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The Grandee

by Armando Palacio Valdés · English · Gutenberg #31056 · 553,273 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Grandee

Author: Armando Palacio Valdés

Translator: Rachel Challice


        
Release date: January 23, 2010 [eBook #31056]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31056

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[Illustration: book cover]

Heinemann's International Library

Edited by Edmund Gosse

THE GRANDEE

ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS


THE GRANDEE

     *     *     *     *     *     *

_Heinemann's International Library._

Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.

_Crown 8vo, in paper covers, 2s. 6d., or cloth limp, 3s. 6d._


1. _IN GOD'S WAY._ From the Norwegian of
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON

2. _PIERRE AND JEAN._ From the French of
GUY DE MAUPASSANT.

3. _THE CHIEF JUSTICE._ From the German
of KARL EMIL FRANZOS.

4. _WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT._
From the Russian of COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI.

5. _FANTASY._ From the Italian of MATILDE
SERAO.

6. _FROTH._ From the Spanish of DON ARMANDO
PALACIO VALDÉS.

7. _FOOTSTEPS OF FATE._ From the Dutch
of LOUIS COUPERUS.

8. _PEPITA JIMÉNEZ._ From the Spanish of
JUAN VALERA.

9. _THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS._ From
the Norwegian of JONAS LIE.

10. _THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS._ From
the Norwegian of BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.

11. _LOU._ From the German of BARON VON
ROBERTS.

12. _DONA LUZ._ From the Spanish of JUAN
VALERA.

13. _THE JEW._ From the Polish of JOSEPH I.
KRASZEWSKI.

14. _UNDER THE YOKE._ From the Bulgarian
of IVAN VAZOFF.

15. _FAREWELL LOVE!_ From the Italian of
MATILDE SERAO.

16. _THE GRANDEE._ From the Spanish of DON
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS.


_In preparation._

_A COMMON STORY._ From the Russian of
GONCHAROF.

_NIOBE._ From the Norwegian of JONAS LIE.

_Each Volume contains a specially written Introduction by the Editor._

LONDON: W. HEINEMANN, 21 BEDFORD ST., W.C.

     *     *     *     *     *     *

THE GRANDEE

A Novel

by

ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS

Translated from the Spanish by Rachel Challice






[Illustration: logo]

London
William Heinemann
1894

[_All rights reserved_]




INTRODUCTION


According to the Spanish critics, the novel has flourished in Spain
during only two epochs--the golden age of Cervantes and the period in
which we are still living. That unbroken line of romance-writing which
has existed for so long a time in France and in England, is not to be
looked for in the Peninsula. The novel in Spain is a re-creation of our
own days; but it has made, since the middle of the nineteenth century,
two or three fresh starts. The first modern Spanish novelists were what
are called the _walter-scottistas_, although they were inspired as much
by George Sand as by the author of _Waverley_. These writers were of a
romantic order, and Fernan Caballero, whose earliest novel dates from
1849, was at their head. The Revolution of September, 1868, marked an
advance in Spanish fiction, and Valera came forward as the leader of a
more national and more healthily vitalised species of imaginative work.
The pure and exquisite style of Valera is, doubtless, only to be
appreciated by a Castilian. Something of its charm may be divined,
however, even in the English translation of his masterpiece, _Pepita
Jiménez_. The mystical and aristocratic genius of Valera appealed to a
small audience; he has confided to the world that when all were praising
but few were buying his books.

Far greater fecundity and a more directly successful appeal to the
public, were, somewhat later, the characteristics of Perez y Galdos,
whose vigorous novels, spoiled a little for a foreign reader by their
didactic diffuseness, are well-known in this country. In the hands of
Galdos, a further step was taken by Spanish fiction towards the
rejection of romantic optimism and the adoption of a modified realism.
In Pereda, so the Spanish critics tell us, a still more valiant champion
of naturalism was found, whose studies of local manners in the province
of Santander recall to mind the paintings of Teniers. About 1875 was the
date when the struggle commenced in good earnest between the schools of
romanticism and realism. In 1881 Galdos definitely joined the ranks of
the realists with his _La Desheredada_. An eminent Spanish writer,
Emilio Pardo Bazan, thus described the position some six years ago: "It
is true that the battle is not a noisy one, and excites no great warlike
ardour. The question is not taken up amongst us with the same heat as in
France, and this from several causes. In the first place, the idealists
with us do not walk in the clouds so much as they do in France, nor do
the realists load their palette so heavily. Neither school exaggerates
in order to distinguish itself from the other. Perhaps our public is
indifferent to literature, especially to printed literature, for what is
represented on the stage produces more impression."

