatch the paper from my hand?" she returned, and really
in a rage. "Let go, let go, you ugly thing, you parrot nose, you fool!
Let go or I will scratch you," she added, with her eyes flashing and her
face distorted with rage.

Seeing her like this, the smile that had suffused Cecilia's face
suddenly left it, and opening her large eyes, full of surprise, she
exclaimed:

"Goodness, you seem mad, child. Take it, take it; I don't want it."

So she gave up the paper, which was crumpled in her hand, and Venturita,
with her face still distorted with rage, tore it into a thousand pieces.

"In all the days of my life I never saw such a mad creature!" exclaimed
Dona Paula in amazement. "Ave Maria! Ave Marie! Wherever did you get
such a bad temper from, child?"

"It would be from you," replied Venturita sulkily, without looking at
anybody.

"You shameless girl! If it were not for folk being here! How dare you
answer your mother like that? Don't you know the commandment of the law
of God? I will take you to-morrow to confess to Don Aquilino."

"Very well; give my regards to Don Aquilino."

"Wait a bit, wait a bit, you bad girl!" cried the senora, making as
though she would rise to chastise her daughter.

But at that instant the figure of Don Rosendo, in his many 
dressing gown and silk tasseled velvet cap, appeared at the door.

"What is the matter?" he asked with surprise at the sight of his wife's
excited state.

Suffocated with sobs, Dona Paula then proceeded to give him an account
of his daughter's want of respect.

Don Rosendo thought it behooved him to frown severely and say in a
solemn tone:

"You have behaved badly, Ventura; go and ask your mother's pardon."

We know that he was absent-minded, always absorbed in some idea, so this
domestic episode only partially roused him from his preoccupation.
Nevertheless, seeing his child obstinate, supercilious, and angry, he
repeated his command with greater firmness.

"Come, daughter, go and ask your mother's pardon, seeing that you have
been rude to her."

The girl made her usual scornful pout and murmured under her breath:

"As if I should think of doing such a thing!"

"Come, Venturita, what are you muttering there? Come, before I get
angry."

"Do, do, Venturita; don't behave like that," implored all the
needlewomen in low tones.

"Don't bother me. Will you leave me in peace?" she retorted, also in a
low tone, albeit an angry one.

"Won't you do as I tell you?" now demanded Don Rosendo, with increased
severity, "won't you?" But the girl sat silent and motionless.

"Then leave the room at once; get out of my sight!" stormed the father.

Venturita rose from her seat and, stiff and sullen, she made her way
through the party, and left the room, slamming the door heavily behind
her. Don Rosendo, after standing a moment motionless with his eyes on
the door by which his daughter had made her exit, turned round and said:

"I am sorry to have to be so severe with my children, but sometimes
there is no help for it."

The fierce expression soon faded from Belinchon's fine face, and was
superseded by his habitual look of thoughtful abstraction.

"Gonzalo, if it is not troubling you, I wish you would come with me into
my study," he said, turning to his future son-in-law.

The young man, who had several times started and turned pale during the
last scene, was now filled with dismay, for he feared that the summons
betokened nothing less than that Don Rosendo, having a suspicion of the
inconstancy of his feelings, was now about to call him to account. So,
with his head bent and very anxious, he followed Belinchon into the
study, which was a spacious apartment, furnished with the luxury
befitting a rich merchant--a massive table and cabinets of mahogany,
loaded with parcels of books and papers, a velvet carpet, sofas
upholstered with brocade, and a colossal silver inkstand. A quarter of
the room was filled with a heap of little packets, wrapped in paper of
various colors, which would puzzle anybody who entered it for the first
time. Not so Gonzalo, or any intimate friend of the house. Those
packages were full of toothpicks!

"How so?" the reader will ask.

Don Rosendo Belinchon, a cod merchant of such renown, a dealer in
toothpicks as well?

No, Don Rosendo did not deal in toothpicks; he made them. And this not
from any speculative motive, which would have been beneath him, but from
a purely disinterested love of the thing. He had evinced the taste in
early youth, but the assiduous occupations of his trade and the
vicissitudes of his life had only hitherto permitted him to indulge his
passion in a desultory way in leisure hours. But from the time he could
leave his office to a few faithful underlings he gave himself up heart
and soul to such a simple and useful amusement. In the morning at
Graell's shop, in the afternoon at the saloon, in the evening at home,
or at Don Pedro Miranda's, he was always working. His servant spent a
great part of the day in preparing perfectly equal pieces of dry wood,
from which his dexterous hand produced the queen of toothpicks.

And as he never rested from his work, not even on holidays, the
production was so excessive that there were not enough purchasers in
town, and when the heap reached from the table to the ceiling he was
obliged to despatch packets of them to his friends in the capital.
Thanks to the noble efforts of this clever representative of his trade,
we can say with pride that Sarrio attained the level of the great
capitals in this interesting branch of civilization, and that no other
Spanish or foreign town could compete with it, for the house of every
rich man, as well as every poor one, boasted a well-cut toothpick,
irrefutable testimony of the cultured refinement of its inhabitants.

Don Rosendo signed to the young man to be seated on the sofa, which he
did in visible agitation. Then the merchant proceeded to take a chair
with an air of mystery, and placing himself opposite the youth, he gave
him a dig in the ribs and jauntily said with a smile:

"Well, Gonzalito, and what do you think of this question of the
slaughter-house?"

"The slaughter-house?" asked the young man, opening his eyes wide with
surprise.

"Yes, the new slaughter-house; do you think it ought to be put on the
Escombrera, or on the Plaza de las Meanas, or at the back of Don
Rudesindo's houses?"

Gonzalo seemed to see heaven open and, smiling with pleasure, he
replied:

"I think it would be very well on the Plaza de las Meanas. It is very
open--very airy there."

Then seeing that a frown gathered on his future father-in-law's
forehead, and that the smile suddenly left his face, he added
stammeringly:

"I don't think it would be bad at the Escombrera either."

"Much better, Gonzalo; infinitely better."

"Maybe, maybe."

"But it _must_ be, and I tell you plainly that to have it on the Plaza
de las Meanas (this, mind you, quite between you and me) is an act of
utter madness; an act of ut-ter madness," he repeated, with additional
stress on each syllable.

"And this opinion of mine," he added, "is not, as you imagine, a thing
of yesterday, or of to-day, but of all my life. From the time that I was
capable of understanding anything I knew that the slaughter-house ought
not to be where it is; in a word, that it ought to be moved. Whither? An
internal voice always replied: 'To the Escombrera.' Before I was able
to give any scientific reason I was as convinced as I am now that it was
there that it ought to be, and nowhere else. Now that the discussion of
the problem is at hand, I feel obliged to support this opinion, to
communicate my idea to the public, and to give it the result of my
meditations. If you have nothing to do, I will now read you the letter
that I am sending to the 'Progress of Lancia' with this end in view."

And in effect, without waiting for Gonzalo to reply, he turned to the
table, took up some sheets of paper that were upon it, put on his
spectacles, and, approaching the window, he commenced reading the letter
in a voice which betrayed his emotion.

The letter was written on business paper, large and ruled. All the
letters that for years past he had sent to the "Progress of Lancia" and
to other periodicals had been written on the same sort of paper, on both
sides. He did not then know that the paper ought only to be written on
one side for the press, but he soon acquired that valuable knowledge, as
we shall see.

Don Rosendo Belinchon evinced a taste for writing communications to the
press almost simultaneously with that for toothpicks; that is to say, it
dated from his early years.

A great advocate of human progress, of reform, of all kinds of
discussion and instruction, it was natural that the press should
inspire him with respect and enthusiasm. Newspapers had always been an
indispensable element of his existence. He subscribed to many, both
national and foreign, because, being educated for commerce, he was well
versed in French and English, and he never missed devoting a couple of
hours to reading the journals even on the busiest days. These hours had
increased during later years, at the expense of the codfish business.
The delight that our hero felt in the morning, after taking his
chocolate, in perusing the leading articles of the "Pabellon Nacional,"
the events of the "Politica," and the light news of the "Figaro," was so
intense that the brightness of his face pervaded the atmosphere.

Like all men of wide and lofty views, he was not exclusive in his press
proclivities. He liked a paper as a paper, a pleasant medium of the
progress of human reason, or, as he better expressed it, as a "lofty
manifestation of public opinion."

The opinions that each supported were secondary matters. He subscribed
to papers of every opinion, and enjoyed them all equally. If he had any
particular predilection, it was for venomous articles and paragraphs,
for their way of saying one thing and conveying another, of twisting
phrases in such a manner that an apparently innocent clause was an
envenomed shaft, filled Don Rosendo with such delight that he went
nearly mad with joy. Sometimes on reading in "La Espana" a paragraph in
this style:

"Yesterday the circular of the Senor President of the Supreme Court to
his subordinates appeared at last. We congratulate General O'Donnell,
the president of the Liberal party, and Senor Negrete and the Democratic
Government party on the colossal work that they have consummated in a
few moments of lucidity," he would exclaim, waving the paper in his
hand:

"What spite, Caracoles; what spite!"

This liking, or, rather, passion for the press, was not fruitless, as we
have said. Even in his youth he had sent two letters to a weekly paper
published in Lancia, called "Autumn," describing the annual festivities
that took place in Sarrio in the month of September. These letters were
read with profit and no little pleasure in the town, which encouraged
him to write three more the following year, giving an account of the
marvelous number of rockets that were sent off in Sarrio on the 13th,
14th, and 15th of the month, the beautiful illumination of the 16th, and
the magnificent ball given at the Lyceum on the night of the 17th.

After tasting the sweets of publicity, Don Rosendo could not do less
than indulge in them from time to time.

The least pretext sufficed for him to send a letter or a communication
to the papers.

Sometimes he signed them with his name, at other times with some pretty
pseudonym or anagram.

If the fisher-folk had a festival in honor of St. Telmo, Don Rosendo
immediately wrote his letter to the "Progress of Lancia" or to the
"Bee," describing the decorations, the bonfires, the mass, the
procession, etc. If a banquet were given in the new school buildings on
their inauguration, three or four days later the Lancian paper contained
a letter publishing the speeches and improvised sonnets. If a bricklayer
fell from a scaffolding, there was a communication from Don Rosendo
asking for better protection for bricklayers who have to go on
scaffoldings. If the son of Don Aquilino sang at a mass, there would be
a letter from Don Rosendo describing the touching ceremony and praising
the clear, musical voice and the serene appearance of the young priest.
If the tides were high and strong and broke away some stones from the
end of the pier, a letter; if the boats from Bilbao declined to take on
board the pilots of Sarrio, a communication; if a harvest of maize were
lost by the drought, a letter; if the prevailing winds were from the
northeast, a letter.

In short, nothing happened on terra firma or in the atmosphere of the
town worthy of mention without its being tackled by the clever, flowing
pen of our merchant. How much work will the future historians of Sarrio
be saved by this valuable material, accumulated by one of its most
enlightened sons!

With advancing years Don Rosendo Belinchon's letters assumed a character
less romantic, we won't say frivolous (for it would not be either
correct or respectful to apply such a term to that estimable gentleman);
but it was noticeable that the subject-matter was not so much the
junketings and recreations of the townsfolk, but something that would
tend, directly or indirectly, to forward their moral and material
interests. The trades, the schools, the salvage from shipwrecks, the
building of a church or a prison, were the matters that he now most
frequently treated to his own glory and to that of his birthplace.

One of them, of vital interest for Sarrio, as he maintained, was the
slaughter-house. He had not hitherto approached this question, because
he knew that his opinion was at variance with that of a large number of
his fellow-townsmen. But he considered "that the time had now come to
express it without any perambulation or circumlocution."

The letter he now read, the first he had written on the subject, was
addressed to the "Progress of Lancia," and it ran thus:

    "THE SENOR DIRECTOR OF THE 'PROGRESS OF LANCIA.'

"_Dear_ Sir--The attention now accorded to natural physical science, and
especially to the science of hygiene, as the health of places as well as
people depends upon it, in view of its great practical utility, the
timidity of those who, influenced by an education as erroneous as it was
deficient, condemned the study of these great problems, being cumbered
with antiquated, dull ideas, is now happily vanishing under the powerful
movement of the nineteenth century, rightly called the century of
enlightenment."

       *       *       *       *       *

Don Rosendo's style was always involved. He continued:

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now that civilization, released from the obstacles that crippled the
conscience and the mind, opens a vast field to all, by means of the
press, to express our independent ideas and give them forth to the
world, trusting in the friendship that you have always accorded me, and
in the kindness with which the public has hitherto received the humble
efforts of the pen," etc., etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

After three or four more paragraphs in this perambulatory style (which
the editor of the "Progress" always had to curtail) Don Rosendo went
into the question, putting forward the slaughter-house, or, as he termed
it, "the public massacre-hall," in all its bearings, so as to condemn
its establishment on the Plaza de las Meanas in terms that left no room
for doubt. The reasons given for the opposition were obvious. For one
thing, the southeast winds, prevalent during the greater part of the
year, would carry miasmic smells, etc.

For another thing, the difficulty of reaching solid ground for the
cementing would cause an enormous expense, etc. The necessity of passing
through the town with the cattle, etc. For another thing, the proximity
of the houses, the bad effect on the mineral springs, etc.

In fact, Don Rosendo having given more than twenty reasons, in what he
termed "a clear, succinct style," he added that they would be given more
fully in the forthcoming letters with which he purposed "troubling the
readers of the illustrious periodical."

When the reading was over, Gonzalo pronounced the reasoning
incontrovertible, and Don Rosendo (with his spectacles on his nose)
declared that there was no gainsaying it.

Having arrived at such a perfect understanding, they separated in a
befittingly cheerful spirit. Don Rosendo remained in the library to copy
his letter, and Gonzalo was about to return to the workroom; but before
he left the apartment his future father-in-law called him back to say:

"Mind, not a word to anybody of this."

"Don Rosendo, I swear!" returned the young man, raising his hand in sign
of protest.

The merchant, in an expansive frame of mind, continued:

"You will soon know something else which will be a pleasant surprise to
you. It is an idea which came to me two months ago, and which I hope to
carry out, God willing, very soon. Oh! it is a brilliant idea! It will
make a radical change in Sarrio, you know!"

The mysterious manner, the serious, agitated tone of his voice, the look
of triumph which fulminated from his eyes as he spoke, surprised Gonzalo
not a little. Nevertheless, he did not dare to ask for explanations, and
his future father-in-law let him go with a vacant smile.




CHAPTER X

TWO TRAITORS


The party in the workroom was meanwhile still being entertained by
Pablito's conversation, which was embellished by practical
illustrations, in accordance with his versatile nature.

Venturita had not yet returned, and Gonzalo reseated himself by the side
of his betrothed and began talking to her with undisguised embarrassment
and timidity, for, being unaccustomed to hide his feelings, his
treachery weighed upon his soul. Sometimes Cecilia raised her head to
reply, and her clear, serene, innocent glance made him blush. To
overcome his confusion he thought he had better tell her his love and
devotion in more ardent terms than hitherto. Like all irresolute
natures, in a time of exigency he took the worst course to give himself
a moment's respite. Cecilia received the protestations in silence,
without evincing the delight that women generally show on hearing
expressions of affection from the one they love.

"You are very flattering to-day, Don Gonzalo. I don't like being
spoiled," she said at last with a smile.

"But it is a pleasure to tell you what I feel," he replied in a choked
voice.

"Well, it is a pleasure I do not understand," she returned sweetly. "The
deeper my affection the less I like to speak of it."

"That is because you do not really love."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, in such a genuine tone of reproach that our young
man was taken aback.

"Yes, yes; it is because you are naturally cold. The heat of feeling,
like physical heat, can not remain long concealed; there comes a time
when it rises to the surface like the lava of volcanoes. And of all
sentiments, love is the one that can best burst the strings of the
tongue. It is only really felt when one can say in every tone and in
every manner possible, 'I love you.' What you said just now is absurd,
for simultaneously with the birth of love in our hearts for anybody
there comes the desire to express it; and to satisfy this desire is the
greatest of all delights."

"It may be, it may be," she remarked in a doubtful tone. "Although I
have not experienced it, I can well imagine it from what I suffer. But,
Gonzalo," she added in a tremulous voice, "for God's sake don't measure
my affection by my words. I can not, I can never say what I feel. There
seems to be a sort of lump in my throat, and nothing comes but foolish
things, insignificant remarks, when I should like to utter words of
affection! Oh, it is a torture! It is being like a dog without a tail."

Gonzalo burst out laughing, and the girl, who had spoken more strongly
than usual, turned red and bent her head.

"But nobody has cut out your tongue."

"In this matter you must consider that they have."

"Very well; you must express yourself in writing," and at that moment he
turned his head quickly toward the door, which had been swung open.

It was Piscis. After muttering a "Good-afternoon," he took his usual
seat in the corner, followed by derisive glances of the needlewomen,
toward whom, for this and other reasons, he vowed eternal hatred.

After returning their mocking looks with one that was straight and
fierce he remained silent for some minutes, but as his soul was burdened
with solemn and profound secrets, and Pablito would not cease his
attention to Nieves, he was boiling over with rage. After having
whistled to attract his friend's attention, he ventured to disburden his
mind in public at the risk of his confidences not being understood and
appreciated by the feminine element of the party.

"What is it, Piscis?" asked Pablito, hearing the whistle.

"Do you know why Romeo is neighing?"

Then the needlewomen raised their heads in surprise, and Valentina,
trying not to laugh, said to Teresa:

"Child, what is he saying?"

"Why does a horse neigh?"

"Because--"

Although she spoke in a low tone Piscis heard her quite well, and
turning from Pablo, who had taken the question quite seriously, and
wished to hear about this peculiarity of Romeo's, he said to Valentina
in an angry tone:

"Will you be quiet, you chatterbox?"

These emphatic words were received with an explosion of laughter by the
workers.

"Don't fuss yourself, Piscis; let them be. Well, you took Romeo out? I
am glad of that."

"I harnessed him to the wagonette with Linda," returned the Centaur,
with an angry look at the listening Valentina.

"If you could have seen--shiver my shins!--how he behaved! I with the
whip, and he, thud, thud, against the dashboard. I returned to the
stable and put on the kicking strap. Then I went out again. But what did
the creature do this time? He got between the wheel and the traces, and
then he began neighing. Dash me! I very nearly broke a lamp."

"I must get to the bottom of this," returned Pablito, profoundly
interested, and leaving Nieves to go over to Piscis.

"I must think it over to-night," returned the Centaur, looking very
grave, "and we will see to-morrow what we can do."

The two friends then lowered their voices and plunged into an animated
private discussion.

Gonzalo was disturbed. He kept casting glances at the door, hoping every
minute to see Venturita return. Nevertheless, the time went on and the
girl did not appear. His abstraction so notably increased that Cecilia
had to ask him the same question three times.

"What is the matter? Your thoughts seem to be wandering."

"It is so," he said, slightly coloring; "I recollect that I ought to
write to London to-day on an important matter of business, and it is now
about six o'clock."

Whereupon he took leave of his betrothed, of Dona Paula, and the rest of
the party, and left the house.

Once in the passage he slackened his steps, and began looking round on
all sides without seeing what he wished. Then, with bent head, he slowly
and sadly descended the staircase and was about to raise the latch of
the door when he thought the string by which it was pulled from upstairs
shook. He stood a moment motionless. He again raised his hand to the
latch, and again noticed the vibration of the cord. Then he turned back,
looked up the staircase, and there above a pretty little face was
smiling at him.

"Is it you?" he asked in a falsetto voice, his countenance suffused with
joy.

"Yes, it is I," replied Venturita in the same tone.

"Do you want me to come up?"

"No," returned the girl, as much as to say, "Why do you ask, sir?"
Gonzalo mounted the staircase on the tips of his toes.

"We must not stay here; we shall be seen," said Venturita, taking his
hand and leading him along the passage to the dining-room.

There Gonzalo took a seat without leaving hold of her hand.

"I thought I was not going to see you again to-day. What a temper you
have, child!" he said, smiling.

Venturita's face clouded.

"If they did not irritate me every minute, I should not have one."

"But recollect, it was your mother who reprimanded you," he replied with
a smile.

"What?" she exclaimed passionately. "Why is my mother to annoy me every
hour and every minute? If she thinks I am going to stand it she is
greatly mistaken. She does not mind what that boor does; she will do
anything for him. There is nothing but spoiling for him! Look here,
Gonzalo, if you want us to be friends, don't interfere with me." And at
these words, uttered in an angry tone, her eyes flamed with rage, and
she gave a violent pull at her hand to release it. But this Gonzalo did
not allow, and kissing it passionately several times, he said, laughing:

"But, my girl, don't be angry with me, who have done nothing. If I
admire you, it is just because you are so hot-tempered. I don't like
women who are milk-and-watery."

"Because you are so yourself," she replied, now calm and smiling.

"Don't believe it. I am not so milk-and-watery as you think. When I am
angry, I am so indeed."

"Bah! Once a year!"

"Well, as I am so, I ought to like quiet, sweet-tempered women."

"You make a mistake; one always likes one's contrast. Fair people like
dark people, thin people fat, tall people short. Don't I suit you
because you are so tall and I so small?"

"Not only for that," he said, laughing and drawing her toward him.

"Why, then?" she asked, giving him a mocking glance.

"Don't you know? Shall I whisper it to you?"

"Why?" she insisted, keeping her eyes upon him.

"Because you are so very ugly."

"Thank you," she returned, with her face bright with gratified vanity.

"There is no one uglier than you in Sarrio; not in the whole world."

"You have seen uglier in the countries where you have been."

"I assure you, no."

"Holy Mother of Amparo! Then I must be a monster," she cried, accepting
the flattering hyperbole of the words.

"Somebody is coming!" said Gonzalo, suddenly turning grave.

Venturita went to the door.

"It is only the cook passing," she said, turning back into the room.

"I think we are in danger here. Suppose your mother or one of the girls
came in--or Cecilia" (he added in a low voice)--"what excuse could we
give?"

"Something or other; that's a slight matter. But if you are nervous, we
can go elsewhere."

"Let us go to the drawing-room."

"No, no; wait a moment. I will go first."

Then stopping at the door, and turning back, she said:

"If you give me your word to be good, I will take you to my room."

"On my word of honor," replied the young man with delight.

"No caresses?"

"None."

"Swear it."

"I swear."

"Very well; stop here a minute, and then come on tiptoe. Till we meet
again!"

"Till we meet again!" said Gonzalo, taking one of her hands and kissing
it.

"I see what it is," she said, pretending to be angry; "before you come
you begin to break your word."

"I did not think that your hands were included in the promise."

"Above all things," she said, with severity in her tone and a smile in
her eyes.

At the end of two minutes the youth followed her, found the door ajar,
and entered. Venturita's room was like its mistress, small, pretty, and
seductive.

There was a sandalwood bedstead hung with brocaded silk hangings and
covered with a blue silk coverlet; an ebony cabinet inlaid with ivory,
which formed a desk when opened; a comfortable blue velvet armchair; a
toilet table and looking-glass, also hung with silk; a mirrored wardrobe
of sandalwood, like the bedstead; and a few gilt chairs completed the
furniture; and the room was as redolent of sweet perfume as the sanctum
of an odalisque.

"Oh, this is better than Cecilia's room!" said Gonzalo.

"When did you see that?" asked Venturita.

"A few days ago she showed it to me; bare walls, with a few second-rate
pictures, a curtainless bed, a common wardrobe."

"Well, if she doesn't have it as I do, it is because she doesn't care
to. I certainly had to get around papa at first. But my sister is
so--well, she is as God made her. It is all alike to her. Everything
pleases a commonplace person, doesn't it?"

"In this room there is so much taste and so much coquetry, and that
there always is about you."

"Why do you accuse me of coquetry, you silly?" she asked, in her old
mocking tone.

"Because it is true, and quite right so. Coquetry, when not excessive,
adds attraction to beauty as spice adds flavor to food."

"And so I suit your taste! Well, look here; although coquetry may give
attraction, or flavor, or what you like, I am not coquettish. You at
least have no right to say so. I say--it seems to me--"

"It is true; you are right; you are quite right. I can not call you
coquettish, because the coquetry I was speaking of is quite different."

"Do me the favor to sit down, for I think you have grown enough--and let
us leave abstract questions."

Gonzalo dropped into the chair the girl offered him, still under the
spell of her brilliant, mischievous eyes. From the minute he entered the
room he experienced a delight, half physical, half spiritual, which
dominated his senses and his spirit. The perfume that he inhaled mounted
to his brain, and the magnetic glance of Venturita hypnotized him.

"You did wrong in bringing me to your room," he said, as he passed his
handkerchief over his forehead.

"Why?" she asked, opening and shutting her eyes several times, which
were like stars at the close of a hot day in summer.

"Because I don't feel well," he returned, with the same smile.

"You really feel ill?" replied the girl, opening her eyes wide with an
innocent expression.

"A little."

"Shall I call some one?"

"No; it is your eyes that hurt me."

"Oh, come!" she exclaimed, with a laugh, as if that were of no
consequence; "then I will shut them."

"Oh, no; don't shut them, or I shall be much worse."

"Then I will go," she said, rising from her chair.

"That would kill me, my girl! Do you know why I am ill? It is because
it kills me not to be able to kiss your eyes."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Venturita, with a burst of laughter. "How bad it
must be! I am sorry not to be able to cure you."

"Will you let me die?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Let me kiss your hair, then."

"No."

"Your hands."

"No."

"Let me kiss something of yours. See, you are doing me a lot of harm."

"Kiss this glove," said the girl, laughing, and taking one from the
toilet table. Gonzalo seized it, and kissed it passionately several
times.

The reader, who may have denounced Gonzalo in his heart as a disloyal,
perfidious fellow, or at least weak, and maybe deserving the appellation
of "a disagreeable character," as the critics say when the people in
novels are not all as heroic and as clever as might be wished, must
imagine himself in that little nest, as full of perfume as the chalice
of a magnolia, with the youngest daughter of the Belinchons, dressed in
a blue-ribboned peignoir, revealing a good part of her neck, like roses
and milk, with her shining blue eyes on him, and a soft, melodious voice
that moved his very soul, and if the girl gave him a glove, saying
"kiss it," he must think whether he could refrain from doing so.

"You must calm yourself, Gonzalo," she said, with a smile that would
have bewitched St. Anthony.

"Yes, yes."

"Very well. Now we must talk seriously and review the situation."

Gonzalo became grave.

"After what you said to me three days ago I did think that before now
you would have said something to mama, or papa, or that you would have
written. But no; you not only let the time slip by, so that things get
worse every day, but I see that you are more affectionate and attentive
to Cecilia than ever."

Gonzalo made a negative gesture.

"Yes; I saw you a moment ago through the keyhole of the room. Nothing
escapes me. Now this is very bad if you don't love her; and if you do
love her, it is treating me badly."

"Are you not yet sure that you alone possess my heart?" said the young
man, raising his eyes toward her.

"No."

"Then yes, yes; a thousand times yes. But I can not treat Cecilia in a
cold, indifferent manner. That would be very ugly. I prefer to tell her
plainly and end the matter once for all."

"Then tell her."

"I do not dare."

"Then don't tell her, and you and I will have done with each other.
Better so," returned the girl with impatience.

"For God's sake, don't speak like that, Ventura! I shall think you don't
love me. You must understand that my position is awkward, strange, and
terrible. To be on the eve of marrying an excellent girl; then without
any quarrel whatever, without any warning of any kind, to suddenly say
to her: 'It is all over. I can not marry you because I do not love you,
and I never have loved you,' is the most brutal and hateful thing that
has ever been known. Besides, I don't know how your parents will take my
behavior. It is most probable that, justly indignant on her behalf, they
will load me with reproaches and forbid me the house."

"Very well; marry her--and go in peace!" said Venturita, turning
somewhat pale.

"That I'll never do. I marry you, or nobody."

"Then what are we to do?"

"I don't know," returned the youth, hanging his head in distress.

Both remained silent for some seconds. Then Venturita, placing her hand
on his head, said:

"Think it over, man; think it over."

"I do, but with no result."

"You can't manage it. Come, then; go along, and leave it to me. I will
speak to mama; but you must write a letter to Cecilia."

"Oh, my God! Ventura!" he exclaimed, full of anguish.

"Then what do you want--say?" asked the girl, now in a rage. "Do you
think I am going to be made a plaything of?"

"If we could only manage without this letter," returned Gonzalo humbly.
"You can't imagine the effort it will be for me. Would it not do if I
left off coming to the house for some days?"

"Yes, yes; be off and don't come back!" she replied, taking a step to
the door.

But the youth caught her by the tresses of her hair.

"Come, don't be cross, beautiful one; you well know that you have
completely conquered and fascinated me, and that I will obey your every
command, even to casting myself into the sea. I only told you my
opinion--if you don't like it, I have nothing more to say. I only want
to avoid hurting Cecilia."

"It is like your conceit!" exclaimed the girl, without turning round.
"Do you think Cecilia is going to die of grief?"

"If she is not hurt, so much the better, and I shall be saved remorse."

"Cecilia is cold; she can not love or hate much. She is very good, and
does not know what selfishness is; but you will always find her the
same, neither happy nor sad. She is incapable of either giving or taking
offense; at least, if she does take it, nobody knows it. What are you
doing?" she added, turning round quickly.

"I am untying the ribbons of your tresses. I want to see your hair loose
again. No sight gives me more pleasure."

"If that is your fancy, I will undo them. Stop," said the girl, who had
reason to be proud of her hair.

"Oh, how beautiful! It is a marvel of nature!" exclaimed Gonzalo,
putting his fingers in it. "Let me bury my face in it; let me bathe in
this river of gold."

And so saying, he hid his face in the fair locks of the girl.

But it happened that a few minutes earlier, as the clock struck seven,
the seamstress and the embroideresses had left off their work and
prepared to leave. Before doing so Valentina was commissioned by Dona
Paula to go to Venturita's room to fetch thence some patterns on the
wardrobe. So she pushed open the door at the critical moment in which
Gonzalo was bathing his face in that original manner. On hearing the
sound he rose suddenly and stood, paler than wax. Valentina blushed up
to her eyes, and said stammeringly:

"Your mother wants the patterns, those of the other day; they ought to
be on the wardrobe."

"They are not on the wardrobe, but inside it," returned Venturita,
without any confusion whatsoever.

And turning to the wardrobe, the girl opened a drawer and drew out a
paper parcel, which she gave her.

"Stop a moment, Valentina," said Venturita before she left the room; "be
so kind as to tie my hair, for I can not do it with this bad finger."

Then she showed that her finger was bleeding, for she had managed to
scratch it when getting the patterns out. Valentina, still quite taken
aback, proceeded to tie the ribbon.

"Yes, my hair hurt me, and on untying the ribbon I scratched it with the
pin which fastened the bow. Poor Gonzalo could not manage to do it very
well, eh?" she added, with a laugh.

"Oh, no!" said the youth with a forced smile, amazed at her calmness.
The excuse, well conceived as it was, did not deceive Valentina, who was
quite certain of what she had seen.

"Do you think she was taken in by that story of the scratch?" anxiously
asked Gonzalo when the girl had left the room.

"Perhaps not, but I don't mind her; she is the most stupid of the lot."

Valentina took the patterns to her mistress, and then started to go
home until the following day.

On crossing the hall she distinctly heard the sound of a kiss, and on
looking in its direction, toward the dark room, she caught sight of the
black and white checks of Nieves's dress.

"So this is the way the wind blows, is it?" she murmured, with that
particular little frown that characterized her. Then she descended the
staircase and passed into the street, where Cosme was waiting to escort
her home.




CHAPTER XI

MEETING IN SUPPORT OF THE FOURTH ESTATE


The 9th of June, 1860, ought to be recorded in letters of gold in the
annals of the town of Sarrio, for Don Rosendo, supported by Alvaro Pena
and his son Pablo, appointed the afternoon of that day to meet at the
theatre for the discussion of a subject of _vital_ (Don Rosendo would
not for the world have omitted the word "vital") interest to the town of
Sarrio and its suburbs.

Only four or five of the most intimate friends of the merchant were
acquainted with the noble and patriotic project which had prompted the
invitation; so, drawn by curiosity as much as by courtesy, those who had
been asked arrived at three o'clock precisely, and many came to the
meeting who had not received an invitation.

The theatre was packed quite full. The patrician townsfolk took
possession of the boxes and stalls, while the plebeians repaired to the
gallery. On the stage there was a writing-table, old and dirty, and
round it were placed half a dozen chairs, neither new nor clean, for
they served as furniture for any "poorly furnished rooms" in a play.
The stage was still empty, although the theatre was full, and the whole
house was almost in darkness, for what little light there was came
through the dusty panes of a window at the back of the stage.

In time one's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and one could
distinguish the people as they entered and proceeded cautiously along
the line of boxes, so as to avoid knocking against anybody, touching the
craniums of the occupants, in their search for vacant seats.

"There is no room here, Don Rufo."

"Is there no place?" asked the medical man with the vacant smile of the
blind.

"No; go up to the stage boxes."

"Come here, Don Rufo; come here," cried some one in the front.

"Is that you, Cipriano?"

And after more pushing and struggling the newcomer managed to get
settled. One arrival, more wide-awake than the others, lighted a wax
taper, but instantly there arose voices from the gallery:

"Eh, eh! Cat's eyes, Don Juan! When you go at night to Peonza's house
you don't have a taper then."

Don Juan hastened to extinguish it, to avoid the insults and shouts of
laughter leveled at him by the idle crowd.

As time went on the hum of conversation grew deafening. The patronizers
of the gallery expressed their impatience by stamps, cries, and shouts,
while exchanging with each other, over the heads of the occupants of the
stalls, jokes and remarks which were coarse in the extreme. It was a
good thing that there were no ladies present.

At last four gentlemen appeared on the stage--Don Rosendo Belinchon,
Alvaro Pena, Don Feliciano Gomez, and Don Rudesindo Cepeda, proprietor
of the finest cider distillery. The four men took off their hats as they
assembled on the stage. Silence suddenly reigned. Some of the
audience--the minority--also took off their hats; the majority, more
veiled in darkness, and more inclined to discourtesy, so prevalent in
the gallery, remained covered. Don Rosendo and his friends smiled
shamefacedly at the audience, and, to overcome the oppressive feeling of
nervousness and embarrassment, they began talking to the occupants of
the front row of stalls who were within sight. Alvaro Pena, more
courageous by dint of his military experience, advanced to the front of
the stage, and, giving an exaggeratedly familiar tone to his remarks,
and aimlessly smiling like a ballet girl, said:

"Senores, my coadjutors are as anxious as myself for all persons of note
in the audience to come up here, so that they may assist us with their
support, eh? and with their knowledge, eh?--in short, that they may
second us in the enterprise about to be inaugurated." The harbor-master
pronounced his r's very much like j's.

The modesty conveyed by this suggestion was received with a murmur of
applause from the assembly.

"Is not Don Pedro Miranda here?" asked Pena, now at his ease, and
resuming the despotic military air peculiar to him.

"Here he is--here!" cried several voices.

Don Pedro, however, remonstrated with those who pushed him toward the
stage.

"But, senores, why? What is the object? There are other people."

But there was no help for it. He was gradually pushed to the stage, and
as there were no steps by which to climb, Pena and Don Feliciano Gomez
pulled him up by the hands on to the boards.

"Now, Don Rufo, come up."

Don Rufo, the chief doctor of the town, after protesting a little, was
also pulled up in the same way. And by the same simple means five or six
more gentlemen arrived upon the stage. Each ascent was greeted with loud
applause and a murmur of delight from the friendly gathering. The
officer then seeing Gabino Maza seated in a chair by the wall, cried out
cheerfully:

"Gabino, I did not see you! Come, man; come along."

"I am very well here," cried the huffy ex-officer of the navy, dryly.

"Shall I come down for you?"

Maza returned in a loud voice:

"There is no need."

"Come, Don Gabino, go up. Don't be idle. Men like you ought to be there.
There is only you now to go up!"

And at the same time they tried to push him on. But all entreaties were
in vain. Maza was as determined to remain in the box as the others were
that he should leave it. Then Alvaro Pena came down after him, but after
a long altercation he was obliged to retire defeated.

The stage was now almost full. More chairs were brought from the actors'
dressing-rooms, the most aristocratic residents of Sarrio took their
seats, and then ensued a consultation to decide who was to be the
chairman of the meeting.

In this there seemed to be some difficulty in coming to an agreement,
and the public gave signs of impatience. The majority was of opinion
that the honor of sitting behind the pine-wood table was due to Don
Rosendo, but he declined it with a modesty much redounding to his
credit. At last, however, he took the chair, as he saw the public was
getting tired; the applause was tremendous. Fresh and wearisome
discussion ensued as to who was to open the meeting. Alvaro Pena, a man
of impulse and action, finally took a few steps toward the curtain; and
said in a loud voice:

"Gentlemen."

"Sh! Sh! Silence!" cried several voices, and silence reigned.

"Gentlemen, the object of this meeting is no other, eh? than for us to
unite in the support of the material and moral interests of Sarrio. Some
days ago our most worthy president informed me that they were
deteriorating, eh? and that it was necessary to support them at all
costs. Gentlemen, there are many questions at issue in Sarrio at this
critical time--the question of the covered market, the question of the
cemetery, the question of the road to Rodillero, the question of the
slaughter-house, and many others; and I said to my worthy friend, the
only means of solving these problems was to call a meeting at which all
the Sarrienses could freely give their opinions."

"What?" cried a sharp voice from the gallery.

Pena darted an angry look in the direction of the sound, and as he was
known to be a violent man, and had great, fierce mustachios, the fellow
trembled in his skin, and did not venture to make a second ejaculation.

"My good friend, whose large heart and love of progress is known to
all, said to me some time ago that he was of the same opinion, and that,
moreover, he had a plan that he was anxious to lay before this
illustrious assembly. Therefore we have called our friends of Sarrio to
a public meeting, and here we are--because we have come."

This collapse produced an excellent effect on the audience, who laughed
and clapped their hands good-naturedly.

"Gentlemen," continued the captain, encouraged by the sound of
merriment, "I believe that what this place requires is to be roused from
its state of lethargy to the life of reason and progress, eh?--to rise
to the height of the progress of the century, to take stock of itself
and its powers. Hitherto Sarrio has been a town under the sway of
theocracy; plenty of nones, sermons, and rosaries, and no thought of the
advance of its interests and the knowledge of anything useful. We must
get out of this state, eh?--we must shake off the theocratic yoke. A
place governed by priests is always a backward and a squalid place."
(Laughter and applause, mingled with hisses.)

The officer spoke better at the conclusion of his speech, and even
acquired a certain aplomb during his denunciation of priestcraft.

"May I be allowed to say a word?" cried a clear voice from a box.

"Who is it? Who is it?" asked the audience and the dignitaries of the
stage of one another.

"It is Perinolo's son."

"Who?"

"Perinolo's son. Perinolo's son."

These words were repeated in a low tone all over the theatre.

Perinolo's son was a pale youth with large, prominent eyes. Nothing else
was visible in the semi-darkness of the place, which was fortunate for
him, for a good light would have revealed the crumpled front of his
shirt and the disheveled locks of his hair, and the holes in his boots
and his threadbare trousers would have been seen through the balustrade
of the box. But all the people of Sarrio knew him from meeting him
constantly in the street or at the cafes. I must say that, in spite of
his appearance, he was a lad of gentle mien and disposition.

His father, Senor Maria el Perinolo, the boot-maker in the town, was
quite an institution. He was one of the few old artisans who in the
middle of the century still retained the jacket and large hat of former
times. He was a Carlist fanatic, a member of all the religious
confraternities; he told his beads in the afternoon as the bell from the
Church of St. Andrew rang for prayer; accompanied by several womenfolk,
he joined in the processions of Holy Week with its disciplinary garb and
a crown of thorns, and he had under his care the Chapel of the
Nazarene, in the Calle de Atras. This poor saint, who had never given
anybody cause to speak against him (supreme testimony of honesty among
the lower classes), brought up his own son, Sinforoso, and two others in
the holy fear of God, and the strap, scourgings, penances on his knees,
days on bread and water, ear-pullings, and blows, constituted the tender
memories of Sinforoso's childhood.

As he grew from boyhood and youth he showed signs of having profited by
his father's teaching. Perinolo made up his mind that the lad's vocation
was not in the direction of boot-making, but of becoming a pillar of the
Romish Church. Means, were, however, wanting to send him to the seminary
at Lancia, so Don Melchor de las Cuevas, Don Rudesindo, and the parish
priest spontaneously came to his assistance, and allowed the lad three
pesetas a day until he could intone the mass. But at the end of the
second year of theology these gentlemen received from the seminarist an
elegantly expressed letter in which he stated that he did not feel
called by God to an ecclesiastical career, and that rather than be a bad
priest he would learn his father's business, or go to America; and it
ended by entreating in fervent terms that he might be allowed to
exchange theology for the law, for which he had a predilection, so as to
modify the disappointment of his father. His benefactors acceded to the
request, and Sinforoso finally became a pillar of the state instead of
the church, as Perinolo had wished.

While pursuing his studies with marks of commendation from the beginning
to the close, he contributed several articles to the daily papers, by
which achievement he considered himself entitled to let his hair grow
and wear eye-glasses. So that the licentiate returned to Sarrio with an
aureole of glory befitting one who had won his spurs and still waged war
in the press of the day. He attached himself to the most advanced
Liberal party, which alienated him from his people. His father was
greatly enraged with him, and it was only through his mother's
intercession that he let him remain in the house. He never spoke to him
or gave him a centime for his expenses, but merely let him sleep under
his roof and partake of their scanty fare. At the end of a few months
the youth's boots became shabby, and his clothes looked wretched; but
the man of letters carried it off by the reserve and gravity of his
physiognomy and the self-importance of his deportment. He spent the
morning reading in bed, and the afternoon and evening in loud
discussions at the cafe of what he read in the morning. The townfolk did
not like him, but they respected his talents and dignity.

"Who asked permission to speak?" queried Don Rosendo.