This indifference of the Spanish reading public, which has led a living
novelist to declare that a person of good position in Madrid would
rather spend his money on fireworks or on oranges than on a book, has at
length been in a measure dissipated by a writer who is not merely
admired and distinguished, but positively popular, and who, without
sacrificing style, has conquered the unwilling Spanish public. This is
Armando Palacio Valdés, who was born on the 4th of October 1853, in a
hamlet in the mountains of Asturias, called Entralgo, where his family
possessed a country-house. The family spent only the summer there; the
remainder of the year they passed in Avilés, the maritime town which
Valdés describes under the name of Nieva in his novel _Marta y Maria_.
He began his education at Oviedo, the capital of Asturias. From this
city he went, in 1870, up to Madrid to study the law as a profession.
But even in the lawyer's office, his dream was to become a man of
letters. His ambition took the form of obtaining at some university a
chair of political economy, to which science he had, or fancied himself
to have, at that time a great proclivity.

Before terminating his legal studies, the young man published several
articles in the _Revista Europea_ on philosophical and religious
questions. These articles attracted the attention of the proprietor of
that review, and Valdés presently joined the staff. In 1874 he became
editor. He was at the head of the _Revista Europea_, at that time the
most important periodical in Spain from a scientific point of view, for
several years. During that time he published the main part of those
articles of literary criticism, particularly on contemporary poets and
novelists, which have since been collected in several volumes--_Los
Oradores del Ateneo_, ("The Orators of the Athenæum"); _Los Novelistas
Españoles_ ("The Spanish Novelists"); _Un Nuevo Viaje al Parnaso_ ("A
New Journey to Parnassus"), sketches of the living poets of Spain; and,
in particular, a very bright collection of review articles published in
conjunction with Leopoldo Alas, _La Literatura en_ 1881 ("Spanish
Literature in 1881"). These gave Valdés a foremost rank among the
critics of the day. He wrote no more criticism, or very little; he
determined to place himself amongst those whose creative work demands
the careful consideration of the best judges.

Soon after he took the direction of the _Revista_, Valdés wrote his
first novel, _El Señorito Octavio_, which was not published until 1881.
In 1883 he brought out his _Marta y Maria_, a book which, I know not
why, is called "The Marquis of Peñalta" in its English version. This
novel enjoyed an extraordinary success, and had more of the graphic and
sprightly manner by which Valdés has since been distinguished, than the
books which immediately followed it. Spanish critics, indeed,
remembering the wonderful freshness of _Marta y Maria_, still often
speak of it as the best of Valdés' stories. In this same year, 1883, he
married, at the seaside town of Gijon, in Asturias, on the day when he
completed his thirty years, a young lady of sixteen. His marriage was a
honeymoon of a year and a half, of which _El Idilio de un Enfermo_ ("The
Idyll of an Invalid"), a short novel of 1884, portrays the earlier
portion. His wife died early in 1885, leaving him with an infant son to
be, as he says, "my allusion and my fascination." His subsequent career
has been laborious and systematic. He has published one novel almost
every year. In 1885 it was _José_, a shorter tale of sea-faring life on
the stormy coast of the author's native province. About the same time
appeared a collection of short stories, called _Aguas Fuertes_ ("Strong
Waters").

It was not until 1886, however, that Valdés began to rank among the
foremost novelists of Europe. In that year he published his great
story, _Riverita_, one of the characters in which, a charming child,
became the heroine of his next book, _Maximina_, 1887. Of this character
he writes to me: "My Maximina in these two books is but a pale
reflection of that being from whom Providence parted me before she was
eighteen years of age. In these novels I have painted a great part of my
life." A Sevillian novice, who has helped to care for Maximina in
Madrid, reigns supreme in a succeeding novel, _La Hermana San Sulpicio_
("Sister San Sulpicio"), 1889. But between these two last there comes a
massive novel, describing the adventures of a journalist who founds a
newspaper in the provincial town of Sarrió, by which Gijon seems to be
intended. This book is called _El Cuarto Poder_ ("The Fourth Power"),
and was published in 1888. To these, in 1891, was added _La Espuma_
("Froth"), of which a translation has already appeared in the
"International Library." In 1892 Valdés published _La Fé_ ("Faith").