"Suarez--Sinforoso Suarez," said the youth, bending over the rail.

"Then you have it, Senor Suarez."

The young man coughed, ran the fingers of both hands through his hair,
leaving it rougher and more tumbled than ever, put on his glasses that
he wore hanging by a string, and said:

"Gentlemen."

The quiet, impressive tone with which he said this word, the long pause
that followed it, during which he fixed his glasses on his nose and
looked at the audience in a superior way, inspired silence and
attention.

"After the brilliant speech which has just been given us by Senor Pena,
my respected friend, the illustrious harbor-master of this port [the
captain, who had never spoken to Suarez more than three times in his
life, bowed graciously], the assembly is quite convinced of the generous
and patriotic feelings which prompted the promoters of this meeting.
There is nothing so beautiful, nothing so grand, nothing so sublime as
to see a town met together to discuss the dearest, highest interests of
life.

"Ah, gentlemen, when listening just now to Senor Pena I imagined myself
in the Agora of Athens, a free citizen, with other citizens, free as
myself, discussing the destiny of my country; I imagined I heard the
ardent, eloquent words of one of those great orators who adorned the
Hellenic State. Why, the eloquence of my dear friend, Senor Pena, was
like the overwhelming passion that characterized Demosthenes, the prince
of orators, and like the fluency and elegance that distinguished the
discourses of Pericles. [Pause, with his hand to his glasses.] He was
bright and animated, like Cleon; deliberate and temperate, like
Aristides; his intonation was quiet and precise, like that of Esquines,
and his voice was pleasant to the ear, like that of Isocrates.

"Ah, gentlemen, I, like the eloquent orator who has preceded me on the
subject, desire that the place which gave me birth may awake to the life
of progress, to the life of liberty and justice. Sarrio! What sweet
recollections, what ineffable happiness does this single word awaken in
my soul! Here were passed the days of my childhood. Here my mind began
to form. Here love made my heart palpitate for the first time. Elsewhere
my mind has been enriched by the knowledge of science, and the grand
ideas engendered by the study of law; here my soul has been nourished by
the sweet and holy feelings of the hearth. Elsewhere my intelligence has
been sharpened by polemics and the light of ideas; here my affections
have been fostered by tender family love.

"Gentlemen, I will say it again, come what may, Sarrio is called to a
great destiny. It has a right to be one of the first towns on the
Biscayan coast, an emporium of activity and riches, by reason of the
excellent position which nature has given it, a harbor second to none,
as well as the integrity, industry, and the great gift of intelligence
of its inhabitants."

[_Bravo! Bravo! Unanimous and loud applause._]

The silence, caused more by surprise than any bad feeling, was now
broken, and the "bravos" and applause continued without intermission.
Never had the industrious, honest, intelligent people of Sarrio heard
any one speak so fluently and eloquently before.

"That discourse was a revelation of the modern parliamentary style!" So
Alvaro Pena said when the meeting was over.

The speech continued half an hour longer, amid the increasing enthusiasm
of the audience, when one of the notabilities on the platform thought
that his throat must be dry, and that it was time to give him a glass of
sugared water.

The idea was communicated in an undertone to the president, who
interrupted the orator with the remark:

"If Senor Suarez is fatigued, he can rest. I am going to have a glass of
water sent him."

These words were received with a murmur of approval.

"I am not tired, Senor President," the orator replied gently.

[_Yes, yes; rest. Make him rest. Let him have a glass of water. He will
hurt himself. Let him have a few drops of anise._]

The audience, suddenly inspired with tender sympathy, manifested quite a
maternal solicitude for Perinolo's son, who, inflated with delight,
smiled on the audience and continued:

"Fatigue is fitting for valiant soldiers. Those who, like myself, are
accustomed to the tribune [he had spoken a few times in the Academy of
Jurisprudence in Lancia], do not easily become fatigued."

We must now say that Mechacar, a shoemaker, a neighbor, and a rival of
many years' standing of Senor Jose Maria Perinolo, who had known
Sinforoso from his birth, and had often given him two or three beatings
with the strap, when on his return from school he annoyed him by calling
him by some contemptuous nickname, was in the gallery with his hands
resting on the rail, and his face, alert and attentive, on his hands. No
enthusiasm shone in those eyes under the lowering brows, as in those of
the others; but envy, hatred, and malice were visible on the
countenance. When the honeyed words of his rival fell upon his ears he
felt powerless to stand the farce, and he called out in a rage:

"Stop that rubbish, you fool!"

[_Indescribable indignation of the audience. All eyes were turned to the
gallery. Voices were heard saying:_]

"Who is this brawler? To the prison with him! Out with the fool!"

The president asked with terrible severity:

"Are we in a civilized town, or among Hottentots?"

The question thus formulated produced a profound impression upon the
audience. Suarez, slightly pale, and in an agitated voice, finally said:

"If the meeting desire it, I am ready to sit down."

[_No, no. Go on! Loud and prolonged applause for the orator._]

The indignation against the rude disturber increased to such a degree
that sounds of threats were audible, and several shook their fists in
the direction whence the voice had proceeded. Alvaro Pena, the Greek
orator, more indignant than anybody, finally went up to the gallery and
put Mechacar out of the theatre by force, amid the applause of the
public.

The storm abated, the orator continued. He made a wide digression
through the fields of history to prove that from the Roman conquest,
when Spain was divided into citerior and ulterior Hispania, and
afterward into Tarraco, Betica, and Lusitania, and so on down to the
present day, the Sarrienses had on all occasions given proof of a
powerful intellect, very superior to that of the people of Nieva.

Such assertions were received with great signs of approval. Then
suddenly passing into the region of law, he gently touched upon branches
of knowledge that are not common, particularly in Sarrio--the science of
Tribonianus and Papinianus.

On arriving at a certain point he said, with a modesty that did him
credit:

"What I have just observed, senor, has no scientific value whatsoever.
Every boy and girl knows it who has made the acquaintance of the
pandectas."

Don Jeronimo de la Fuente, a schoolmaster of the town who had studied
the modern methods of pedagogics, and knew something of Froebel and
Pestalozzi, a celebrated man who had written a primer on irregular verbs
and kept a telescope at his window always turned toward the heavens, now
rose from his seat and said:

"Corporal punishment has been stopped in the schools for some years."

"I did not say 'palmetas' [blows]; I said 'pan-dec-tas'" [digest of
law], returned Suarez, smiling with some vexation.

Don Jeronimo was angry at having made such a mistake.

The orator continued, and finally resumed his seat, saying, like the
eloquent officer who had preceded him, that Sarrio must awake to the
life of progress; that she must arise from the lethargy in which she
lay, and that she must take part in the struggle of ideas, which are
always fruitful; and that she must let the radiant sun of civilization
rise on her horizon.

"If it be true, as I have heard, that, thanks to the patriotic and
generous initiative of a most worthy citizen of this town, the Fourth
Estate of modern powers is about to celebrate its advent here; if, in
fact, Sarrio will be presented with a periodical which will reflect her
legitimate aspirations, let it be the palladium for the exercise of her
intelligence, the promoter of her dearest interests, the advanced
protector of her tranquillity and peace, the organ, in short, by which
she may have communion with the intellectual world. Let us congratulate
ourselves with all our hearts, and let us also congratulate the
illustrious patrician whose efforts will bring to us a ray of this
luminous star of the nineteenth century which is called the press."

[_Bravo, bravo! All eyes are turned to the chairman. The face of Don
Rosendo beams with dignity and delight._]

After the son of Perinolo came Don Jeronimo de la Fuente.

The illustrious professor of the instruction of youth was very anxious
to rise in the eyes of the public after his slip about the pandectas. He
began by saying that he shared the opinions of the worthy orator [notice
that he did not say eloquent, or illustrious, but worthy, nothing more]
who had preceded him on the subject; that he, destined by his profession
to light the torch of science in infantile brains, could not do less
than be a devoted partizan of all modern enlightenment, more especially
of that of the press. In corroboration of this statement he begged to
say that as soon as a periodical in Sarrio was an established fact he
would have the pleasure of laying before his fellow-citizens the
solution of a problem which until now was considered insoluble, that of
the trisection of the angle, to which he had devoted much time and
trouble, and which, fortunately, now was crowned with success.

He spoke, moreover, with great emphasis on other matters--of physical
geography and astronomy, clearly and briefly explaining the earth's
rotation and progression, the composition of air, the formation of the
clouds and dew, the origin of the salt of the sea, of springs and
rivers, the scientific cause of tides, and also something about the
cause of volcanoes.

Afterward, just by the way, he passed on to an explanation of the
celestial mechanism, and particularly the law of universal attraction,
discovered by Newton, by which planets move round the sun in elliptic
orbits. Then he explained with great brilliancy the nature of an
ellipsis.

Finally, speaking of our satellite the moon, he remarked that the time
of its revolution round the earth was sensibly diminishing, which
indicated the decrease of its orbit. This, according to the orator,
would sooner or later result in the moon falling into the earth, when
both would be shattered.

Don Jeronimo then resumed his seat, leaving the audience quite crushed
under the weight of this alarming prophecy.

The proceedings went on until the lamps were lighted.

Don Rufo, the town doctor, a tall, lean man, with a pointed beard and
gold eyeglasses, then got up and declared explicitly in a few words that
thought was only a physiological function of the brain, and the soul an
attribute of matter, and that the greater or less degree of intelligence
in animals depends on the cerebral lobules and the weight of the brain.
The orator computed that its weight in a man was three pounds and a
half. Then he gave the calculation of the phosphoric matter that it
contains. Man's brain contains more phosphorus than animals', while
theirs have more than birds'. In children the quantity of phosphorus
increases considerably at the natal hour, and it continues to increase
rapidly with the course of time.

But in what part of the brain is the spark of intellectual activity
situated? asked the orator. In his opinion this activity has its
mainspring in the grayish or bluish substance, and in some way in the
whitish substance, which is the conductor of such activity.

He then spoke of the dura mater, the hemispheres of the brain, the
frontal, parietal, and occipital parts of the skull, the function of the
cerebrum, the seat of the cerebellum.

Here the speaker conceived the happy idea of making a beautiful
comparison between the circumlocutions of this gray substance and a heap
of intestines thrown promiscuously together. All the faculties which we
call the soul are nothing but functions of this gray substance, of this
mass of intestines. The brain secretes thoughts, as the liver does bile.
The orator concluded by saying that while humanity is ignorant of these
truths it can not rise from its present state of barbarism.

Navarro, the veterinary professor, who never wished to be behind the
doctor, then asked leave to speak, and after a few words of
congratulation on the inauguration of the "meeting" (all the speakers
used the English term), he gave expression of a few very rational ideas
on the gangrenous quinsy of the pig, and the treatment for its
prevention. The orator hesitated, stuttered, and grew hot in the
expression of his ideas, but this deficiency of language was compensated
for by the novelty and interest of the subject, for numbers of these
nice animals fell victims to quinsy at certain seasons in Sarrio.

In spite of the interest and respect with which the public listened to
the discourse on the danger which threatened pig-farming, there were
certainly signs of impatience to hear the president's speech. After the
allusion of Perinolo's son to the fact of a journal, every one was
anxious to have the news confirmed. While Navarro was talking a voice
from the gallery cried:

"Let Don Rosendo speak!"

And although this rude interruption was rebuked with a prompt "Sh!" it
was evident that they had had enough of Navarro.

At last the celebrated man of Sarrio, the standard-bearer of all
progress, the illustrious patrician, Don Rosendo Belinchon, reared his
majestic figure behind the table.

[_Silence! Sh! Sh! Silence, gentlemen! Attention! A little attention,
please._]

These were the cries that proceeded from the crowd, although nobody
dared move a finger, such was the anxiety of all to hear the president's
remarks.

Like all men of a really superior mind and clear intelligence, Don
Rosendo wrote better than he spoke. Nevertheless, his quiet mode of
speech gave an impression of dignity that was wanting in the orators who
had preceded him.

"Gentlemen [pause], I thank [pause] all the people [pause] who have
assisted [pause] this afternoon [pause] at the meeting which I have had
the honor to convene. [Much longer pause, rife with expectation.] I have
a real pleasure [pause] in seeing gathered together in this place
[pause] the most illustrious persons of the town [pause], and all those
who, for one reason or another, are of consequence and importance."

[_Bravo! Very good! Very good!_]

After this exordium, received in such a flattering style, the orator
maintained that he was moved by the desire to raise the intellectual
tone of Sarrio. Then he added that the object of this meeting had only
been that of raising this tone. [_Long applause._] He considered himself
too weak and incompetent to accomplish the task. [_No, no. Applause._]
But he counted on--at least he thought he could count on--the support of
the many men of feeling, patriotism, intelligence, and progress
dwelling in Sarrio. [_Thunders of applause._] The means that he
considered most efficacious to raise Sarrio to its rightful height, and
to make it compete worthily with other towns, and even maritime towns of
more importance, was the creation of an organ that would support its
political, moral, and material interests. "And, gentlemen [pause],
although all the difficulties are not yet overcome [pause], I have the
pleasure of informing this illustrious assembly [_Attention! Sh! Sh!
Silence!_] that perhaps in the ensuing month of August [_Bravo! Bravo!
Loud and frantic applause that interrupted the orator for some
minutes_]--that perhaps in the ensuing month of August [_Bravo! Bravo!
Silence!_] the town of Sarrio will have a biweekly paper."

[_Loud applause. Navarro threw his hat upon the stage. Several other
spectators followed his example._] Alvaro Pena and Don Feliciano Gomez
employed themselves in picking them up and returning them to their
owners. Don Rosendo's face shone with an august expression, and his
lips, wreathed with a happy smile, revealed the two symmetrical rows of
teeth, eloquent proof of dental skill.

"In spite of these expressions of regard [pause], for which I thank you
from the bottom of my soul [pause], pride does not blind me. My want of
power [_No, no. Applause_.] makes me fear that the organ about to be
started may not come up to the expectations of the public."

[_Voices from various sides: "Yes, it will. We are sure it will."
Applause._]

"But if, perhaps [pause], the lack of cleverness can be atoned for by
faith and enthusiasm, it will certainly be so. My humble pen and my
modest fortune are at the disposal of the town of Sarrio."

[_Vehement signs of approbation._]

"The new paper," continued the orator, "has a great mission to fulfil.
This mission consists in starting the reforms and the advancement which
the town requires." The necessity of these reforms and advancement was
known to all the world. The covered market was absolutely indispensable;
the road to Rodillero was the constant desire of both places; and as to
the slaughter-house, Don Rosendo asked with surprise how the town could
consent to the existence of a focus of filth like the present one, which
was a perfect disgrace to the place.

Gabino from his seat had listened to the speakers with marked disdain
and disgust. He turned about in his chair as if it were hurting him, and
he was filled with an overwhelming desire to cry out to the orators:
"Asses! Fools!" as he was accustomed to in the Club, or to slash out at
them with one of his fiercest sarcasms. These fooleries thoroughly
upset him. It was not surprising, when we recollect the state of the
ex-sailor's liver. He breathed with difficulty, he ground his teeth, he
smiled sarcastically, and was paralyzed with rage, thus showing his
disapprobation of all that had been said, all that was being said, and
all that would be said. Occasionally he gave vent to a "Bah!" or a
"Pooh!" or a "Pshaw!" and other peculiar sounds not less significant.

Finally, in the middle of Don Rosendo's discourse, either because his
grave eloquence was incontrovertible, or because the applause
exasperated him to an intolerable degree, Gabino left the place and
walked up and down in front of the door of the theatre in a pitiable
state of agitation. In a few minutes he returned, and then went up into
the gallery. Then, hearing Don Rosendo touch upon the matter of the
slaughter-house, he left his seat, and, arriving in the first row, cried
out excitedly, "This is not fair play."

On hearing the remark Don Rosendo stopped suddenly, dumb and pale. A
loud murmur of surprise ran through the whole theatre. Some cried, "Out
with him!" Others said, "Sh! Sh!" and the eyes of all, after being
directed to the gallery, were turned to the chairman. Don Rosendo, quite
agitated, said with a hoarse voice:

"Gentlemen, if these remarks have shown that I have had any unworthy
thoughts in the convocation of this meeting, my delicacy forbids me to
remain in the chair, and I retire."

[_No, no! Go on! Go on! Long live the president!_]

"I am sure, gentlemen," said the orator, visibly moved, "that the
individual who has just called out is not a resident of Sarrio; he was
not born in Sarrio! He can't belong to Sarrio!"

Somebody having murmured that the interlocutor was of Nieva, great
indignation and confusion reigned in the theatre. A formidable cry of
"Down with the bullfinches! Viva Sarrio!" It must be mentioned that the
people of Nieva were called bullfinches on account of the great number
of these birds there, while the people of Sarrio are called in Nieva
chaffinches for a similar reason.

The excitement having at last abated, Don Rosendo acknowledged the
applause with thanks and acceded to the persuasions of the audience, and
returned to his place.

"Before again occupying this seat [the president had retired to the back
of the stage], I must say that if this popinjay or bullfinch
[_laughter_] wants to force from me an opinion on the subject of the
slaughter-house, I have no objection to giving it, because I am always
straightforward. [_Great interest. You could have heard a pin drop._] I
solemnly declare, gentlemen, that in my opinion the new slaughter-house
ought not to be put anywhere but on the rubbish chute."

The orator terminated his eloquent speech with a few more words, and the
meeting broke up.

The audience left the theatre, half asphyxiated, as much by the many
emotions experienced in a short time as by the hundred and four degrees
of heat in the place.




CHAPTER XII

THE STORY OF A TEAR


All this happened in exalted spheres, while in the obscure regions of
private life events were transpiring which, albeit not so memorable,
were of some importance to those concerned.

On the day following the interview already narrated between Venturita
and Gonzalo, the young man did not appear at his betrothed's; he
remained at home, feigning a seizure of violent toothache. Such at least
was the news that reached Cecilia through Elvira, the maid, who met Don
Melchor's servant on the market-place. As the young man did not appear
the next day either, the family thought he was still suffering, but
Venturita and Valentina were not deceived. The embroideress avoided
meeting the girl's eyes, perhaps from fear of embarrassing her, or
because she herself felt embarrassed without knowing why. Venturita was
as merry as ever; and Cecilia, the only one anxious enough to be silent,
took a toothache mixture from her wardrobe, copied out a prayer to Saint
Polonia which had been given her, and calling Elvira mysteriously
aside, she said with a deep blush:

"Elvira, will you be so kind as to take this bottle and paper to Senor
Gonzalo?"

"Now, at once?"

"As soon as you can. If you have nothing to do just now---- But I don't
want it to be talked about."

"All right, senorita," returned the pale little brunette, smiling
kindly, "nobody shall know a word about it. Your mother was just asking
for some starch, so I will go and get some."

When Gonzalo received the little packet, he was overwhelmed with
remorse, and paced up and down the room in agitation. Three or four
times he was on the point of taking his hat, going to the Belinchons'
house, and letting things go on as before. All the feelings of honor,
kindness, and goodness inherent in him, the voice of reason which spoke
for Cecilia--in one word, the good angel which every man has within him,
impelled him to this course. But he could not drive the pretty, graceful
image of Venturita from his mind: the fire of her eyes seemed still to
pierce his soul, the sweet, voluptuous touch of her golden hair--in
fact, his bad angel held him back. Gonzalo was a man of physical health,
powerful muscles, rich blood, but with a weak will. Evil spirits fear
delicate constitutions more than a fine one like his. The battle fought
by his good and bad angels did not last long; it was soon decided in
favor of the latter by means of a note from Venturita brought by the
other maid of the house. It ran thus:

     "Don't be impatient. To-day I will speak to mama. Trust in me.

                                VENTURITA."

The look of the maid as she gave this note seemed, in spite of her
smile, to convey a tacit reproach, which somewhat upset him. He
dismissed her with a handsome tip; and on opening the letter with a
trembling hand, he noticed the sandal perfume, always used by Venturita,
and as it recalled to his mind the bewitching, beautiful girl, it set
chords vibrating in his being which had hitherto remained untouched. He
put the letter to his lips, and intoxicated with passion, he kissed it
effusively many times.

Poor Cecilia! She had taken the first piece of paper that came to hand,
and without waiting for perfumes, she generally wrote to her lover in
pencil.

If women only knew the importance of these wretched details!

Venturita had been hovering about her mother all day, waiting for an
opportunity of speaking privately to her. In the evening, when the
needlewomen had gone, the mother and daughter were at last alone.
Cecilia had retired to her room, a prey to a depression that she had
tried to combat by work during the day. Dona Paula was seated in an
armchair with her eyes fixed on the window, looking at the last rays of
the setting sun, in a melancholy, pensive attitude unusual in her. She
seemed to forebode the trouble that was coming. Venturita put the
embroidery frames away in a corner, covered them over with a cloth,
arranged the chairs in order and dragged the work-basket to one side so
that it should not be in the way.

"Have the lights brought," said Dona Paula.

"Why?" returned the girl, taking a low chair by her side. "It is all
tidy now."

Her mother turned her eyes again to the window, and resumed her
melancholy attitude. At the end of some minutes' silence Venturita took
her parent's hand and raised it affectionately to her lips. Dona Paula
turned her head with surprise. Seldom, nay never, had her youngest
daughter given this respectful kiss. She smiled sweetly, and taking her
by the chin, she said:

"Are you pleased with the dress?"