In _La Espuma_, his best-known novel, Valdés reverted from those country
scenes and those streets of provincial cities which he had hitherto
loved best to paint, and gave us a sternly satiric picture of the frothy
surface of fashionable life in Madrid. From the illusions of the poor,
pathetic and often beautiful, he turned to the ugly cynicism of the
wealthy. With his passion for honesty and simplicity, his heart burned
within him at the parade and hollowness which he detected in
aristocratic and bureaucratic Madrid. One conceives that, like his own
Raimundo, he was invited to enter it, took his fill of its pleasures,
and found his mouth filled with ashes. His talent for portraiture was
never better employed. If he was occasionally tempted to commit the
peculiarly Spanish fault of exaggeration--scarcely a fault there, where
the shadows are so black and the colours so flaring--he resisted it in
his more important characters. The brutality of the Duke de Requena, the
sagacity and urbanity of Father Ortega, the saintly sweetness of the
Duchess, the naïveté of Raimundo, the sphinx-like charm of Clementina de
Osorio, with her mysterious sweetness and duplicity, these are among the
salient points of characterisation which stand out in this powerful
book. _La Espuma_ was a cry from the desert to those who wear soft
raiment in king's palaces. It was the ruthless tearing aside of the
conventions by a Knox or a Savonarola. It was stringent satire, yet
tempered with an artist's moderation, with a naturalist's
self-suppression.

The latest novel which Valdés has published is that which we here
present under the title of _The Grandee_ ("El Maestrante"). Here, as it
will be seen, the author is no longer engaged in the jarring notes of
satire, but, with more lightness and a greater effusion of humour, he
dissects the quaint elements which make up old-fashioned society in a
provincial city of Spain. This is one of those books which peculiarly
appeal to the foreign reader who desires to enter into a phase of life
from which his own experience absolutely excludes him. We may suppose
that a limited number of Englishmen can penetrate to the palaces and the
club-rooms of Madrid, and see something, however superficially, of the
life described in _Froth_. But the grim and ancient mansions which look
down through ancient mullioned windows on the narrow streets of such a
town as is brought before us in _The Grandee_--what can the most
privileged Englishman possibly know of the manners and customs of their
stately inhabitants?

In the second half of the book, the gaiety and grotesqueness of the
pictures of life sink before the solemnity of the terrible and tragic
corruption of Amalia, and the martyrdom of Josefina. The last pages of
_The Grandee_ are, indeed, tinged with almost intolerable gloom, and in
a society comparatively so civilised as our own, the revenge of the
unnatural mother may seem almost overdrawn. The author contends,
however, that in the cryptic and cloistered provincial life which he
describes, where the light of censure can hardly reach a powerful
criminal, such wickedness as is perpetrated upon Josefina is neither
improbable nor unprecedented. Nor do the reports of Mr. Benjamin Waugh
permit us to question that such horrors are daily committed at our own
doors. Whether these maladies of the soul are or are not fit subjects
for the art of the novelist is a question which every reader must answer
for himself.

In the pages of _The Grandee_ we have a singular transcript of Spanish
pride and picturesqueness, of a narrow society absolutely fortified
against public opinion by its ancient prejudices, a society,
nevertheless, in which the primitive passions of humanity stir and
interact with as much dangerous vivacity as in freer and more democratic
conditions. I may perhaps mention, on the authority of the author, that
by Lancia Valdés intends us to understand Oviedo, the capital of the
province of Asturias, where he spent many years of his childhood and
early youth. The story opens between thirty and forty years ago, and
represents Oviedo and its social customs at an epoch a little earlier
than the time when the novelist was forming his freshest and most vivid
impressions of life.

Of the author of so many interesting books but little has yet been told
to the public. In a private letter to myself, the eminent novelist gives
a brief sketch of his mode of life, so interesting that I have secured
his permission to translate and print it here:--"Since my wife died,"
Señor Valdés writes, "my life has continued to be tranquil and
melancholy, dedicated to work and to my son. During the winters, I live
in Asturias, and during the summers, 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 _torero_, 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."