"Yes, mama."

"It makes you a very pretty figure. If it is taken in a little at the
waist it will be charming."

The girl was silent, and after a minute she raised her eyes, and,
controlling her voice, said in a calm tone:

"I say, mama, what do you think of Gonzalo's retreat?"

"Gonzalo's retreat!" exclaimed the senora, turning her head anxiously.
"What do you mean, child?"

"Yes, his retreat, because I don't believe that he is ill; yesterday he
was playing billiards at the Marina Cafe all the evening."

"Bah! bah! you are joking."

"I am not joking; I am serious."

"And who told you that?"

"I know it from Nieves, who was told by her brother."

"The pain probably left him in the evening, and he went out for a little
change."

"Well, then, why did he not come to-day?"

"Because the pain no doubt returned."

"Don't you believe it, mama. You can be quite certain Gonzalo does not
love Cecilia."

"Do you know what you are saying, child? Be so good as to hold your
tongue, before you make me angry."

"I will be silent, but the proofs that he is giving of his affection are
not very great."

"That I should have to hear this!" said the senora, turning round
proudly. "If Gonzalo is somebody, Cecilia is as good. My daughter is not
to be treated with disrespect by Gonzalo, or the Prince of Asturias, do
you hear? I will inquire into the truth of what you have said, and if
it be true, I will take measures."

Dona Paula was naturally kind and gentle, a friend of the poor, and
generous; but she had the unreflective pride and the extreme touchiness
of the working class of Sarrio.

"No, mama, I don't mean that. Who said that Gonzalo treats Cecilia with
disrespect?"

"You yourself. Why does he not love her then?"

Venturita hesitated a moment, and then replied with firmness:

"Because he loves me."

"Come," said the senora laughing, "I ought to have seen from the first
that it was all a joke."

"It is not a joke, it is pure truth, and if you want convincing you can
see for yourself."

Then she drew from her bosom a letter which she had ready, and handed it
to her mother; whereupon Dona Paula sprang to her feet and cried:

"Quick! a light, quick!"

Venturita took a box of tapers that was on the table, and lighted one.

Mother and daughter were pale. The mother held the letter to the light,
and after reading a few lines she dropped into an armchair, and fixing
her eyes on her daughter with a sad expression, she said:

"Ventura, what have you done?"

"I? Nothing," returned the girl, letting the taper, which was nearly
burnt out, fall to the floor.

"Is it then nothing to you, you heartless, mad creature, to prevent the
marriage of your sister, to deceive her so abominably and to give rise
to such a scandal in the town as never was seen?"

"I have not done all this. He was the one to declare himself to me. Is
it then a sin to be loved?"

"On this occasion, yes," replied the senora severely; "at the first sign
you ought to have told me. To allow him to speak to you in any other way
than as to a sister was treachery to your sister, and does little credit
to yourself."

"Well, there it is," returned the girl in a scornful tone.

"Then it shall not be," said Dona Paula angrily, as she rose from her
seat. "What do you suggest? Come, say; or rather, what have you
suggested?"

"You can imagine."

"To marry each other, eh?" she asked in a sarcastic tone. "Then you are
greatly mistaken! The marriage of your sister is broken off--Well, it is
as good as broken off--Of course, you are free to marry Gonzalo, but
don't you think you will set foot in this house. In the first place, you
are a bad girl who ought to pay for your grimacings; and in any case
your father and I will not consent to your marrying a man who has
treated your sister so disgracefully and deceived us all round. People
would indeed say that we were dying to have him for a son-in-law, so
give up the idea, child."

"Well, if you like it or not," said Venturita, flouncing to the door, "I
shall marry him."

Dona Paula felt inclined to punish this insolence with corporal
punishment, but the girl quickly left the room and shut the door; then
half reopening it, she said in furious tone:

"I will marry him; I will marry him; I will marry him."

The following day Gonzalo received a letter from Ventura in which she
said:

"Yesterday I spoke to mama, and I think she will give in. Keep your
spirits up."

And in effect, that same morning mother and daughter renewed the
conversation in the daughter's room. It was a long interview, and we do
not know what transpired, but at the end of an hour Dona Paula appeared
with her eyes red with weeping and her hand on her heart, from which she
frequently suffered, and retiring to her room she went to bed.

Ventura came out behind her, quiet but pale, and calling Generosa, her
confidential maid, she gave her a letter for Gonzalo, who that evening
appeared at nine o'clock in front of Belinchon's house. A few minutes
later, Venturita opened the window of the library, which was on the
ground floor and protected with iron gratings.

"Everything is settled," she said in a falsetto voice, directly the
young man approached.

"No! How? Really?" he asked in a tone of delight.

"It has been a pretty hard task for me! She was furious."

"And your papa?"

"Papa knows nothing about it yet, but he will give in, too. See if he
won't give in. The measure taken could not have been more effectual."

"What measure?"

"The one I took. The whole business looked so hopeless that it would
have ended by your being forbidden the house, and I should have been
packed off to Tejada in disgrace. All entreaties, all arguments were in
vain; she was mad with rage, she called you an infamous traitor, you can
imagine how she spoke of me! Then I saw that there was nothing for it
but to take a strong measure; and it was somewhat strong," she added in
a low, changed voice.

"What strong measure?" asked Gonzalo with curiosity.

Venturita was silent for some moments, and then somewhat shamefacedly
returned:

"I told her--I told her that there was nothing else for us but to marry
each other."

"Why?"

"Why--why--guess why!" said the girl with impatience.

Then Gonzalo divined what she meant, and the knowledge filled him with
repugnance and terror. A gloomy silence fell upon him, and Venturita at
last said:

"Do you think it was wrong?"

"Yes," he returned dryly.

"All right, my boy; to-morrow I will tell her it was all a lie, and then
all is over between us."

"That won't do any good. I do not quarrel with the result, as you must
know, but with the way you have managed it."

"I lose more than you."

"Well, I feel it all the same."

"All right, then show it," she returned in a pet, jumping up from the
window-sill, where she had been seated.

But Gonzalo put his hand through the bars, and caught her by the dress.

"Stop."

The dress tore.

"Now you have torn my frock, do you see?"

"Well, don't go so quickly."

And succeeding in catching her by the arm, he obliged her to sit down
again.

"What rough manners!" exclaimed the girl, laughing; "that must be the
way bears make love."

"Do you love me?" asked Gonzalo, also laughing.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Give me your hand as a friend."

The girl then gave him her pink and white hand, and the herculean youth
kissed it passionately several times.

"Good-by till to-morrow, and I will tell you all the news," she said,
once more rising from her seat.

Gonzalo withdrew, and after taking a few steps he recollected that the
news signified the way in which Cecilia would take his disloyal conduct,
and his forehead corrugated with an expression of pain. In this state of
preoccupation he crossed the Rua Nueva, entered the Plaza de la Marina,
went along by the harbor, and reached the end of the mole. The night was
mild and clear. The stars shining in the firmament were reflected in the
tranquil waters of the bay. The rigging of the anchored shipping stood
out distinctly from the dark blue background. The hour for the
extinction of lights had not yet struck, and one could see several
lights and figures on the ships; the sailors reclining on the upper
decks were chatting before retiring to rest.

Occasionally a glance would be cast at a great English steamer anchored
in the middle of the harbor, and a sailor would call out, with an
exaggeration of the pronunciation:

"_All right_," and a schooner would echo the words, "_All right_" and
the cry would be taken up by all the tenders, schooners, and fishing
smacks. It was a joke upon the English anchored there. But it was
received with silence; the great steamer treated it with the phlegmatic,
profound contempt that nobody can assume better than a son of Albion.

The end of the mole was the resort of anybody who wished to enjoy the
fresh air. It was one of the hottest nights of August. Gonzalo,
overwhelmed by the heat and the difficulty of his position, walked along
with his hat in his hand. Before he reached the end of the mole he
caught sight of a gigantic figure on the second stage.

"I say, uncle," he cried.

The old sailor spent the greater part of his life on that mole in
intimate communion with the sea, his old friend and companion. The
terrible ocean was an open book to him, either sleeping in its immense
bed of sand or awakening and lashing the sky furiously with its foam. He
could accurately forecast its rages, its storms, its smiles, and its
profoundest working. To him the monster seemed to reveal its liquid
heart as to a faithful friend, and told him how it fretted in its
granite prison, and how the sight of human wickedness sometimes made it
long to rush over the land and submerge this fulsome human ant-hill. And
the good man, thinking of all the crimes about which he had read, would
reply:

"You are right, friend; in your place it is probable I should feel the
same."

Nothing in the world would have induced Don Melchor to forego his
morning, afternoon, and evening walks at the end of the mole. During his
wife's lifetime, when he was under surveillance, he had to his great
vexation been obliged to give up the later walks. But now unfortunately,
as he had no one to look after him and keep him in hand, he did as he
liked.

Nothing came up to the sea air cure for catarrh. When occasionally he
had a pain in his inside, he drank a couple of glasses of salt water and
he was all right. There is no better or simpler medicine than sea water.
Once he had a bad leg: two ulcers corroded the flesh down to the bone;
and the doctors not only gave the leg up for lost, but despaired of his
life. In desperation he had himself carried down to the beach and
bathed. After nine baths the ulcers were cured. One can imagine what he
thought of the curative efficacy of the sea after that!

On the other hand, he had a great objection to rivers. The air of a
river made him hoarse, the fogs suffocated him, and gave him asthma. The
"shut-in" feeling of the air filled him with aversion and unspeakable
dislike. Don Melchor slept little; he rose before sunrise; and directly
he got up he ascended to his observatory, and examined the sky and the
sea; and after drawing out in his head a meteorological map of the
coming day, he went down to the end of the mole to corroborate his
observations; ascertained whether the wind was passing, or settled, if
it were positively north, or inclined to the east or west, if the
weather were going to be good or bad, if the sea would be stormy or
calm, how long the weather would remain as it was; to what quarter the
wind would veer at mid-day; if the sea would then be calm or rough,
etc., etc.

He could not take his chocolate until he had made all these
observations.

And really, however this may look like a mania, I think it is less silly
than rising from one's bed to notice if one's neighbor's face is clean
or dirty, cheerful or sad, if he eats or if he fasts, if he sleeps or if
he wakes, if he be idle or industrious, how long he remains at home, and
what road he takes when he goes out. Gonzalo mounted the upper wall
with an irresistible desire to unburden his heart and tell his uncle
what had happened, for although his character was little adapted for
love confidences, the occasion was important and critical. Don Melchor,
who walked a little bent under the weight of years, straightened himself
at the sight of a man approaching, for he was anxious to hide all signs
of weakness from the world, and he liked to be thought a stalwart
fellow.

"Is that you, Gonzalo?"

"It is I, uncle."

"That is a wonder! For you like seeing billiard balls roll better than
waves."

"No; I have not played billiards to-day. But I am worried and upset, and
I want to speak to you about an important matter; in fact I want your
advice."

Don Melchor looked at him in surprise.

"An important matter?"

"Yes--look here, uncle; would you marry a woman you did not love?"

"What a question! Matrimony at my age is a thing of the past, my boy."

"But if you were young, would you marry like that?"

"Never."

"Very well, uncle--I do not love Cecilia."

"You do not love Cecilia?" exclaimed the old gentleman in horror.

It must be said that Don Melchor had a blind affection, almost
adoration, for his nephew's betrothed--the girl was sacred to him. From
the time that he knew Gonzalo's affections were set in that quarter he
inspected her as carefully as if he were examining the hulk of a ship
before masting her. He had considered her kind, quiet, intelligent, and
capable, and his delight at the marriage was only embittered by hearing
that the engaged couple were not going to live with him.

He seldom visited Belinchon's house, but when he met the girl in the
street he made a point of stopping her and treating her with exceptional
courtesy and attention.

"You do not love her?" he repeated. "And why don't you love her, you
dunderhead?"

"I don't know. I have made superhuman efforts to love her, and I have
not succeeded."

"And you have just found that out--a month before your marriage? Come,
Gonzalo, you have got a screw loose."

"It is shameful--I grant it--but I can't resign myself to being unhappy
for life."

"Unhappy! And you call it unhappiness, you great fool, to marry the
nicest and prettiest girl in Sarrio, for no other can hold a candle to
her."

Gonzalo could not forbear smiling.

"Cecilia is a good girl, and worthy of marrying a better man than I am,
but pretty, uncle--"

"Pretty, yes, pretty, you fool!" exclaimed the Senor de las Cuevas in a
rage; "you would find fault with an angel."

Surprising as the statement may be, the old man was at that time of life
when one is more impressed by the poetry of womanhood, seen in exquisite
sensibility, resignation, sweetness, and self-sacrifice, than by the
ephemeral physical charms before which impetuous youth is so prone to
fall captive.

"Do not let us quarrel about it."

"But we will quarrel about it--I won't have Cecilia spoken of like
that--so there!"

"All right; then I'll say that Cecilia is a very pretty girl--but--"

"But what?"

"But I can not love her, because I love another."

"What thousand deviltries are you saying now, boy?" returned Don
Melchor, taking his nephew by the arm and shaking him.

"I can not help it, uncle. I am madly in love with her sister,
Venturita."

"Are you in your senses or out of them, you madman?"

"I am speaking seriously--I love her, and she loves me."

"And you think that this is all there is to be said?" said the old man,
getting more and more angry. "Do you think a solemn promise can be
broken in that way? Do you think a girl can be made the laughing-stock
of a place like this? Do you think any parents will tolerate such
infamous conduct?"

"Uncle," returned Gonzalo quietly, "before daring to tell you this,
things have occurred which have made me take this step. My position with
Venturita is an established fact; her mother knows it, and has
authorized it, and by this time her father has also been made acquainted
with the circumstances."

"And will give his consent?"

"I am sure he will."

Don Melchor dropped his nephew's arm, and raised his hand to his
forehead. It was some time before he could speak. At last he said in
slow and melancholy tones:

"All right. I am powerless to prevent this disgrace--for it is a
disgrace," he added forcibly. "You are of age, and even if you were not
I would have nothing to do with such a business."

"Are you angry?"

"There is no use being angry. I am only very sorry. I am sorry for her,
for I am very fond of her--and I am still more sorry for you, Gonzalo.
God can not help the man who breaks his word. You were on a safe ship,
well built of white, seasoned wood, with the flats well lined, straight
strong masts, and bright and smart rigging; and you leave that to
embark in a craft that is prettier and showier. You are making a fine
experiment, but take heed, lad, the journey is long, the sea wide and
wild; when all the calm and beauty of the present becomes a scene of
storm, when the soft winds rise to a hurricane, matters become serious,
and pretty decorations and designs are of no avail where timber--good
strong timber--is required. Give me good timber and I will take you for
miles. It is not much good for a ship to leave a port well dressed if
her hulk is not equal to her get up. You know that I liked Cecilia--I am
very sorry that I can not say the same of her sister. And this is not
speaking against her; I do not know her well enough to do that, neither
do I feel inclined to, but I can and I ought to tell you my sentiments
although you disregard them."

"Oh, uncle!"

"It does not matter, my boy; when a lad's mind is set upon anything,
full sail must be set and he must go before the wind. Everything looks
ship-shape--but foul weather comes, and I tell you, you are not
navigating your ship well, you are not behaving like a gentleman."

"Uncle!"

"The facts speak for themselves. Even if you have got over her parents,
and overcome all difficulties, you can't make black white, and make a
bad action good. Heave the anchor and unfurl the sails. I am old, and I
hope I shall not live to see the storms overtake you. But if it be God's
will to punish me thus, if for my sins I have to see you shipping water
with bare masts, I shall feel, my boy, that it is beyond my power to
help you."

At these last words the voice of the old man shook; Gonzalo's heart
strings tightened. For some time they were both silent; and then Don
Melchor said:

"Come along to supper, Gonzalo."

"I am not hungry now," returned the young man, "but I will come
presently."

"Very well. Good-by," said the Senor de las Cuevas sadly, and turning
his steps shoreward, he was gradually lost in the gloom.

Gonzalo remained where he was, with his eyes fixed on the wall of the
mole, against which the sea was quietly washing. The waves after
breaking against the stone wall with a soft, hollow murmur, receded with
a sharp sound like that of curtain rings being drawn. The phosphoric
brilliance of the foam proved the presence of the millions of beings
existing as comfortably in the watery depths as we do on the dry land in
spite of their wild career through space. The monster slept under the
dark mantle of night quietly and peacefully, as a child undisturbed by
bad dreams. The soft sough of its respiration was hardly audible in the
hollows of the rocks.

The black outline of Cape San Lorenzo stretched far out to sea on the
west where the revolving white, green, and red lights of the lighthouse
at the point were visible. The stars were shining in the firmament with
wondrous power. Jupiter blazed in the heavens like the god of night
piercing the darkness with its golden rays. Suddenly a change came over
the scene. The pale crescent of the moon raised its horn in the east
over the tranquil water, and irradiated it with a track of light.
Lucifer paled before the serene splendor of the goddess, whose slow and
majestic ascent eclipsed the brilliance of the starry orbs of every size
about her. She rose in a radiant splendid atmosphere emitting,
diffusing, and disseminating the ambient soft influence of her wondrous
presence. And the ocean, ebbing and flowing since the beginning of the
world under this same influence, now kindles like a flame of fire; its
vast shining bosom trembles, and it dashes its waters over the rocks of
Santa Maria like enormous stratae of mercury, which in their retreat
mingle with the incoming waves.

Sublime silence reigned, and a sense of ineffable peace pervaded the
scene so old, and yet so new. Nature herself seemed to stop and listen
to the eternal harmony of the heavens. The waves softly kissed each
other without daring to interrupt the august serenity of the night with
any louder sounds.

In spite of the great uneasiness which the conversation with his uncle
had caused him, Gonzalo felt the fascination of the sea, the sky, and
the moon, and his uneasiness changed to sadness. The severe words of the
old sailor had suddenly awakened his conscience, and the struggle
between his good and bad angel recommenced. For one moment his good
angel nearly conquered. The young man thought he would go to the
Belinchons' house, speak to Dona Paula and beg her to say nothing to
Cecilia, but hurry on the marriage. However, at that moment Venturita's
image came before his mind, and he felt it would be impossible to live
near her without suffering horribly. Then, as it nearly always happens
in these struggles, there came a sense of the unendurable.

"The best thing to do," he said, "will be to go at once. I will return
to France or England, and not marry either. Then there will be no
treachery. The injury I have done Cecilia will soon be forgotten. She
will find a more worthy husband than I, and when I return at the
expiration of a few years I shall probably find her happy, and
surrounded with children. But--but to leave Ventura! to leave that
being, radiant with happiness! No more to hear that voice that fills my
soul with delight! nor to feel the sweet touch of her hand, fresh and
soft as a rosebud! To leave her shining eyes and magnetic smile!--oh,
no!"

Drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. Mortal anguish filled him
at the thought of separation, and to overcome the sense of it being
definitely settled he said to himself: "We'll see, we'll see. It would
be very difficult to go back now--almost impossible. The mother knows
about it now. Don Rosendo too, and probably Cecilia also by this time."

The good angel loosened his hold and let go his hands as, spent and
defeated, he gave up the struggle. If not with the eyes of the body,
Gonzalo could see with those of the spirit, the white form of the good
angel passing through the serene atmosphere, and vanishing on the
glistening waters.

Then overwhelmed with a strange sadness, he wept. This kind of struggle
can never take place in the human soul without upsetting it for some
time. To win happiness he had to wound the heart of an innocent girl,
break a promise, and be a traitor.

The words of his uncle still echoed in his ears: "God can not help the
man who breaks his word."

And, in fact, he felt himself unworthy of help. A cruel indefinite
presentiment of misery, death, and sadness overwhelmed him; and in one
moment the awfulness of life without virtue or peace was revealed to
him, as to the youth of the legend who embraced a beautiful young woman,
and when the light oscillated with the wind, he saw that she was
transformed into a hideous, hag-like, bony being.

The waves softly washed the wall at his feet, and with his eyes fixed
upon them he abstractedly followed their undulating motion. The seaweed
growing in the depths moved with the motion of the water like the hair
of a dead person. How quietly he could sleep down there! What peace in
those transparent depths! What magic light below! Gonzalo gave ear for
the first time in his life to the eloquent voice of Nature inviting him
to repose in her maternal bosom--the siren voice sweet with irresistible
charm, audible to unhappy creatures, even in their dreams, and so often
leading them to place the cold muzzle of a pistol to their temples. It
was for one minute, not more. His cheerful and sanguine temperament
rebelled against this depression; his vitality, exuberant in his healthy
constitution, indignantly repudiated the passing thought of death. An
insignificant incident, the appearance of a little green light in the
distant horizon, sufficed to divert his attention from these gloomy
ideas.

"A ship coming in," he said. "What time is it?" (He drew out his watch.)
"Half past ten, already! If it were a little earlier I would stop. I'll
go and see if there's anybody at the cafe, for I should like a game of
chapo."

He then took out a fine Havana cigar from his case, and smoking it with
gusto he repaired to the Cafe de la Marina.