EDMUND GOSSE.




CONTENTS

   CHAP.                                           PAGE

      I. THE GRANDEE'S HOUSE                          1

     II. THE DISCOVERY                               25

    III. THE TOWN                                    55

     IV. THE HISTORY OF THEIR LOVE                   75

      V. THE JOKES OF PACO GOMEZ                    100

     VI. THE SEÑORITAS DE MERÉ                      113

    VII. THE INCREASE OF THE CONTINGENT             138

   VIII. FERNANDA AND THE WINE                      153

     IX. THE MASQUERADE                             172

      X. FIVE YEARS AFTER                           188

     XI. AMALIA'S RAGE                              206

    XII. THE BARON'S JUSTICE                        226

   XIII. THE MARTYRDOM                              239

    XIV. THE CAPITULATION                           258

     XV. JOSEFINA SLEEPS                            276




THE GRANDEE




CHAPTER I

THE GRANDEE'S HOUSE


It was ten o'clock at night, an hour when the number of those who
frequented the streets of the noble city of Lancia was always of the
scantiest, but in the depth of winter, when our story opens, with a
bitter north-east wind and drenching rain, one would find it difficult
to stumble upon a living soul. Not that all had surrendered themselves
into the arms of Morpheus, for Lancia as capital of a province, albeit
not one of the most important, had learnt to sit up late. But the people
used to resort at an early hour to parties, whence they only sallied
forth to supper and to bed at eleven o'clock. At that hour many noisy
groups could be seen passing along under the shelter of umbrellas, the
ladies enveloped in warm woollen cloaks, holding up their petticoats,
and the gentlemen all wrapped in their cloaks, or _montecristos_, with
their trousers well turned up, breaking the silence of the night by the
loud clack of their wooden shoes. For at the time of which we speak
there were few that despised this comfortable shoe of the country,
unless it were some new-fledged medical student from Valladolid, who
considered himself above such old-fashioned things, or some fanciful
young lady, who pretended that she could not walk in them. But these
were the exceptions. There were no carriages in the town, for only
three existed in the place, belonging respectively to the Quiñones, the
Countess of Onis, and to Estrada-Rosa; the last-mentioned being the only
one that did not date from the middle of the last century. When either
of these conveyances appeared in the street, it was followed by a crowd
of little urchins, whose enthusiasm at the sight knew no bounds. The
neighbours inside their houses could tell by the sound of the wheels,
and the clink of the horseshoes to which of the above-mentioned magnates
the carriage belonged. They were in fact three venerated institutions
which the natives of the city had learnt to love and respect. So
umbrellas and wooden shoes were the only protections against the rain
that falls more than three parts of the year. India-rubber shoes came in
later, as well as hooded waterproofs, which at certain times transform
Lancia into a vast community of Carthusian friars.

The wind blew stronger at the crossing of Santa Barbara than in any
other part of the town. This uncovered passage, between the bishop's
palace and the walls of a courtyard of the cathedral, just by the chain
which regulates the lightning conductor, leads finally under an archway,
a murky corner where the blast, confined within a narrow space, howls
and moans on such infernal nights as this.

A man, muffled up to the eyes, crossed with rapid steps the little
square in front of the archbishop's house, and entered this recess. The
force of the hurricane stopped him, and the rain penetrating between the
collar of his coat and the brim of his hat, almost blinded him. He made
a few seconds' stand against the violence of the whirlwind, and then,
instead of uttering any exclamation of impatience, which would have been
more than excusable under the circumstances, he merely gave vent to a
long-drawn sigh of distress:

"Oh! my Jesus! what a night!"

He cowered up against the wall, and when the wind had somewhat abated,
he resumed his course. Passing under the archway that connects the
palace with the cathedral, he entered the widest and best-lighted part
of the passage. An oil-lamp fixed in the corner served as its only
light. The wretched thing, seconded by a tinfoil reflector placed at the
back, made ineffectual attempts to pierce the gloom of the farthest
corners.

Ten yards off nobody would have thought it was there, and yet to our
muffled traveller it must have seemed an Edison lamp of ten thousand
candle-power, from the way he drew his coat-collar higher about his
face, and from the haste in which he avoided the pavement, and crept
along by the wall where the shadows were deepest. In this way he arrived
at the Calle de Santa Lucia, cast a rapid glance around him, and renewed
his course on the darkest side of the way. Although one of the most
central streets, the Calle de Santa Lucia is solitary to an extreme. It
is closed at one end by the base of the tower of the cathedral, a
graceful, elegant structure like few to be found in Spain, and so it is
only used as a thoroughfare by canons going to the choir, or devotees on
their way to early Mass. In this short, straight, narrow street, the
palace of Quiñones de Leon was situated--a large, dreary,
uninteresting-looking building with projecting iron balconies. It was
two storeys high, and over the central balcony there was an enormous
roughly carved shield, supported by two griffins in high relief, as
rudely carved as the quarterings.

One side of the house looked on to a little, damp, melancholy, neglected
garden, enclosed by a wall of regular elevation; and the other on to a
dull, even damper, narrow street which ran between the house and the
black, discoloured wall of the church of San Rafael. To pass from the
palace to the church, where the Quiñones had a private pew, was a little
gallery, or covered way, smaller, but similar to that of the archbishop,
over the passage of Santa Barbara.

By the bright light shining from the crevice of a half-opened window on
the balcony, it was evident that the people of the house had not yet
retired to rest. And if the light were not sufficient proof, the fact
was confirmed by the strains of a piano heard occasionally above the
roar of the storm.

Our muffled friend, with a rapid step, keeping as much in shadow as
possible, arrived at the door of the palace. There he stopped again,
cast a furtive glance down both sides of the street, and entered the
portico. It was large, and paved with stones like the street; the bare,
discoloured, whitewashed walls were dimly illumined by an oil-lamp hung
from the centre. The man quickly crossed it, and before pulling the
bell-cord, placed his ear to the door, and listened long and
attentively. Convinced that nobody was descending the staircase, he gave
one more look down the street. At last he decided to undo his cloak, and
drew from under its folds a bundle, which he placed with a trembling
hand near the door. It was a basket, covered with a woman's mantle,
which hid the contents from view, although they could be pretty well
guessed, for from the time of Moses, mysterious baskets seem destined
for the consignment of infants.

The man, being now free of his burthen, pulled the bell-cord three
times, and the door was immediately opened from above by means of
another cord. The three pulls of the bell showed that the visitor to the
aristocratic mansion of the Quiñones was a nobleman on a par with the
Señores. This was an old-established custom of unknown origin. A menial,
a servant, an inferior in any degree, only rang once, ordinary visitors
rang twice, and the half dozen, or more, persons that the important
Señor of Quiñones considered his equals in Lancia, rang three times. If
those in the town, who had never been admitted to the sacred precincts
of the mansion, joked with the habitués of the place on the subject,
their witticisms fell flat; but even if the shafts did go home, the
feudal custom was so universally respected, that none but the privileged
few dared to give the three signals pertaining to the highest rank. Paco
Gomez once ventured to break the rule for a joke, but he was received so
coldly when he entered the drawing-room that he never cared to repeat
the experiment.

So the man of the basket entered quickly, shut the door, crossed the
hall, and ascended the wide stone staircase, where holes, worn by long
use, retained the damp.

When he reached the first floor, a servant approached to take his hat
and cloak; so without further delay, and as if avoiding pursuit, he
darted with hasty stride towards the drawing-room door, and opened it.
The light of the chandelier and candelabra dazzled him for a moment. He
was a tall powerful man, between thirty and thirty-two years of age,
with a pleasant expression of countenance and regular features, short
hair, and a long, silky beard of reddish hue. His face was pale, and
betrayed extreme anxiety. On raising his eyes, which the excessive
brightness of the room at first obliged him to lower, he turned them on
the lady of the house, who was seated in an armchair. She, on her side,
cast an inquiring anxious look at him, and the glance caused him a shock
which gave instantaneous repose to his face like the neutralisation of
two equal forces.

The gentleman remained at the door waiting for five or six couples, who
were pirouetting to the strains of a waltz, to pass him, whilst his pale
lips wreathed into a smile as sweet as it was sad.

"What an evening! We did not think you would be here so soon," exclaimed
the lady as she gave him her delicate nervous hand, which contracted
three or four times with intense emotion as it came in contact with his.