Almost at the same time a sad scene was being enacted in the Belinchon
household. Dona Paula had remained all that day in bed, a prey to a
dreadful pain in the left side, which caused her great difficulty in
breathing. With the plebeian's invincible antipathy, nay terror, of
science, she did not like to have a doctor, but she prescribed for
herself some of the numerous remedies recommended by the many medicine
women who came daily to her house to extort money from her with their
vile, exaggerated adulations. So there was no end of embrocations of
meat fat, cups of herb concoctions, the inside of fowls, etc., etc.

At last, by dint of these formidable therapeutics, the good lady
improved in the evening enough to wish to get up; but Cecilia and
Pablito would not hear of it. Both of them had sat with her for some
time at her bedside; Cecilia especially had only left her long enough to
make the embrocations and tisanes. Pablito made frequent excursions into
the corridors, where, curiously enough, he nearly always met Nieves,
from whom he extorted toll tax. Sometimes their suppressed laughter
reached the room of the invalid, and she would smile kindly, and say to
Cecilia:

"What silly creatures!"

For it never occurred to her that her adored son could be up to anything
but hide-and-seek.

As the pain gradually left her, her mind was oppressed with the thought
of telling her daughter the sad news which had made her so ill. She
could only cast long and melancholy glances at the girl as she drew deep
sighs of distress. She said several times:

"Cecilia, listen."

And each time she stopped, and merely asked for some trifle.

Night closed in. Venturita lighted the shaded lamp, and then withdrew.
Pablo, finding his mother better, and seeing no further opportunity of
exercising his seignioral rights in the passage, withdrew to the cafe.
Mother and daughter remained in the bedroom, the former in bed and
seemingly tranquil, the latter seated near her. After a long silence,
during which the Senora de Belinchon turned over in her head a thousand
ways of opening a conversation which might lead naturally to the
confidence she was obliged to make, she said:

"Have the girls worked well to-day?"

"I don't know, I have scarcely seen them," returned Cecilia.

"I think that if they go on at this rate they will finish too soon."

"Perhaps so."

Dona Paula was at a loss to know how to proceed, and remained silent.

At the end of some minutes she took up the thread afresh.

"The trousseau will be completely finished in this month of August, and
I do not think you will be married for some months."

"Some months?"

"I think so. I believe Gonzalo does not wish the day to be so soon,"
said the senora with a trembling voice.

"Has he told you so?"

"Yes, he has told me so--I mean--no, he has not told me so--but I have
guessed it from certain things--from some indirect remarks."

Dona Paula was here overpowered with a feeling of suffocation.
Fortunately Cecilia could not see the flaming color of her cheeks.

"I should like to know what those remarks were," returned the girl in a
firm voice.

"Don't ask me, child of my soul!" exclaimed the senora, bursting into
tears.

Cecilia turned deadly pale, and let her mother kiss the hand she held in
hers, astonished at this emotion.

"What has happened, mama?--speak."

"A terrible thing--my heart--an infamous, infamous thing--I would rather
die this moment than see the ruin and the misery of one of my
daughters."

"Calm yourself, mama; you are ill, and you will do yourself great harm
if you allow yourself to become so excited."

"What does it matter! I tell you I would rather die--I would give my
life for you not to love Gonzalo--You do love him, dear heart? You love
him deeply?"

Cecilia did not reply.

"Tell me, for God's sake, that you do not love him."

Cecilia was still silent; at the end of some minutes, trying in vain to
give a firm tone to her voice, she said:

"Gonzalo declines to marry me, is that it?"

Dona Paula was now silent in her turn, and hid her weeping face in her
hands.

Some minutes went by.

"Has he anything against me?"

"What could he have? Who could have anything against you, my lamb?"

"Then, if I do not please him, or he does not love me, what is to be
done? It is better to be undeceived in time."

"Oh!" cried Dona Paula, breaking into fresh sobs, for under the apparent
resignation of her daughter she detected a profound grief which she
strove in vain to hide.

"What is to be done, mama? Is it not better for him to say so now than
after we are married? Do I not know what a wretched life he would lead
united to a woman he did not love? The pain that he causes me now, great
as it is, is nothing to what I should feel if my husband did not love
me. The pain would get worse and worse until I died, while now it may
go, or at least be alleviated--Perhaps when he has gone away and I have
not seen him for some time I shall gradually forget him--"

"But he is not going," returned the senora in confusion.

"If he does not go, patience--I will try not to go out, and I shall not
see him."

"But, child of my soul, your misfortune is much greater! Gonzalo is in
love with your sister."

Cecilia turned still paler, her face became livid, and she was silent.

Her mother again kissed her hand with effusion, and then drew her to
her, and covered her face with kisses.

"Forgive me for torturing you like this. Much as you suffer, I suffer
more. Yesterday evening your sister came and told me. Imagine my
distress and grief. My first impulse was to kill her, for I was sure
that she was most to blame. She gave me proof that they have been
carrying on for some time, and showed me letters which made Gonzalo's
faithlessness very clear to me. When I was convinced of his treachery I
said that I would have nobody make a laughing-stock of my daughter, and
Gonzalo should not set foot again in this house, that he was as bad as
she; in short, I said all that came into my head. But this morning, this
morning--I learned something still worse. I learned that your sister has
gone farther than I can, or wish to, say. There is nothing for them but
marriage, and that as soon as possible. Now you know why I have had this
pain, which all but kills me, and would that it did so! Your father and
I are both trapped--our hands are tied. If it were not so I would sooner
be cut into little pieces than consent to this marriage. The infamous
way this man has treated you will make me hate him all my life. Yes, all
my life!" she added in an angry tone.

Cecilia did not answer. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her
head hanging on her bosom and her horror-struck eyes fixed on the
ground.

Neither the vehement broken utterances of her mother nor the sobs which
succeeded them made her change her position. She remained thus for some
time, motionless, and white as a statue.

In those large, limpid eyes there at last trembled a tear; it grew, it
moved, then overflowing, it left a wet track upon her wan cheek, and
fell like a drop of fire upon her hand, and there remained. A little
later it evaporated. An angel had gathered it up and taken it to God in
protest for her who had shed it.




CHAPTER XIII

"THE LIGHT OF SARRIO"


A new bright day dawned upon Sarrio after the recent heavy gloom. By the
mercy and grace of God the beautiful town was now, when least expected,
provided with a press organ, which was to be biweekly, or as the
illustrious organizer expressed it, "hepdomenal." Grave obstacles and
perilous difficulties were at first opposed to the realization of the
undertaking, but the genius of the wonderful man who undertook it
overcame them all. The first difficulty was that of money. Fifty shares
of a thousand ducats each were issued for the support of the periodical.
The friends of Don Rosendo only took up nine. Don Rudesindo had five
allotted to him, Don Feliciano two, and Don Pedro Miranda, in spite of
his large income, only another two--no more. Alvaro Pena, Don Rufo,
Navarro, _et al._, excused themselves for want of funds, and that with
reason; besides, they gave the business the benefit of their brains,
which no doubt was a great thing. So Don Rosendo, with a generosity
which greatly impressed the rest of the company, was the holder of the
remaining forty-one shares.

Messengers were despatched to Lancia in search of a printing press, but
the negotiations proving fruitless, the press organizer went himself to
the town. At the end of some days he was fortunate enough to find a
printer who had been ruined for some years, and no purchaser had been
forthcoming for his broken-down, rotting apparatus which lay covered
with dust in a dark cellar. When Don Rosendo proceeded to examine it
with its owner, he could not help feeling respectful emotion, and grave
thoughts filled his mind as he contemplated it.

"Here," he said, "is lying in idleness the most influential instrument
of human progress, and this not from any fault of the owner, but through
the desertion of mankind. How much information, how much spiritual food
might it not have produced during these barren dumb years! While
barbarism and ignorance are rampant in the greater part of our country,
that printing apparatus, the only agent of their dispersion, stands
motionless for the want of a hand to work it and to bring forth from it
the secrets of science and politics."

He almost kissed and fondled the machine in his enthusiasm. The printer,
seeing his visitor so well disposed in its favor, could not be outdone,
and he declared himself so devotedly attached to the very skeleton of
his machine that he would not part with it for any money, for it had
always been the faithful companion by which he had earned his bread (and
according to report, his wine too). He descanted upon its perfections
with as much enthusiasm as if he were its offspring and indebted to it
for his life's breath; and he moreover made the solemn statement that it
printed better and cleaner than all the printing presses of the day.

Hearing these facts Don Rosendo fully concurred in the exordium on the
machine, and tried to prove to him that he ought to part with it to
prevent its wondrous qualities being lost to the world. But the more
eloquent the merchant grew, the more tender and clinging became the
printer. Finally, seeing there was no persuading the man to part with
his treasure, and he had not the heart to enforce it, he arranged for
him to go to Sarrio with it, and settle down there. He was to take a few
compositors with him, who were to teach the trade to some of the lads in
the town, and he was to be furnished with all necessary materials for
the establishment of a printing office. Folgueras, the ruined printer,
was thus to be the director and master of the concern, and his salary
was to be drawn from the journal, and according to our calculations this
proved to be twice as much as what is given in the best printing office
in Madrid. However, it is not much if we consider the merit of the
machine and the deep love professed for it by the owner.

The title of the newspaper was one of the points in which the inventive,
superior mind of Don Rosendo particularly distinguished itself. It was
called "The Light of Sarrio," a name extremely impressive and
well-sounding, and moreover testifying to its mission, which its founder
wished to be that of enlightening and dignifying the town of Sarrio.

He secretly ordered from Madrid an engraving for the head of the paper,
and on its arrival a few days later it caused rapturous delight among
the shareholders and all those who had the good fortune to see it. It
represented a seaport, like Sarrio, in the dark hours of the night--to
judge by the black hue of the sky and sea; on the left towered the
heights of an ideal mountain, upon which was seen a man, bearing a
distant resemblance to Don Rosendo, turning the rays of an enormous
lantern upon the town; round about him were the heads of several people,
and the shareholders believed in good faith that they represented
themselves, and so they felt deeply indebted to the designer.

The printing press was to be set up in a storehouse of Don Rudesindo's,
to whom, of course, a rent was to be paid; and at the printing office
there was to be another room, but these plans required some
consideration before they could be carried out. The printing press was
finally set up, but not without heavy, unexpected expenses, for
Folgueras, who pretended he was furnished with all that was necessary,
had nothing at all, and they had to send to Madrid for sets of type,
have type galleys made, buy tables, etc., etc.

At last everything was in order. Don Rosendo worked like a slave, and
busied himself with the smallest details, and his talent as organizer
was more shown than ever on this occasion. He made Sinforoso Suarez
chief editor with a salary of twenty-five crowns a month, and he made
Don Rufo's eldest son manager. But the paper for printing had not come.
They had telegraphed to Madrid for a supply and it had not arrived. The
impatience of Belinchon knew no bounds. Telegrams went and came by the
electric wires. They said it was detained at Lancia--a telegram to
Lancia asking for it. Then they heard it had not left Valladolid--telegram
to Valladolid. Then that it had not left Madrid--telegram to Madrid. Don
Rosendo swore he would have no more paper from Madrid, but that he would
order it henceforth from Belgium. But disappointment changed into
delight, as it often does, when the news came that several bales had
arrived at Lancia, and were there awaiting a cart to take them to their
destination.

As the copy for the first number had been ready for some days, the
printing was immediately proceeded with, and it had to be done on an
extensive scale, for Don Rosendo intended to circulate it through the
provinces, to send it all over Spain, and even to introduce it into
foreign countries. Both he and his partners took a personal interest in
seeing the printing press started, and they never wearied of admiring
its complicated machinery, the wonderful precision of its movement, and
the marvelous velocity with which it worked, for it cast off no fewer
than two hundred copies in one hour. Its illustrious founder could not
restrain the press ardor which consumed him; he tore off his coat in the
presence of everybody, and literally put his shoulder to the wheel until
the sweat poured copiously from his manly brow. A striking instance of
enthusiasm and love of civilization to which we like to draw the
attention of the rising generation!

At last "The Light of Sarrio" appeared in great style, for its founder
had seen that the paper was good, and it was fairly well printed. The
only faulty feature was the engraving on the front page, for the
majority of the people thought that the individual holding a lantern in
his hand was a <DW64>, instead of the respectable individual we have
mentioned. It contained a leading article in large type called "Our
Objects." Although it was signed by the staff, it emanated entirely
from the pen of Don Rosendo. The purport of the appearance of "The
Light" in the press was chiefly to defend cap-a-pie the moral and
material interests of Sarrio, to combat ignorance in all its forms, and
in the fierce battles of the press to fight unweariedly for the triumph
of the reforms that the progress of the times requires.

"The Light" maintained that the hour had struck for breaking with the
doctrines of the past. Sarrio earnestly desired to emancipate itself
from the thraldom of pettiness and conventionality; it wished to break
the bonds which had hitherto restrained it, and enter into full
possession of its own conscience and rights.

"We trust," said the writer, "that a period of moral and material
activity will date from the appearance of our publication, and that we
shall assist at one of those social reformations which mark an epoch in
the annals of the town. If our voice is successful in awakening the town
of Sarrio from its long sleep and apathy and we soon see the dawn of an
era of labor and study befitting the reform movement that we hope to
inaugurate, we shall feel amply repaid for our efforts and sacrifices."

The language could not have been more noble and patriotic, and modesty,
as usual, tempered the tone of the authoritative eloquence.

"We do not aspire," he said, "to being the vanguard in this great
battle of thought about to take place in the town of Sarrio, but we do
aspire to fighting like common soldiers, for we do expect a place in the
rear-guard. There we shall fight like good men, and if we finally fall
vanquished, we will envelop ourselves in the sacred banner of progress."

The military allegorical style was very effective in the town, and it
contributed not a little to the enthusiastic reception accorded to the
paper.

In short, the article was so rich in expression, so replete with deep
remarks, and the style was so concise, that the public was at a loss to
attribute it to any one but the illustrious director--and in this it was
right.

Then the periodical contained a long article by Sinforoso on "Woman." It
consisted of two close columns of poetic prose, embroidered with all the
flowers of rhetoric, describing the sweet influence of this half of the
human race.

He maintained, in fervent language, that civilization can not exist
apart from matrimony; conjugal love is its only basis. Everything is
holy, everything is beautiful, everything is happy in the intimate union
of a young married couple. The man, rendered happy by his companion,
feels his faculties increase, and is capable of carrying out enterprises
otherwise impossible to him. The influence of the woman presses him
onward to virtue and glory; it is the sweetest and at the same time the
most powerful of social forces. Sinforoso queried with surprise, "How
could some beings consider woman inferior to man? She with her beauty,
delicacy, grace, sweetness, perspicacity, and patience is the highest
work of creation. But the mission of woman is to be a wife and mother.
Without being these she is not fully evolved, she fades like a flower
without perfume." The writer concluded by advising woman to bear this in
mind, and for no earthly consideration to consent to be voluntarily
deprived of the two conditions of her honor and glory.

This exordium on matrimony, although addressed to the fair sex in
general, was written for the special edification of a certain pretty
cigarette-maker of the Calle de Caborana, whom Sinforoso had courted in
vain for some years. The public thought that the girl would end by
accepting him, partly by reason of the poetic terms in which he made his
case clear, and partly because of the fifty reales a month which the
suitor now received for his work on the staff.

Then followed a contribution from the professor, Don Jeronimo de la
Fuente; it was a serious, violent attack on Kepler's three great laws of
the motions of the planetary bodies, or rather on two of them, for he
preserved silence on the first, which treats of the elliptical orbit of
the planets. He fiercely opposed the second, maintaining and
demonstrating by means of a most brilliant calculation that the areas
described by the radius vector are not in any degree equal to the time
employed in making them, but they concord with the attractive or
repulsive force of the celestial bodies. But the chief object of his
attack was the third law, for Don Jeronimo rejected as antiquated and
absurd the idea that the time taken for the revolutions of planets was
proportionate to the cubic feet of their distances from each other; for
he showed not merely by empty words, but by figures, that there was no
ground for such a calculation.

He announced another article for the next number, which was to establish
a new basis for the celestial mechanism which would quite smash up the
old one. In it he maintained that the stars were attracted by one pole
and repelled by another like electric bodies, and upon this great
principle he satisfactorily explained the movements of the celestial
bodies, their disturbances, and many problems which had hitherto been
deemed insoluble.

Thanks to the telescope in the window of his house, Don Jeronimo had
made a series of prodigious discoveries which set at naught all the
existing knowledge of astronomy. It was not astonishing that the learned
professor, filled with legitimate pride, exclaimed at the end of his
article:

"Down with Kepler, Newton, Laplace, and Galileo from the pedestal upon
which man's ignorance has placed them and all colossal standard-bearers
of false science! All their calculations have vanished like smoke, and
their magnificent systems are like dry leaves, fallen from the tree of
science to rot and decay."

Some verses by Periquito, the son of Don Pedro Miranda, were also
inserted that confided to a certain mysterious "G" that he was a worm,
and she a star; he a branch, and she a tree; she a rose, and he a
caterpillar; she a light, and he the shadow; she the snow, and he the
mud, etc.

There were reasons for suspecting that this "G" was a certain
Gumersinda, the wife of a corn merchant, a woman remarkable for her
stout figure, which caused her some difficulty in walking. Periquito had
a particular fancy for ladies who were plump and married. When both
these qualities were combined in one being his passion knew no bounds.
And such was the present case. One must not think by this that the young
man was a vicious creature. The husbands of Sarrio were not disturbed
about him. Periquito was always in love, sometimes with one, sometimes
with another lady, but he never dared to address them or send a love
letter. Such courses were not in his line, which consisted chiefly in
fascinating them by his gaze. Therefore, whenever he came across one of
these fair creatures at church, or in the theatre, he first managed to
take a seat at a convenient distance, and once he had taken up his
position, he directed the magnetic power of his eyes straight at the
passive object of his experiment until she occasionally glanced at him
with an expression of surprise. The respectable matron, often not
considering herself worthy of such particular attention, would look
round and ask those with her if she had a spot on her face, or if her
hair were out of order.

Periquito was indefatigable, and went through all these performances
with the gravity they deserved. Sometimes he spent an hour or more with
his eyes fixed on one person, and often when the hour had elapsed, and
the enamored youth thought his soul must have filtered through the pores
of the obese lady to the affection of all her faculties and feelings,
this same lady would say in an undertone to her companions:

"Goodness, how that fellow Don Pedro does stare!"

How far the poet was from supposing that the star of his dreams held him
in such small account!

Sometimes, but very seldom, Periquito got a little farther. When he was
quite sure that the husband was not at home, nor even about the town, he
sent the mysterious lady a bunch of flowers which was really a
passionate eloquent letter, if the lady had only been as well versed as
he was in the language of flowers. Unfortunately, the supine ignorance
of the fair sex in Sarrio made these ingenious modes of communication
null and void. The same can be said of certain other delicate attentions
to which Periquito resorted to show his devotion. If he saw the lady
wear a blue dress, he donned a cravat of the same color, a blue striped
shirt and a blue flower in his buttonhole; and if the lady continued
wearing the same dress, he went as far as to adopt blue trousers; and if
the color were green, brown, or gray, he also followed suit. If the
unhappy lady were of a religious turn of mind, Periquito voluntarily
imposed on himself the terrible ordeal of rising early, and attending
the mass to which she went; and if on Saturday, Monday, or Thursday she
approached the sacred table to communicate, he also received the
spiritual food from the priest on the same days. If the lady had plants
in her window, Periquito promptly ascertained her hour of watering them,
and took care to pass by at that time, when he was in the seventh heaven
if perchance a few drops fell from the watering-pot on his hat. In the
small hours of the night he wandered about the house, making invocations
to the moon, and praying it might watch over the dreams of his love.

On one occasion, when he was in love with the wife of a lieutenant of
the carbineers who was ordered to Burgos, he nearly died of grief. His
mad passion inspired him with the idea of going off to get a glimpse of
her, so after writing a letter of farewell to his father and taking
twenty dollars of his savings he started for the City of the Cid; but in
Venta de Banas he unfortunately came across a married lady of the Civil
Guard who attracted him to Palencia; there he saw another lady who took
him farther, and so on, until he came back to Sarrio. This was not his
only escapade. On another occasion he went fifteen miles on foot merely
to cast an amatory glance at a certain lady as she sat at the window,
and this lady was married to a second husband.

As the final touch to this description we must add that Periquito, to
use his father's expression, ate like Heliogabulus, and yet he never
grew fat.

"The Light of Sarrio" was for our impressionable young man an admirable
means of airing the vague fancies, anxieties, joys, and distresses which
consumed his soul, and declaring himself in mysterious acrostics to all
the matrons, more or less stout, who paraded their plump forms in the
streets of the flourishing town.

Finally came the columns of "Intelligence" under different headings. The
genius of Sinforoso and the rest of the staff of "The Light" shone in
this portion of the paper. The paragraph called "Going and Coming"
referred to the visitors who had come to Sarrio in view of the
approaching festivities.