She was a woman of about twenty-eight or thirty years of age, diminutive
in stature, with a pale, expressive face, very black eyes and hair,
small mouth, and delicate aquiline nose.

"How are you, Amalia?" said the gentleman, without replying to her
remark, and trying to hide under a smile the anxiety which, in spite of
himself, the trembling of his voice betrayed.

"I am better, thank you."

"Is not this noise bad for you?"

"No; I was bored to death in bed. Besides, I did not wish to deprive the
young people of the one enjoyment they can get occasionally at Lancia."

"Thank you, Amalia," exclaimed a young lady who was dancing and
overheard the last remark, and Amalia responded by a kind smile.

Another couple from behind then knocked against the gentleman, who was
still standing.

"Always devoted, Luis!"

"To no one more than yourself, Maria," replied the young man, affecting
to hide his embarrassment under a laugh.

"Are you sure that I am the only one?" she asked with a mischievous
glance at the partner who held her in his arms.

Maria Josefa Hevia was at least forty, and she had been almost as ugly
at fifteen. As her means were not equal to her weight, no one had dared
redeem her from the purgatory of solitude. Until quite lately she still
entertained hopes that one of the elderly Indian bachelors, who came to
pass their declining years in Lancia, would ask her hand in marriage;
and these hopes were founded on the fact that these gentlemen frequently
contracted alliances with the daughters of distinguished people in the
place, portionless as they generally were.

On her father's side, Maria Josefa was connected with one of the oldest
families, being related to the Señor of Quiñones, in whose house we now
are.

But her father was dead, and she lived with her mother, a woman of low
degree, who had been a cook before marrying her master. Either for this
reason, or on account of the indisputable ugliness of her face, the
Indians fought shy of her; although her exaggerated idea of her position
exacted a certain respect in society. Her face was hideous, with
irregular features, marked with erysipelas, and disfigured by red
patches about the nostrils. She only retained one feminine taste, and
that was for dancing, which was a real passion with her; and she felt it
dreadfully when she was left a wallflower by the careless young men of
Lancia. But, possessing a sharp tongue, she revenged herself so cleverly
on both sexes when thus neglected, that the majority of the youths
willingly sacrificed one dance on the programme to her at all the balls;
and when they failed to do so, the girls would remind them of their
duty, so great was their fear of the spiteful old maid. Thus, by dint of
the wholesome terror she inspired, she danced as much as the greatest
beauty in Lancia.

She was conscious of the reason of her success, and however humiliated
she might be in the depths of her heart, she did not fail to make use of
the power, as she considered it the lesser evil of the two.

Witty and malicious, she was particularly alive to a sense of the
ridiculous in things, and whilst not lacking in the power of narration,
she was, moreover, endowed with the peculiar knack of wounding everybody
to the quick when she had a mind to.

"Has the count come yet?" asked a sharp voice from the next room, which
made itself heard above the sounds of the piano, and the feet of the
dancers.

"Yes, here I am, Don Pedro; I am coming."

Whereupon the count made a step towards the door, without removing his
eye from the pallid-looking lady; and she riveted another steady gaze
upon him, which conveyed the impression of a question. He just closed
his eyes in affirmatory reply, and passed on to the next apartment,
which, like the drawing-room, was furnished without any regard for
luxury.

The highest nobility of Lancia despised all the refinements of
decoration so usual nowadays. They scorned every innovation both within
and without their dwellings; and this not from feelings of avarice, but
from the inborn conviction that their superiority consisted less in the
richness and splendour of their houses, than in the seal of ancient
respectability.

The furniture was old and shabby, and the carpets and curtains were
faded; but the master paid little heed to such matters. Indeed, Don
Pedro Quiñones showed an indifference, bordering upon eccentricity, on
the point. Neither the entreaties of his wife, nor the remarks which
some bolder spirit, like Paco Gomez, who was always ready to be
facetious, dared to make, ever induced him to call in the painters and
upholsterers.