Another, headed "Sarriensians out Walking," maintained in a graceful,
sparkling style that the weather was delicious, and that the people of
Sarrio could not do better in the evening than take a turn in the
pretty, leafy environs of the town.

Another, "The Mayor to the Fore," was an appeal to Don Roque to have
gutters put to several houses.

Later on this section dropped the title of "Intelligence" for that of
"News to Hand," which Don Rosendo put in in imitation of "_Nouvelle a la
Main_" of the "Figaro."

The journal ended with a charade in verse.

The fiction was Don Rufo's department, and as he had been studying
French on the Ollendorf system for a year and a half, he decided to
translate for the paper the six volumes of the "Mysteries of Paris." It
is unnecessary to say that although "The Light of Sarrio" lived for some
years, it never got as far as the third volume. Don Rufo was a wonderful
translator. If he had a defect it was that of translating too literally.
Once he wrote: "The carriage went off at a quick trot, inside a lady
fair and frail."

In another passage, he said that Monsieur Rudolph passed his youth in
the perusal of the chief works of antiquity. Finally, he represented
the Countess as taking hold of the button (instead of buttonholing) of
the secretary, and this provoked so much derision from ignorant folk
that Don Rufo lost his temper and resigned the work, which then was
undertaken by a pilot who for several years had made the run to Bayonne.

The success of the first number, as was expected, was prodigious: the
article by Sinforoso, the learned dissertation by La Fuente, the
"Intelligence," and even Periquito's verses, were all read with due
appreciation by the public. But Don Rosendo's article headed "Our
Objects" made the profoundest impression on people of a serious turn of
mind. The well-turned phrases, so full of spirit and fire, the noble
thoughts, the enthusiasm for the interests of Sarrio, the frankness and
modesty that characterized it, filled their hearts with joy, and made
them feel as if an era of prosperity and well-being had dawned.

That night the band, conducted by Senor Anselmo, with his great shining
key, serenaded the staff. The front of the publishing office was
illuminated with Venetian lamps, and, as usual, the pretty light-hearted
artisans of Sarrio took the opportunity of dancing country dances and
mazurkas on the hard stones of the street. The worthy individuals who
gave voice to their admiration and enthusiasm for the staff of "The
Light" in the language of music were inspired thereto by De Rueda's
wine and cigars. Joy reigned in every heart, and overflowed in embraces
as hearty as they were spontaneous. Don Rosendo embraced Navarro, Alvaro
Pena, Don Rudesindo, Don Rufo, Sinforoso, and Don Pedro Miranda, the
printer Folgueras. The musicians embraced each other, and they all
embraced their conductor, Senor Anselmo. Outside the printing office,
Pablito, also in commemoration of the auspicious day, embraced the fair
Nieves under the shadow of a doorway, and several other lads, following
his example, openly distributed their commemorative kisses among the
happy girls.

The only thing that disturbed the general happiness was the peculiar
sadness that came over Folgueras after he had imbibed several litres of
wine. The recollection of Lancia, his natal town, suddenly occurred to
him and threw him into a state of depression difficult to describe. Just
when cheerfulness and gaiety had reached their height he called Don
Rosendo aside, and with tears assured him that life away from his adored
town was an unsupportable burden to him; better to die than lose sight
of the humble dwelling which saw his birth and the streets trodden by
his baby feet. The same week, please God, he hoped to leave Sarrio and
return to Lancia with his belongings.

On hearing this sudden news Don Rosendo turned pale.

"But, man, the next number of 'The Light.'"

"Don Rosendo, you will have to excuse me. You are a gentleman--a
gentleman knows how to appreciate the feelings of another gentleman.
One's country before everything. Guzman the Good flung his poniard to
the enemy to kill his own son. You know that well enough, eh? What do
you think of that? Riego died on a scaffold. Well! What do you think of
that? If I were in the workhouse, with not a shirt to stand up in, there
would be no need for any one to tell me anything. Do you think you will
keep me all tied like a dog to the wheel? But all sentiment dies out in
a man--the man lives, the man works, the man occasionally shows his true
self--and because he drinks a quartern, or two, or three, is he to
forget his country? Eh? What do you think of that?"

Don Rosendo called Don Rudesindo to his assistance, and they succeeded
in dissuading the printer from his course by the force of their strong
reasons, the most potent of these being a fresh bottle of Rueda wine.
After this was imbibed, the patriotic feelings of Folgueras calmed down.
Then he took another bottle, drank it, was ill, and slept.

Thoughts of glory, vague desires for undying fame, filled the mind of
the illustrious founder of "The Light of Sarrio" by the time he retired
to rest. After extinguishing the light, they recurred over and over
again until they took some definite form. Don Rosendo was moved at the
thought of the possibility of his memory being perpetuated by a tablet
put up in the Consistorial buildings. This ambitious thought made him
tremble with joy and delight between the sheets. Being a modest,
sensible, magnanimous man, he tried to expel the idea, but it returned
to his mind with additional clearness. He saw the white marble, he saw
the gold letters, he clearly deciphered the graven lines:

"Tribute of gratitude from the town of Sarrio to her enlightened son,
Don Rosendo Belinchon, indefatigable champion of her moral and material
progress."

His mind, filled with these brilliant forecasts, could not easily
succumb to Morpheus; nevertheless, he finally slept with a smile on his
lips. A progressive angel, ready for these emergencies, beat his wings
over his brow through the night watches and gave him pleasant dreams.

The next morning found him in the cheerful frame of mind befitting a man
who has seen his efforts crowned with enviable success. He performed his
toilet to the humming of scraps of song, he took chocolate with his
family, gave a glance at the national and foreign newspapers, and
without cutting his usual bundle of toothpicks, he went out to ascertain
what effect the first number of "The Light" had produced upon the town.
He was received at Graell's shop with effusion, he was congratulated on
his article, which he modestly tried to disclaim, and the talk about the
paper was long and eager.

What most excited the enthusiasm of the frequenters of the cafe was to
think that Nieva had not yet arrived, nor would it arrive for some time,
at a similar state of advancement. And Don Rosendo, not a little elated
with these eulogies, promised to take active measures in favor of all
that was asked of him. One requested that the deep ruts of the Calle de
Atras should be mentioned; another that a lamp should be put outside his
house; another that some pills should be recommended; another, that
serenades should not disturb the hours of sleep, etc., etc. Don Rosendo
assented to all, knitted his brows and extended his open hand in a
valedictory fashion. The journal would settle it all. Woe to him who ran
counter to the reforms of the press! He had often held forth on
toothpicks to the assembly of respected matrons of the town generally
gathered in Dona Raffaelo's shop, but "The Light" was the subject of his
discourse to-day. The fiction portion seemed to have met with the most
favor from the fair sex; Don Rosendo told them the next number would be
much more interesting, and then he withdrew.

A party of sailors by the port were loud in their congratulations, and
they hinted that the harbor was very dirty and required dragging.

"It shall be done--it shall be done," said Don Rosendo, and he went off
full of a solemn sense of his omnipotence, and, seeing the large curling
waves in the distance, he even asked himself if it would not be a good
thing to ask them, by means of the press, to moderate their uncalled-for
excitement. At the approach of the dinner hour he directed his steps
homeward, meditating on the grave responsibility he would incur before
God and man if he did not use his great power for the prosperity and
improvement of his native town. On arriving at the Rua Nueva, he met
Gabino Maza. The choleric ex-officer greeted him very politely, asked
after his family, and made the kindest inquiries after the health of
each member; then he talked for some time on the possibility of the cold
northeast wind soon changing into a warm, southwesterly one, asked when
the next ships would start for America; he then complained of the dust
on the roads, which made walking unpleasant, spoke of the price of
codfish, and the news of the Newfoundland cod fisheries, but Rosendo
naturally expected him to mention the paper. Nothing of the sort. Maza
did not make the slightest allusion to it. This began to upset our
friend and made his position painful. The conversation passed from one
subject to another without bearing at all upon the press. At last Don
Rosendo, showing his gleaming teeth, said somewhat abruptly:

"Have you not received 'The Light?' One of the first copies was sent to
you."

"Dear me! I think it did come to the house yesterday, but I have not
opened it yet," returned Maza with affected indifference. "Don Rosendo,
will you come and dine with me? Good-by, till then."

Don Rosendo stood for an instant rooted to the ground, feeling as if a
bucket of cold water had been thrown over him. The blood rushed
violently to his face, and he almost staggered home. The unexpectedness
of the blow made him feel it much more keenly. When the shock had passed
off, he fell into a violent passion against that--he could not resist
calling him anything less than a malicious and despicable creature. He
arrived home in a deplorable state of agitation, and although he took
his seat at the table and made violent efforts to calm himself, his
digestion was so thoroughly upset that he recoiled from all food. He was
gloomy and silent during the meal; a sarcastic smile occasionally
wreathed his lips, and he murmured: "The villain!"

Finally his wife, who was upset on her own account, ventured to say:

"What is the matter, Rosendo?"

"Nothing, Paulina; but envy causes a lot of wickedness in the world,"
was the short, bitter reply.

Having given utterance to this profound remark, he remained in a state
of comparative repose, leaning back in an armchair to collect his
thoughts; and after the expiration of half an hour he once more sallied
forth in the direction of the Club. On entering the cafe Gabino's voice
fell upon his ears, shouting as usual upstairs. From the staircase he
thought he heard him talking of the periodical and calling it "a solemn
farce." His heart jumped, and he entered the room agitated and upset. At
the sight of him Maza, who was gesticulating in the centre of a group of
men, put on his hat with a sudden gesture, and took a seat upon the
sofa.

Don Lorenzo and Don Feliciano Gomez greeted the newcomer with a certain
embarrassment, and with some shamefacedness, all of which confirmed Don
Rosendo in his suspicion. He hid his feelings as much as possible, and
striving to assume a cheerful demeanor he began talking of the current
news. Conversation then took its natural course, and confidence was
restored. But the engineer Delaunay, as artful as he was malignant,
turned the conversation upon the newspaper, and in the lisping tone that
he affected, said, with an ironical smile, to the founder:

"What little contributions are you preparing for the next number, Don
Rosendo?"

"You will see when it comes out," returned the chief editor, who knew
there was a joke underlying the question.

"Here, in Don Feliciano," continued the engineer with the same smile,
"you have a stanch defender."

"If he defends me it is because somebody has attacked me," returned
Rosendo with increased asperity.

Nobody said a word. Silence reigned for some time, until it was broken
by Belinchon making a casual remark to Don Jaime, and the conversation
was resumed. But the blow had only been momentarily averted; thunder was
in the air and soon became audible.

Maza was consumed with the desire to tell Don Rosendo that the paper was
a humbug, and the latter was not less anxious to tell Maza that he was a
malignant fellow. Thus both took advantage of the first opportunity of
communicating these polite remarks. The dispute lasted more than two
hours. Maza tried to restrain himself because of Don Rosendo's superior
position, and besides, he owed him fifteen thousand reales. The founder
of "The Light" also considered it prudent not to give full expression to
his thoughts. Nevertheless, for better or for worse, all came out for
the edification of the notabilities who ranged themselves on one side
or the other of the contending parties. It must be confessed that the
minority was on Maza's side. The West Indians, neutral, as usual in
these disputes, occasionally appeared, cue in hand, at the door of the
billiard-room to listen to the arguments of the disputants and gain some
light on the subject. For those discussions were very improving, as they
taught them many terms and phrases unknown to them; and thus they were
less shut out from even a superficial interest in the many problems of
life. It was unfortunate that their devotion to billiards prevented
their always listening.




CHAPTER XIV

VIOLENT RECRIMINATIONS


The state of agitation and anger in which Don Rosendo left the Club can
not be exaggerated. His noble, magnanimous soul was wounded to the quick
by the ingratitude and baseness of his false friends. It must be
horrible to live and die in obscurity and to have Heaven-born gifts
wasted in boredom and inaction when one is meant to shine in the higher
spheres of human society. But it is still more painful to see the
deprecation of one's noble mental efforts and magnanimous endeavors for
the triumph of goodness and truth. Such was the case with Socrates,
Solon, Giordano Bruno, and also with our hero. The first sting of
malignity caused him the acute pain which great benefactors of the human
race can not but feel, and his spirit failed him. It was only for a
minute, however, a mere passing weakness which bore witness to his
sensitive disposition.

Nevertheless, that night he could eat no supper, and it was a long time
before he could manage to sleep. To how many depressing thoughts had
this incident given rise. While the common herd of the townsfolk of
Sarrio, destitute of genius, perspicacity, and intellect, slept soundly,
the philanthropic man lay tossing on his couch as if it were a bed of
thorns, robbed of the enjoyment of refreshing sleep.

He rose the next morning somewhat pale and hollow-eyed, but firm in his
determination to continue his work of regeneration. The sleepless night,
instead of weakening his intention and making him relax in his efforts,
had only strengthened him in his course, and roused him to fresh
efforts. Fire consumes and turns straw to ashes, but it purifies gold.

Therefore he proceeded enthusiastically in the organization of his plan
for the second number, which was to appear the following Thursday, and
as usual success brought many offers of assistance. Many were the
contributions sent for the second number, but the majority was below the
mark, and want of space obliged him to reject several that were good.
This gave rise to a great deal of grumbling and bad feeling--second
difficulty in the course of his patriotic enterprise. But on the
publication of the fifth number there was a much more serious trouble,
which caused a great sensation in the town and gave rise to a perfect
storm.

It happened that Alvaro Pena, being quite convinced, as we know, that
all the miseries and drawbacks suffered by the human race are
exclusively due to the clerical influence, thought he would use the
press as a field of an active campaign against it. This he opened by
sending as skirmishers several paragraphs, asking about the funds of a
certain sisterhood of the Rosary which were not forthcoming, speaking in
disrespectful terms of the Daughters of Mary, and making irreverent
remarks on the special prayers and confessions, and also ridiculing the
scapularies worn by the young religious sisters in the town.

But the shots were particularly aimed at Don Benigno the curate, the
director of the female consciences of Sarrio and the instigator of all
those revolts against sin. The rector was an old apathetic man who
passed his life in a little house near the town, and willingly left to
his curate the care of the souls of his flock. And Don Benigno fulfilled
his duty as an active, vigilant, and most zealous pastor, keeping watch
over the flock by day and night, so that no wolf should take off any
sheep, and giving most careful personal attention to those he purposed
offering to the Heavenly Bridegroom. Nothing could exceed the ardor with
which he procured brides for the Most High. As soon as a young girl
knelt at his feet for confession he thought that he was in a position to
insinuate that the world was corrupt, its pleasures were transitory and
often damnatory, earthly love was corrupt, affection as a daughter and
sister was despicable, the time of working out salvation was very short,
therefore the best thing to be done was to leave this earthly world (Don
Benigno was very fond of this adjective), surrender all to Christ, and
repair to that delightful retreat spoken of by San Juan de la Cruz, and
there remain oblivious of all cares. He knew just such a happy retreat,
a real little piece of Heaven, where one could enjoy in anticipation the
delights reserved by God for his faithful servants.

This retreat was a Carmelite convent, just founded in the outskirts of
the town, and the curate was its great patron and supporter. Certainly
this had caused a slight coolness between him and Don Segis, the
chaplain of the Augustinians, but the latter did not dare to show his
resentment because it would not have served his purpose to quarrel with
his coadjutor. These insinuations to the young girls were sometimes
effectual, sometimes not. Don Benigno rarely made them in the ears of an
elderly person. We do not know if he thought that Heaven would rather
receive a bride of fifteen than one of thirty, or whether he thought the
older people were more obstinate and suspicious than the young girls.

Anyhow, that spiritual sport induced interesting episodes. On one
occasion the priest was the victim of an assault made by a youth who
had been robbed of his bride-elect by the convent. On another occasion,
after having obtained a dowry for a young girl, and having provided her
with clothes, the bride of Heaven escaped in the night with a tailor's
assistant. Don Benigno used to take the brides himself to the abode of
the bridegroom. When there were difficulties to overcome on the part of
the family, he bore himself with the skill and energy of a consummate
lady-killer, and he organized and carried out the conquest with an
astuteness that many mundane suitors would have envied. It was this
matter to which Alvaro Pena referred when in a certain paragraph he
mentioned a certain priest devoted to "pigeon-sport." And as we know Don
Benigno's proclivity in this direction, the shaft went home with
diabolical effect. The readers also understood the allusion, and laughed
not a little at the mischievous joke.

Seeing himself made fun of like this, the priest, being, like all
artists, of susceptible and choleric temperament, grew terrible angry.

"Have you read Don Rosendo's paper?" he asked Don Segis that evening at
Morana's.

It must be mentioned that since the first irreverent paragraph Don
Benigno never spoke of "The Light of Sarrio" by any other term.

"Yes, I read it this morning, at Graell's."

"And what do you think of that insult?"

"What insult?" asked the chaplain calmly.

"Why, man, have you not read the infamous remarks made about me?"

Don Segis raised his glass to his eyes, attentively examined the golden
liquid, put it to his lips, and slowly drank it. After coughing a
little, and drying his mouth with a silk handkerchief, he said gravely:

"Tush! There is not a kind spirit about it, as we all say; but it is
best to take such things calmly, it is no good exciting one's self."

This was a fresh blow to the curate, who had hoped to find his
indignation shared by Don Segis, and he was dumb with suppressed rage.
It was thus that the chaplain of the Augustine convent was able to pay
Don Benigno out for his uncalled-for partiality to the rising convent.
The curate then addressed himself to Senor Anselmo and to Don Juan, "the
Old Salt," who both expressed disgust at the paragraph, without,
however, showing much interest in the subject, for we know that that
would not have been in keeping with the quiet character of the
patriarchal gathering.

But on the following Thursday, Alvaro Pena left Don Benigno, and
attacked the chaplain of the nuns, making him the subject of a
description in verse, and giving a graceful reference to the mingling of
the glasses of gin with the quarterns of white wine. It was then Don
Segis's turn to be furious, and Don Benigno's to be calm. But it was
evident that this calmness was only put on, merely assumed to pay Don
Segis off for his want of sympathy, for, as a matter of fact, he was
still bleeding from his wound. Therefore it was not long before a
reconciliation took place, and they both agreed, with unusual ardor, to
skin every one who wrote in Don Rosendo's paper, beginning with the
founder himself, and ending with the owner of the printing press. They
were quite aware that Alvaro Pena was the author of the insults, but as
every one had always known that he was a soulless vampire, capable of
sucking the blood of all the clerics of Sarrio, to avoid harping on the
same string they soon turned from him and laid all the blame on
Sinforoso.

They considered themselves justified in this course, because the young
fellow had been a seminarist, and consequently a traitor. Then he came
from the same stock, for his father was a Carlist, and his grandfather
before him. Moreover, Don Rosendo Belinchon, Don Rudesindo, and Alvaro
Pena and Don Rufo, all men of certain position in the town, might have
some license and do as they liked--"but that puppy! that ragamuffin!"

Excited by the murmur of applause, Don Benigno drank a few more
quarterns than usual, and the chaplain would not let himself be
outdone.

When the men left the shop in the classic chain, Don Segis noticed that
his swelled leg dragged less than usual, and he remarked it to Don
Benigno, who congratulated him on the fact. Then when, a few steps
later, they reached the walls of the Augustine convent, Don Segis said
in a loud voice, that as he felt no desire to go to bed that night he
would go on with him. But the curate whispered in his ear that he would
like to speak to him in private, so both remained in front of the
convent.

"Friend Don Segis, what do you think of going and pulling Perinolo's
son's nose for him?"

"Gently! gently! gently!"

"If we could only give him a hiding, without any scandal, of course."

"Gently! gently!"

"At eleven, or half-past, they leave the cafe. We can wait for him about
there, and then administer a little corporal punishment."

"Gently! gently! gently!"

"Are you a man, or are you not, Don Segis?"

This question, innocent as it was, produced great perturbation in the
mind of the chaplain, to judge by the series of faces and agitated
gestures which he made before he could find his voice.

"Who? I? I would never have believed that a friend and coadjutor could
say such a thing to me!"

Then he turned aside in great emotion, and raised his handkerchief to
his eyes, which shed some tears.

"Well, men should comport themselves as men. Come along, and let us
chastise this rascal."

"Come along!" replied the chaplain in a firm tone, as he turned in the
direction of his house.

"Not that way, Don Segis."

"Which way you like."

The two clerics took each other by the arm, and proceeded on their way,
not without certain vacillations, in the direction of the Cafe Marina.
It must be observed that they both adopted a lay costume in the evening;
they wore black frock coats, with full skirts and tight sleeves, thick
boots, and enormous felt hats.

It was a good quarter of an hour before they finally reached the cafe.
Once there, dazzled by the lights, like silly butterflies, they almost
collapsed and withdrew.

"It will be better to wait for him near his own house. There are several
people about here still," said Don Benigno.

Don Segis, being in a submissive state of mind, followed his friend's
suggestion.

In the Calle de Caborana, at the corner of that of Azucar, which leads
to the Rua Nueva, they both took up their positions, a stroke of
strategy, as the enemy had to pass that way, for his house was situated
in the Calle de Caborana. Then the two clerics displayed the persistence
of the Navarrese in the defile of Roncesvalles, for during the half
hour's waiting, they bore with indomitable heroism exposure to a fine
rain, without fear of rheumatism or without any other mundane
consideration causing them to budge an inch from their post of
occupation. Finally, relieved in his mind and satisfied with having
maintained a heated discussion in the cafe, the chief editor of "The
Light" directed his steps to his house, when he unexpectedly came upon
the enraged curate, who said in a shrill voice:

"Listen here, boy; if you will now repeat the insults which you have
written in Don Rosendo's paper, I shall be very glad to hear them."

Surprise, the sarcastic and threatening tone of the priest, and the
sight of the portly form of Don Segis standing motionless as a reserve
force a few steps off, filled Sinforoso with such terror that for some
time he was speechless; and it was only when the cleric advanced a step
toward him that he managed to say:

"Calm yourself, Don Benigno. I did not use your name."

"Hallo!" exclaimed the priest with a fierce smile, "I see you don't crow
so loud now. What is the matter with the cock that does not crow? What
is wrong with the cock that does not crow, boy?"

Don Benigno took a step forward, and Sinforoso took a step backward.

Don Segis, the reserve force, also advanced a step to preserve the
strategical distance.

"Calm yourself, Don Benigno!" cried Sinforoso in terror.

"I am very calm, young fellow! I only want to hear that about the doves
again which pleased me so much."

"I did not write it!" exclaimed Perinolo's son in dismay.

"You did not write it, boy? Then take this for when you do write it."
And he leveled a blow at the editor's cheek.

"Calm yourself, Don Benigno!" exclaimed the wretched fellow as he fell
backward with his hands outstretched.

"Don't I tell you I am very calm? You braggart. Here's another little
dove!" And he administered another blow.

"For God's sake, Don Benigno, calm yourself!"

"There goes another little dove!" another blow followed.

Let us say now, before going any further, that of all the blows given in
Sarrio during the two years subsequent to the appearance of "The Light"
(and goodness knows they were innumerable), the cheeks of this
distinguished youth were the butt of at least one-half of them.

Being powerless to calm his infuriated assailant by his entreaties, and
suspecting the doves would prove to be numerous, the chief editor cried
out with all his strength:

"Help! help! They are killing me!" Then he turned round to take refuge
in flight, but the iron fingers of the priest caught him by the arm, and
at the same moment Don Segis, thinking that the time had come for him to
join in the fray, leveled a heavy blow on his shoulders with his stout
stick.

"Help!" cried the wretched fellow again. It happened that at that moment
Alvaro Pena, the intrepid naval officer, who was proceeding from
Graell's shop, where he generally spent his evenings, to his dwelling in
the Calle del Azucar, rushed to the spot, saying:

"What is the matter, Sinforoso? What is the matter?"

"Help, Don Alvaro; they are killing me!"

"Hold on, Sinforoso, help is coming!" he cried as he rapidly approached.

The priests, hearing the voice of that hated and terrible enemy of the
Church, were much alarmed, but emboldened by the fight, they faced him
in battle line with their sticks raised in the air. Pena was filled
with mingled rage and pleasure as he advanced to the attack.

"Windbags!" he cried, as he wielded his stick, and Don Benigno's
enormous hat flew twenty paces off.

Don Segis advanced with the purpose of aiming his stick at the head of
the officer, but before he could do so a blow caught him at the back of
the head, leaving him badly hurt.

"It might have been expected. Caramba! only nocturnal birds are capable
of treacherously lying in wait for a defenseless man, making a street
brawl and disturbing the neighbors' rest. We must have done with these
bloodsuckers who sap the life of the town and try to keep it in a state
of barbarism. Call these the ministers of God! The apostles of charity!
The eternal disturbers of social peace!"

Even in this critical moment the officer could not drop the anticlerical
rhetoric and pompous style that he always adopted. Every phrase was
accompanied with a blow. The priests being powerless to withstand his
furious attack, tried to take to their heels. The curate soon got out of
reach of the stick, but poor Don Segis, with the extraordinary weight of
his left leg, was left behind, and had to endure the blows from Pena's
weapon for some time. Alvaro's voice could be heard in the distance,
crying out in mocking rebuke:

"Hypocrites! Whited sepulchres! Is this conformity with the spirit of
the Gospel, you brawlers? You preach peace and love to mankind, and you
are the first to disgrace the sacred doctrine! When shall we shake off
your yoke and emancipate ourselves from the slavery in which you have
kept us for so long!"

Any one would have thought to hear him that he was making a speech in
some democratic club instead of administering corporal punishment.

Thus ended that encounter.

The next morning the harbor-master received a visit from the rector of
Sarrio, who came to implore him not to make mention of the unfortunate
incident in the newspaper, and offering all kinds of apologies to both
him and Sinforoso on behalf of the curate and Don Segis.

Pena declined to accede to this request, for it was an admirable
opportunity to open an attack upon the enemies of liberty and progress;
and, in fact, the next number of "The Light" contained a circumstantial
account, written in a humorous style, of all that had taken place, which
greatly exercised the minds of the clergy and the timorous people in the
town.




CHAPTER XV

GONZALO MARRIES


The weighty and serious matters on Don Rosendo's mind prevented his
giving the painful incident that had disturbed the even tenor of his
house the especial attention that he would have accorded it at any other
time. Nevertheless he was much upset when he learned of Gonzalo's
treachery and his younger daughter's misconduct, and he held long
conversations with his wife on the subject--irrefutable proof that great
men may be full of exalted, grand ideas, and yet not blind to the things
of this world, as is usually supposed. His first impulse was to send off
Gonzalo and shut his daughter up in a convent, but the entreaties of
Dona Paula and his own clear-minded conclusions led him to change his
purpose.

At the expiration of some days of indecision (the burden of the other
cares caused their number to be few) he granted the ill-conducted young
people permission to marry; but not without first having an interview
with Cecilia, and hearing from her lips that she willingly forgave her
sister, and wished the marriage to take place as soon as possible.

The consent being given, Gonzalo presented himself one afternoon at
Belinchon's house. It was a fortnight since he had been there, and his
heart sank at the prospect in spite of his wishes having been so fully
and promptly realized. He dreaded the first interview, and not without
reason. Dona Paula received him with marked coldness, and even the
servants' manners were tinged with a hostility which hurt him.

Then the idea of seeing Cecilia made him tremble. But when Venturita
came into the room all his fear and all his depression vanished. Her
sprightly chatter, the bright sparkle of her eyes, and her graceful,
mocking coquetry quickly raised his spirits and transported him into the
seventh heaven. The enchanting enthraldom of her voice and manners had
lulled him into an indifference to all else by the time Cecilia entered
the room.

The sight of his victim exercised a strange and sudden effect upon him;
he automatically rose from his seat, and his face changed color.

"How do you do, Gonzalo?"

This was said by Cecilia, as if she had seen him the preceding day and
nothing particular had happened, only she was a shade paler than usual.
But the young man was so overwhelmed with confusion that he could not
reply to this simple question without stuttering. The clear and tranquil
glance of Cecilia affected him like an electric current, and he turned
to Dona Paula, whose face was overshadowed with a severe and melancholy
expression, while Venturita looked out of the window with assumed
indifference. At last he resumed his seat, trembling violently, and
Cecilia, who had come to ask her mother for the keys of the cupboards,
gave him a quiet smile of farewell as she left the room.

The preparations for the marriage began. Dona Paula had the delicacy,
rare in a low-born woman, not to allow a single article of wearing
apparel made for Cecilia to serve for her sister.

So a fresh trousseau was quickly put in hand. To the great surprise of
the needlewomen, Cecilia joined in the work. Some attributed this
concession to kindness, others to want of feeling. It is true that,
although a little thin, her face expressed the same quiet cheerfulness
as ever, and her fingers worked at her sister's initials with the same
dexterity as when she embroidered her own. But the cutting of the
scissors and the sewing of the needles seemed to say horrible things,
ah! very horrible things, instead of those pretty ones which used to
make her tremble with joy.

They remained buried in her heart, however, and the keenest observer
would have read nothing in those large, liquid, beautiful eyes but the
usual quiet smile.

"Didn't I tell you so, girl?" whispered Teresa in Valentina's ear as she
looked at our young friend.

"Yes, Senorita Cecilia is incapable of loving anybody."

Gonzalo avoided the workroom, and when perchance he appeared he was so
abashed and confused that the embroideresses winked at each other and
smiled. Seeing him so embarrassed, and Cecilia so calm and indifferent,
you would have thought that the parts played by both in the sad love
affair had been reversed.

In the meantime tongues wagged on the subject in the shops, in the
houses, in the streets, and at the Promenade--there was no end to it.
The event caused a great sensation in the town. While preparations for
Cecilia's marriage had been going on, it had been the general opinion
that Gonzalo showed a deplorable want of taste, that he was throwing
himself away on the poor girl, who was represented as little less than a
monster of ugliness; and they all wondered why he had not chosen her
sister, who was so lovely and so graceful. Directly they learned of the
change their opinions suddenly veered round.

"What a scandal! What a disgraceful proceeding! What parents to consent
to such infamy! Where was the shame of some people? Poor girl, so
beautiful, so slender, with such lovely eyes! Well, I consider her
prettier than her sister."

"So do I."

We must not miss the opportunity of saying that this eternal discontent
of people with regard to the actions of their fellow-creatures, much as
it upsets us, does not argue intentional unkindness, malignity, or envy,
as we are apt to think when we are the object of their remarks; it is
nothing but an evident tribute to the imperfection of our planetary
existence and the love of the ideal that every one bears within himself
without ever seeing it realized. After having thus shown ourselves both
philosophical and optimistic, we will proceed with our story.

The day of the marriage arrived. It was solemnized early in the morning
at Belinchon's house, in the presence of a few relations and friends;
and after taking chocolate the bride and bridegroom left for Tejada.

This was an estate about four miles from the town, where Don Rosendo's
genius, aided by money, had had full scope to produce great effects.
When he bought the place it consisted of several fields and a wood,
where cows pastured, and the notes of thrushes, linnets, and blackbirds
filled the air. Don Rosendo began by doing away with this indigenous
colony, and substituting a foreign one for it. The breed of cattle of
the country was proscribed and replaced by one from Switzerland. The
same ruthlessness was shown in robbing the trees of their native
songsters, and hanging them with cages full of rare, exotic birds that
croaked dolefully all the year round at sunset. The energetic
reformatory spirit of Don Rosendo did not stop at the animal kingdom,
for it was brought with equal relentlessness to bear upon the vegetable
one, and the character of the place was thus completely transformed. By
degrees the great shady chestnut trees, with their gnarled trunks; the
gigantic oaks, which had renewed their scalloped foliage more than three
hundred times; the walnut trees, that looked like enormous thistles; the
luxuriant orchard trees, bowed to the ground with the weight of the
luscious fruit, and many other trees pertaining to a good landed
property in the country, all gradually succumbed to the saw and the ax.

Washingtonians, araucarias, excelsas, and many other trees of foreign
extraction, chiefly of the coniferae family, were planted in their stead,
which made the place look something like a cemetery in the eyes of the
vulgar.

However, when any such remark was made to Don Rosendo he merely replied
that coniferae had the advantage of foliage during the winter, and the
vulgar would return that that very fact made it look like a cemetery in
the winter, and in the summer too. But Don Rosendo did not deign to
reply to such a silly remark, and in this he was right.

As everything that is worth much costs much, the foreigners of both
kingdoms absorbed a good deal of Belinchon's income. The birds of the
country had fed themselves and dressed their feathers without any
extraneous assistance, but those from abroad, shut up in cages and
enormous aviaries made for the purpose, required several attendants to
feed them and to keep their places clean. Then homesickness caused great
blanks among them which could only be filled by sending expensive orders
to Paris and London. The same thing happened with the vegetable kingdom,
only of every plant that succeeded by dint of great care and cultivation
thirty or forty died, and the constant attention of the gardeners could
not prevent this mortality.

The house was also neither Spanish nor European in style. It was built
in Chinese style, with little pagodas rising upon every side. I do not
know what connection these little towers had with Babel, the scene of
the confusion of tongues, but I must tell you that in the neighborhood
the fantastic building went by the name of "Don Rosendo's Babel."

It was magnificently furnished, and wanting in none of the comforts and
refinements afforded by modern civilization to the rich. It had a
splendid room, decorated in Persian style, a bathroom, a large
dining-room, fairly well frescoed, and several beautiful little airy
apartments, where the light penetrated through  windows.

So Gonzalo and Venturita repaired to this nest two hours after their
union had been solemnized. On their way thither they had talked without
embarrassment on different subjects. The young man had imprinted several
kisses on the cheeks of the girl, as when they were betrothed; but on
arriving at the "Babel," and finding themselves alone in the Persian
chamber, he was overwhelmed with confusion and awkwardness.

He tried to find subjects of conversation, but he failed in the attempt.

Venturita scarcely answered him, but she looked at him with an
expression of mingled passion and coquetry.

"Look here, stop--stop talking that nonsense. Leave off and give me a
kiss," she added laughing, and patting his mouth with her primrose hand.
Then Gonzalo  deeply, and kissed her passionately.

His passion of these first days bordered on madness. Venturita, with her
singular beauty, the languid, voluptuous expression of her eyes, and
her invincible tendency to recline, was a perfect odalisque. But unlike
one in being merely a beautiful animal, she was full of a mischievous
spirit that bubbled forth at every moment in rather equivocal jokes and
meaning puns, so that Gonzalo was always roaring with merriment, in
ignorance of the danger of that mood between husband and wife. The life
they led was very sedentary, for Ventura did not like going out; the sun
gave her headache and the cold hurt her throat. She spent much time in
the adornment of her person, and changed her dresses as often as if she
were in Madrid, so that the greater part of the day was spent in her
dressing-room. This did not displease Gonzalo; for, on the contrary,
when he saw her appear looking lovely and graceful, exhaling a
penetrating perfume like a tropical flower, he was transported with
delight, and a tremor of passion shook his whole being as he thought
that that exquisite work of nature was his--entirely his.

Nevertheless, everything was not quite like what he had imagined it
would be. Sometimes the young bride, half in earnest, half in joke, shut
herself up in her room and there spent three or four hours without
permitting him to enter, in spite of his affectionate entreaties through
the keyhole.

"I rob you of the sight of me for some time," she would say afterward,
laughing, "to increase your wish to be with me."

And, in fact, these coquetries augmented the young man's passion to such
an extent that it became quite a madness. When the beauty felt inclined,
they walked in the grounds, but they did not go far. On arriving at one
of the few shady, cool retreats which had escaped the reforming hand of
Don Rosendo, the girl liked to sit down--but neither upon the grass nor
the rustic seats, so Gonzalo had to run and fetch an armchair for her
from the house.

"Now sit here at my feet."

The young man then prostrated himself at her side and passionately
kissed the hands that his beautiful wife gave him.

"Samson and Delilah!" she laughingly exclaimed, putting her snowdrop
hands through the ruddy curly beard of her husband.

"You are right," he replied with a sigh. "A Samson without hair."

"You no hair!--and this--what is this?" she returned, ruffling his locks
and making them stand up like a broom.

"I am speaking of my strength."

"You have not strength, eh? Let's see--show me your arms."

Laughing, he took off his jacket, and turning up the sleeves of his
shirt he brought to view his enormous gladiatorial arms, on which the
powerful muscles stood up like a network of cords.

"What strength!" exclaimed the girl, taking hold of one arm with both
hands, which were unable to compass it. Then, seized with sudden
enthusiasm and admiration, she added:

"How strong, how handsome you are, Gonzalo! Let me bite your arm?"

And bending down she tried to insert her pretty little teeth into the
flesh, but the youth had such iron muscles that her teeth only passed
over the skin without breaking it.

Then she grew vexed, and tried again to succeed in piercing the flesh at
all costs. Finally he relaxed his muscles, and said:

"I will let you bite me, but only on condition that you draw blood."

"No, not so," she replied, while her pleased smile expressed the wish to
do it.

"Yes, you must draw blood; if not I won't let you do it."

Then the girl proceeded to bite her husband's arm.

"Harder!" he cried.

And she bit harder.

"Harder!" he repeated.

And she bit harder still, while a mischievous smile sparkled in her
eyes.

"Harder! harder!"

"Enough," she said, rising from her seat; "don't you see I have drawn
blood? How cruel, just as if I were a dog!"

And bending down again, she sucked with delight the blood that welled up
in the arm. Both smiled with repressed passion, and then they looked at
the little red circle made by the girl's teeth.

"Do you see?" she repeated, half ashamed. "Well, it was one of your
strange fancies!"

"Thanks! I should like this mark to remain here forever. But no,
unfortunately it will soon go."

"I can renew it every day," she mischievously returned.

"I should be very pleased."

"You want to make your wife into a little dog; well, you had better say
so plainly."

And suddenly embracing him, and kissing him passionately on the eyes,
cheeks, mouth, and beard, she repeated incessantly:

"Say so plainly! say so plainly, you bear! This mouth is mine, and I
kiss it. This beard is mine, and I kiss it, too. This neck is mine, and
I kiss it. These arms are mine, mine, and I kiss them too!"

"Take me altogether; my life is yours," he said, intoxicated with
happiness.

"I love you; I love you, Gonzalo, for your good looks and your
strength. Look, let me put my hand on yours--what a difference! It looks
like an ant."

"A white ant," he returned, taking the little hand between his own great
strong ones.

"I love you; I love you, Gonzalo. Take me in your arms. Could you walk
with me like that?"

"Oh! you are nothing."

And lifting her like a feather, and putting her on his arm like a child,
he began jumping about the garden.

"Not so fast! Carry me gently. Let us go for a walk."

So he carried her all over the park without feeling any fatigue. And
from that day that kind of walk pleased the girl so much that whenever
they went out she clung to her husband's neck for him to carry her.

The servants smiled and shook their heads at the sight. But a still
better way of amusing her was very soon discovered. There was a swing
near the house, out of order, but more from time than use. It was
repaired, and as soon as it was ready it afforded many hours of
occupation to Gonzalo.

"If you could only know how I enjoy it! Push a little more."

Whereupon the youth's vigorous push made the swing fly, and the girl's
eyes closed and her nostrils dilated with a feeling of intense delight,
and Gonzalo liked seeing her so well amused.

Thus twenty days went by. During that time they received two visits from
Pablito and Piscis; once they came in the tilbury, and once on
horseback. The chief object on this last occasion was to ride a mare
that Pablo had received in exchange for an older one. And strange to
say, in spite of being so much in love, our young friend received the
visits of the two equestrians with inexpressible delight, entered deeply
into their interests, and when they had gone he had a feeling of void in
his life, for his blood and his muscles were suffering from the
extremely sedentary life he was leading. One day he proposed to his wife
to go shooting, for he was an excellent shot and an indefatigable
sportsman. Venturita made no objection as long as she could go with him,
and so it was arranged. Therefore, one morning they went in search of a
covey of partridges, the existence of which Gonzalo had been aware of
since the day of his arrival at Tejada. But before they had gone half a
mile from the house Venturita was quite done up, she could not take
another step. Her husband, therefore, was obliged to carry her back in
his arms, and forego his favorite pastime.

Dona Paula, who had regarded the marriage with great aversion, did not
make any allusion to visiting the bride and bridegroom until many days
had elapsed. She then suggested to Pablito to accompany her, because she
feared it would pain Cecilia to do so; but the girl quietly expressed
her intention of also going to Tejada. So one afternoon the mother and
daughter started off to the place in an open carriage; but on coming in
sight of the well-known little stone towers, Cecilia turned pale--she
felt a pain at her heart and she could hardly see; so when Dona Paula
saw her daughter's indisposition she gave orders to the coachman to turn
back.

"Poor girl!" she said, kissing her. "You see you can not do it."

"I shall be able--I shall be able to," she returned, covering her eyes
with her hand.

On the following day Dona Paula paid the visit, accompanied by Pablo,
and she cordially invited the bride and bridegroom to leave the retired
spot and to come to them in town, so this they did the following week.

Cecilia came down to the street door to receive the couple; she embraced
and kissed her sister warmly, she gave her hand to Gonzalo, and kept it
from trembling by a supreme effort of will; and the young man embraced
her with a fraternal affection, thinking himself forgiven.

The bride and bridegroom were put in possession of the rooms that Dona
Paula had destined for her eldest daughter, and, to all appearances,
life resumed its peaceful course. Nevertheless, Gonzalo was sorry to
see that they were not environed with that warm and genial atmosphere
which adds so much to the comfort of the domestic hearth. Everybody was
kind and attentive, from Don Rosendo down to the lowest servant; but no
affection was shown them. Ventura did not notice it, or if she noticed
it she did not much mind.




CHAPTER XVI

MARTIAL DOINGS


After that grand victory over the clergy, "The Light of Sarrio" resumed
its successful and prosperous course. The boisterous, vehement
harbor-master was able to continue his civilizing crusade without fear
of any more ambuscades. Sinforoso did not give up his post; however, he
never went home without being accompanied by Maza or some other friend,
both being well armed.

But Gabino Maza, who was always captious, knew how to make a malicious
use of the rupture with the Church by appealing to the consciences of
several of the townsfolk. Not that he was a strict Catholic, or cared a
rap whether the whole priestcraft were rooted up like parsley, or not,
for his ideas had always been somewhat heterodox, and the clergy had
long considered him beyond the pale, yet he was the one now to be
shocked.

"After all," he said, "we have been brought up to respect religion,
which is the only curb upon a town, and people can not be allowed to
ride rough-shod over the sacred beliefs of our wives," etc.

These perfidious insinuations caused several people to give up their
subscriptions to the paper.

The editor and the proprietor, who divined the source of the blow, were
greatly indignant; but Gabino Maza, seconded by the no less
irrepressible Delaunay, did not relax in his contentious campaign. If
any of the staff of "The Light" were present nothing was said, but
directly they left tongues wagged freely and furiously. Sometimes
seriously and sometimes jokingly they discussed all who were concerned
with the paper, more especially, as was only logical, its highest
representative--the eminent Don Rosendo. They said (oh! disgraceful
conduct!) that it was only the desire of seeing himself in print which
had inspired him with the philanthropic movement of lighting the torch
of progress in Sarrio; that Don Rufo, the doctor, was an impostor;
Sinforoso, a poor thing--a broken reed to lean upon; Alvaro Pena (here
the voices were lowered and furtive looks cast round), a blusterer
without a spice of justice in him; Don Feliciano Gomez, a poor devil who
had better look after his own not very flourishing affairs; Don
Rudesindo, a great brawler who was only trying to let his storehouse and
advertise his cider; and as to the originator and promoter of the
enterprise, Don Rosendo, they said that he had always been a stupid
fool, who had thought himself an author when in fact he understood
nothing but the rise and fall of the price of codfish.

Only the imperious duty of acting as faithful and impartial chroniclers
obliges us to record such remarks; for of a truth it is much against the
grain--the pen itself even seeming to revolt in one's hand against
writing down such abominable things.

The backbiters abstained from speaking against Don Pedro Miranda because
they had already asked him to withdraw from the periodical, which he
seemed inclined to do after the skirmish with the clergy; for Don Pedro
was an old Christian, and a great friend of the Augustinian chaplain.
The malignant remarks were successful in setting some of the influential
ladies of the town against the paper, among whom was Dona Brigida; so
the foolish and degraded Marin went over to their side at the Club.

The dissentient side was also increased by the drunken mayor, for a
feeling of fellowship with the frequenters of the cafe, and the vexation
caused him by the constant excitement of the press, made him quickly
retire from the great reform movement. That which finally set him
against "The Light" and its staff was a paragraph in which the mayor and
the corporation were severely censured for the license they allowed the
town police and the little they did to render Sarrio a pleasant seaside
resort for distinguished scrofulous patients in the summer.

Although they outwardly behaved as friends, a veiled, silent enmity
reigned among the chief frequenters of the Club, and this increased day
by day, thanks to the mischief-makers, who never cease on such occasions
to air the differences and dislikes. Thenceforth they avoided quarrels
and disputes because the angry cries and insulting terms which meant
nothing in former days were now, thanks to the cordial dislike which
existed among them all, fraught with much danger.

Therefore greater silence and more courtesy reigned in the resort, but
it was accompanied with less frankly and cordiality. That strange state
of feeling could not last long. Among people meeting every day and not
being very cordial with each other, a quarrel is soon inevitable. It
happened thus.

There arrived at the saloon, no one knew how, a copy of a certain
Catalonian illustrated paper, where, among other pictures, was one
representing the banks of an American river, upon which a dozen
crocodiles were disporting themselves. Maza had the paper in his hand
when Rufo came up behind him and said in a jocular tone:

"A lot of crocodiles, eh?"

"They are not crocodiles," returned Maza in a dry, disdainful tone,
without raising his head.

"And why are they not?" asked the doctor, wounded by the tone.

"Because they are not."

"That is no reason."

"If you don't know, study; I am not here to teach you for nothing."

"Tut! The sage of Greece. Stand off, gentlemen!"

"I am not a sage, but I say these animals are not crocodiles, for there
are no crocodiles in the river Maranon."

"What are they, then?"

"Alligators."

"Call them what you like! Alligators and crocodiles are the same."

"Another atrocity! Where did you learn that?"

"Why, man, it is a well-known fact that the alligator and crocodile only
differ in name. Here is Don Lorenzo, who has traveled, and can tell us
whether it is not so."

"The alligator is rather smaller," observed Don Lorenzo, with a
conciliatory smile.

"The size is of little consequence. The question is whether it has the
same form or not."

Don Lorenzo nodded in sign of assent. Maza jumped up in a fury:

"But, gentlemen! But, gentlemen! Are we among cultivated people or among
country clowns? Where do you find that crocodiles are the same as
alligators? The crocodile is an animal of the Old World, and the
alligator of the New."

"Excuse me, friend Maza, but I have seen crocodiles in the Philippines,"
returned Don Rudesindo.

"Well, and what if you have?"

"Because you say crocodiles don't belong to the Old World--"

"No more they do! Are not the Philippines in the New World? Gentlemen,
gentlemen, open your umbrellas, for fooleries are raining down now."

"What? Do you mean to say that the Philippines are not in the other
hemisphere?" asked Don Rudesindo, his face distorted with rage.

"Never mind; never mind; go on."

"The chief difference between the crocodile and the alligator,"
intervened Don Lorenzo in a tone of authority, "is that the crocodile
has three rows of teeth, and the alligator only two."

"It is not so, sir; it is not so! Crocodiles have the same rows of teeth
as alligators."

Don Lorenzo received this remark with indignation, and Don Rudesindo
came to his support; Maza, seconded by Delaunay, was not less furious
in his attack. Several members of the Club soon joined in the dispute,
which got warmer every minute. The voices were deafening. If they had
had three rows of teeth like the crocodiles, or even two, I do not doubt
that they would have devoured each other, seeing the rage and passion
with which they showed the one set with which nature had endowed them.
Maza was so aggressive and so insolent that at last Don Rudesindo, no
longer master of himself, gave him a blow on the head with his umbrella.
The subsequent conflict of sticks and umbrellas made a noise so terrible
that it would have struck terror into the bravest heart. Several who had
no recollection of having given any opinion on the teeth of the reptiles
in question received their share of umbrella blows the same as those who
had discoursed upon the subject. The master and several other people
came upstairs, the West Indians left off playing billiards, Don Melchor
de las Cuevas, a person of influence in war as well as in peace,
mediated between the combatants, and the disturbance was finally
quelled, but it was some months before their tempers cooled down.

The result was, that from that day Gabino Maza, Delaunay, Don Roque,
Marin, and three or four other members left the Club. Don Pedro Miranda
only appeared between long intervals of absence, which made the
remaining members and the staff of "The Light" see that they could not
count upon him, and that it would not be long before he joined the other
side, as indeed it came to pass. The dissenting party used to meet in
the Cafe de Londres in the Calle de Caborana, but not many months later
the news ran through the town that they had taken a storehouse in the
Calle de San Florencio in which to hold their meetings; and so it was.
They had the floor boarded and carpeted, the walls and ceilings painted,
and after furnishing it with several chairs and armchairs, they began
going there as regularly as they had formerly gone to the Club. As the
roof was low, and there was a ledge in the wall on which Marin used to
take his afternoon nap, the place soon went by the name of the "Cabin"
in the town, and the name clung to it. The staff of "The Light" treated
the deserters with scorn as long as they had no roof under which to
assemble, but now the matter assumed importance, and the first symptom
of fear was evinced in an article, or a screed in blank verse,
describing the new meeting-place, and bringing each of the members into
notice under the names of different animals: Maza, a fish; Delaunay, a
crowing cock; Marin, an ass; Don Roque, a pig, etc.

This exasperated the "Cabin" party in an inexpressible way. Don Rosendo
became more and more pushing and active in his press campaign, and he
essayed to introduce into "The Light" all the forms and customs that he
noticed in the national and foreign press, more especially the French.
He commissioned a clerk in Madrid to send him, every Wednesday, a
telegram of twenty words, and moreover to write him political and
literary letters. He translated all the foreign notices that appeared in
periodicals, even those of fashion, courts of justice, and theatres; but
where he distinguished himself was in the market column. It is not easy
to describe the cleverness with which he treated the subject of cereals,
oils, spirituous liquors, rice, etc. To show the intelligence and
brilliance he brought to bear on such a prosaic matter we must quote one
of his paragraphs in which he wrote:

"Sugars, alive to these variations, remain low, and will not attain any
permanent rise until coffees, cocoas, and all foreign produce restrain
their violent oscillations." It was, in fact, the soul of the paper.

Nevertheless, he had not done enough to realize his ideal. Belinchon had
always followed with the greatest interest the personal polemics of the
Parisian press, which generally ended in a duel. And these proceedings
afforded him such exquisite pleasure that no banquet could be more
congenial and delightful to his taste. When several days passed without
this excitement Don Rosendo languished. The descriptions of the
assaults of arms among the celebrated fencers of the capital were of
equal interest to him, and although he found fencing expressions--_Engagement
de sixte_, _Battement en quarte_, _Contreriposet_, _Feinte_,_
etc._--were somewhat confusing, he translated them in his own way, and
pretended to be quite conversant with them. He said there was no surer
sign of the state of the culture of a country than in its devotion to
arms. The practise aroused and inspired the idea of human honor and
dignity, and their abandonment brought dishonor and degradation. He knew
better than their own relations the biography of all the great duelists
and fencers in Paris, and he could give a detailed and minute
description of all the duels that had taken place, with their
accompanying wounds.

When an assault of arms was announced between two masters like Jacob and
Grisier, our friend was greatly excited; he eagerly opened the "Figaro"
every day, and mentally backed the one or the other.

One day in bed--his best ideas seemed always to come to him there--it
occurred to him that to be a journalist without a knowledge of the use
of arms was like being a dancer without the power of playing the
castanets. One day, when least expected, a blow might fell him to the
ground if he were ignorant of the art of parrying it. It was true that
nobody in Sarrio was versed in the science of fencing, but then nobody
was under a strong obligation to attain it. There might be some dispute
between him and a journalist of Lancia or Madrid, and then he would have
to let himself be assassinated! These thoughts led him to adopt the
resolution of learning to use the foil at all costs. How? Why, by
sending for a master to come to Sarrio, as he could not leave the place.
Without communicating the idea to anybody, he wrote to a friend in Paris
to look out in the fencing clubs for a teacher, even if second rate, who
would be willing to expatriate himself. At the end of some time, such a
one was found who, for the sum of two thousand francs a year, with the
liberty of giving other lessons, would settle in the Biscayan town.

The news went forth that a professor of fencing, Monsieur Lemaire, had
arrived in the schooner "Julia" for the sole purpose of teaching Don
Rosendo the noble art of self-defense.

And, in fact, our friend was soon seen in the company of a slight,
red-haired young man of foreign appearance. The people were
horror-struck, for in a little town where blows with fists and sticks
are given and taken the coldbloodedness, formality, and gravity of duels
inspire horror and terror. They first thought that Don Rosendo wished to
kill somebody, and it was only after some time that they understood the
reason of the step. Don Rosendo entered into the matter with the ardor
and gravity that it deserved. He devoted an hour every morning, and two
more in the afternoon, to perfecting himself in lunging, which was all
that the professor allowed him to do for the first two months. The most
noteworthy result of this exercise was that at the end of some days he
did not know whether his legs were his own, or whether they really
belonged to another rational biped like himself. So sharp and strong
were the pains to which he became subject that even in his dreams he
thought he was still lunging, and jumped up with cries of pain. Then
Monsieur Lemaire was so cruel that he was never satisfied with the
efforts made by the good gentleman. "Try again, again, again!" and Don
Rosendo had to stretch and strain himself to such a degree that he felt
as if he were being sawed asunder. When the noble exercise was over
Senor Belinchon, being nearly bowed to the ground with pain, was obliged
to hold by the furniture to get from one room to another; and the noble
founder of "The Light of Sarrio" walked henceforth to the end of his
days as if he were bandy legged. But these tortures, similar to those
endured by martyrs in Japan, he bore, if not with pleasure, with heroic
endurance, as he remembered at what enormous sacrifices the improvement
of one's self and one's country is attained.

At the end of two months the eternal tic-tac of the foils commenced:
_Degagez; coup droit; degagez; un, deux; degagez, doublez._ But the
torture of the legs was not herewith relaxed. Don Rudesindo, Alvaro
Pena, Sinforoso, Pablito, the printer Folgueras, and several others took
lessons at the same time. In the hall the fencers were so overwhelmed by
their belligerent feelings that solemn silence reigned. Nothing was
heard but the sharp voice of Monsieur Lemaire incessantly repeating in
an absent fashion: _En garde vivement--Contre de quarte--Ripostez--Ah
bien!--En garde vivement--Contre de sixte--Ripostez--Ah bien!--Parez
seconde--Ripostu--Well done!_ Don Rosendo thought he was transported to
Paris, and he saw a Grisier, Anatole de la Forge, and the Baron de
Basancour in Don Rudesindo, Folgueras, and Sinforoso.

"The Light" no longer seemed to be "The Light," but "Le Gaulois" or "Le
Journal des Debats."

At the end of five months he was well versed in the art of self-defense;
he could parry direct blows, he could attack with a shortened arm, and
he could spring forward to perfection. He then thought the time had come
for a scandal to take place. It behooved the town to know that all the
money expended on the fencing lessons had not been thrown away; besides,
he wished to imbue the place with a taste for the refinements of the
great capitals. But with whom in Sarrio could he pick a quarrel? However
willingly he might quarrel with one of the members of the Cabin, he knew
that the only one capable of fighting was Gabino Maza, and he held him
somewhat in awe, especially since he had heard the professor say that
one had to be very careful with violent men, even if they could not
fence. After long and profound consideration he thought the best thing
to do was to pick a quarrel with some journalist of Lancia through the
discussion carried on by "The Light" with "The Future" about a
particular branch road, and this plan he carried into execution. In the
next number he showed himself so aggressive and so insolent to the paper
of the capital that, surprised and indignant, it replied that certain
remarks in "The Light" were only worthy of contempt.

Whereupon Don Rosendo commissioned his friends Alvaro Pena and Sinforoso
Suarez to take his challenge to the editor of "The Future." So the two
gentlemen went to Lancia, and returned the same day.

On seeing them come back Senor Belinchon ardently hoped that the affair
might have been amicably settled without the necessity of fighting,
although he had been the one to demand satisfaction, which is a fresh
proof of his singularly exalted soul and the exquisite sensibility with
which he was endowed. Unfortunately, however, the editor of "The Future"
had remained firm, and the seconds had arranged a duel with swords which
was to come off the following day at an estate in the Lancian suburbs.

On learning this our hero felt his legs tremble, not with fear--that
nobody would dare imagine--but with emotion at finding himself about to
be the object of public curiosity and attention. As they were walking
toward home, Pena said to him with rough frankness:

"The Villar party wanted to have the sword points blunted, but I said:
'I know Don Rosendo very well, and he is a man who abhors childishness;
you can not trifle with him. When one has to do with a quarrel like this
it has to be treated seriously. I am certain that if we blunted the
points there would be a row with him. Was not that what you would have
said?"

"Exactly. Many thanks, Alvaro," returned Senor Belinchon, giving him a
hand which Pena found rather cold, and he added in a weak voice:

"But if the points were a trifle filed I would not mind agreeing to
that. The affair, after all, does not precisely exact death."

"I did not dare to agree to it. Not knowing your opinion, I feared to
vex you."

"Not at all--not at all. I would not mind their being filed."

"Well, now it can't be. The conditions are arranged and unless they
suggest it again the points will have to be sharp. That will suit you,
as you know how to use the foil."

"And precisely for that reason I did not wish to take any unfair
advantage of my adversary."

To this remark Pena gave a knowing wink.

"Don't be so scrupulous, Don Rosendo. If you can run him through
_first!_ like a little bird, don't hesitate to do so."

The officer accompanied these last words with an expressive pass in the
air with the tips of his fingers, as if he were inserting them in a
human body.

Don Rosendo made a gesture of repugnance, and after keeping silent for
some time he said sullenly:

"What I fear is, that these cursed pains will not let me lunge
properly."

"Tush! man, don't trouble about that. You won't feel any pain in your
legs during the duel. Haven't you ever found that a toothache goes away
directly you arrive at the dentist's door to have it drawn?"

This consolatory simile provoked a roar of laughter from the officer
which lasted for some time, while Belinchon remained grave and
depressed, as it behooves heroes to be on the eve of battle. The news
of the approaching duel ran through the place like an electric shock.
The excitement of the townsfolk was indescribable. It never entered
anybody's head that a person advanced in years, with a married daughter,
could cross swords with any one on the question of a branch road.
Nevertheless Belinchon's party admired the firmness and bravery of their
chief, who had a fearful nightmare that night. He dreamed that the sword
of the editor of "The Future" cut him in two. The conqueror carried off
one-half as a trophy, and only the other half returned to Sarrio. His
cries awoke him, and filled Dona Paula with such alarm that she fetched
the anti-spasm medicine. Belinchon, with the fortitude of heroic
temperaments, said nothing to his consort, but he took a dose of the
mixture.

On the following day he went off to Lancia in a carriage, accompanied by
Pena, Sinforoso, and Don Rufo, with two swords. Upon leaving the town
more than a hundred persons were waiting in the road to see them off.
Don Rosendo felt quite overcome.

"Good luck! You'll send a telegram, eh? It shall not be said that Sarrio
was beaten by Lancia."

Don Rosendo pressed the hands of his partizans with emotion. They all
offered to accompany him, and vowed vengeance in case of his perishing
in the duel. At last they reached the appointed spot, and there they met
the enemy.

The seconds conferred with each other, and the swords were produced and
put into the hands of the combatants, whose faces had assumed the color
befitting such solemn occasions, which is that of bottle green varied
with an orange hue. Once on the defensive, and the word of attack given,
they both began brandishing the swords methodically, first on one side
and then on the other, with a lugubrious, terror-striking sound. At the
end of some time Villar ventured to raise his weapon with the intention
of wounding his adversary's head. But lo! Don Rosendo gave such a
prodigious leap backward that the seconds looked at each other in
astonishment. Villar, also surprised, waited for his adversary to return
to the attack. The melancholy _tic-tac_ recommenced; Don Rosendo at the
end of some time raised his sword, whereupon Villar instantly far
exceeded his foe in the really supernatural bound he made backward.

The seconds looked at each other in increased surprise, for they thought
he would leap out of the field.

The duel lasted in this way more than half an hour, during which Don
Rosendo once cried:

"Stop!"

"What is it?" asked the seconds, approaching.

"It seems to me that the other gentleman has blunted the point of his
sword."

Then Villar's sword was inspected, and it was seen that it was not so.

This act of generosity, more befitting the Middle Ages than our own
times, raised him, when it became known, in the public estimation to the
dignity of the legendary heroes--Roland, Bayard, and Bernardo del
Carpio. The duel ended when Villar's sword quite unintentionally struck
Belinchon's brow. It was a simple scratch, but the seconds considered it
terminated the fight. Don Rufo stuck a large piece of English
sticking-plaster on the wound. The wounded man nobly gave his hand to
his adversary and despatched a telegram to Lancia to be sent to Sarrio.
Then they all breakfasted cheerfully together; and during the meal the
champions expansively confided to each other the blows they had intended
to administer, and which for lack of opportunity they had been powerless
to give.

"Why, man, if you had not prevented it in time I should have cut your
head in two. With one or two feints at the face I should have given a
thrust at your chest and a cut at your head," said Don Rosendo,
swallowing a large mouthful of cod.

"Well, you would not have come off any better if I had carried out my
intended line of attack," returned Villar. "I should have raised my arm,
ping! I should have made a feint at your head, ping! You were to aim at
my arm, ping! I to give you a cut at your face, ping! You to go for my
head, ping! I to parry and make for your arm, ping!"

Here the editor of "The Future" of Lancia, who had been brandishing his
fork and trying to swallow a fish-bone during the description of his
proposed famous and complicated plan of action, now nearly choked and
turned crimson. He had to be taken into the air, and Don Rosendo was the
one to give him the sacred slaps upon his back to make him get rid of
the fish-bone. Beautiful and striking example of chivalry that can never
be forgotten!

The breakfast over, Don Rosendo and his companions entered the carriage,
and repaired to Sarrio. More than half the population, apprised by the
telegram, awaited them on the outskirts of the town.

A cry of delight and enthusiasm burst from all throats on the approach
of the carriage. Don Rosendo, much moved, put his head out of the window
and took off his hat, which revealed the piece of English
sticking-plaster. At the sight the people gave vent to a loud hurrah,
and the vehicle was fairly mobbed by the crowd. After entering his
house the acclamations were so great that the founder of "The Light" was
obliged to appear at the window, where he was greeted with fresh
enthusiasm.

That night his friends treated him to a serenade.


END OF VOLUME ONE

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The following typographical errors have been corrected by the etext
transcriber:

their three daughetrs=>their three daughters

That discourse was a relevation=>That discourse was a revelation

bottle of Ruede wine=>bottle of Rueda wine

       *       *       *       *       *









End of Project Gutenberg's The Fourth Estate, vol.1, by Armando Palacio Valdes

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