With regard to size, the drawing-room was superb, being both lofty and
spacious, and including all the windows of the Calle de Santa Lucia,
with the exception of that of the library. The chairs were antique, not
a mere imitation of those of bygone ages, as is now the mode, but made
in times past, according to the fashion of the period, and covered with
green velvet, worn old by time. In many places the floor was visible
through the holes in the carpet. The walls were covered with magnificent
tapestries, which constituted the one adornment of the house, for Don
Pedro had a very valuable collection; but he only exhibited it once a
year, when the balconies were draped on the day of Corpus Christi. It
was said that an Englishman once offered a million pesetas[A] for their
possession.

The count had also several very valuable pictures, but they were so
discoloured by time that, if not restored before long by some skilful
hand, they seemed likely to disappear altogether. The only new thing in
the drawing-room was the piano, bought three years ago, soon after the
second marriage of Don Pedro.

The library, also of large dimensions, with a window looking on to the
Calle de Santa Lucia, and two on to the garden, was furnished still
worse. It had heavy damask curtains, two mahogany presses without
mirrors, a sofa upholstered with silk, a few leather chairs, a round
table in the centre, and some seats to match the sofa, all old and
shabby.

Seated round the table, lighted by an enormous oil-lamp, were three
gentlemen playing at tresillo.[B]

The master of the house was one of them. He was between forty-six and
forty-eight years of age. For the last three years he had been quite
unable to move from the effects of an apoplectic stroke, which left him
with both legs paralysed. He was stout, with a red face, and strong
well-marked features; his thick curly hair and beard were streaked with
grey, and he had keen, piercing black eyes. His face was remarkable for
an expression of pride and fierceness, which the kind smile with which
he received the Conde de Onis could not entirely hide. He was sitting,
or rather reclining, in an armchair constructed especially for
facilitating the movement of his body and arms; and it was placed
sideways at the table, so that he could play, and keep his legs raised
up meanwhile. Although there were logs burning on the hearth, he had a
grey cloak round his shoulders, fastened at the throat with a gold
clasp. Embroidered on the left-hand side was the large red cross of the
order of Calatrava.[C] The Señor of Quiñones was rarely seen without
this cloak, which afforded him a fantastic, somewhat theatrical,
appearance. He had always been eccentric in his dress. His pride
impelled him to try and distinguish himself from the vulgar in every
way. On ordinary occasions he wore a buttoned-up frock-coat, a
high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, and his hair was long, like that of a
cavalier of the seventeenth century, whilst his clothes were generally
of velvet or velveteen, with riding-boots of a fashion beyond all
recollection, and his wide shirt-collars were turned back over his
waistcoat in imitation of the Walloon style. There never was a man
prouder of his high degree, nor more retentive of the privileges enjoyed
by those of his rank in times gone by. People grumbled at his
eccentricities, and many turned them to ridicule, for Lancia is a place
not wanting in a sense of humour. But, as usual, unbending pride had
ended by making an impression. Those who were the first to joke at Don
Pedro's peculiarities, were those who were the most punctiliously
respectful in doffing their hats when he appeared almost half a mile
off. He had lived some years at Court, but he did not strike root there.
He was one of the gentlemen in office, and curiously jealous of every
prerogative and distinction due to his fortune and birth. But there was
no satisfying a heart so corroded with arrogance, and he bitterly
resented the amalgamation of people of birth with those of money. The
respect afforded to politicians, which he in his position also had to
accede to, perfectly enraged him. Was a son of a nobody, a common
fellow, to take precedence of him, and merely give an indifferent or
disdainful glance at him?--at him, the descendant of the proud Counts of
Castille! Not being able to put up with such a state of things, he
resigned his appointment, and took up his abode again in the old-world
palace in which we now are. His pride, or maybe his eccentric character,
made the rich bachelor at this time of his life do a thousand odd and
ridiculous things, to the great astonishment of the town until it became
accustomed to him. Don Pedro never went out in the street without being
accompanied by a servant, or majordomo, a rough sort of man who wore
the costume of the peasants of the country, which consisted of short
breeches, woollen stockings, a green cloth jacket, and a wide-brimmed
hat. And he not only went out with Manin (he was universally known by
this name), but he also took him to the theatre with him. It was a sight
to see these two in one of the best boxes: the master stiff and
decorous, with his eyes roaming carelessly round; whilst the servant sat
with his bearded chin resting on his hands, which clasped the
balustrade, staring fixedly at the stage, occasionally giving vent to
loud guffaws of laughter, scratching his head, or yawning loudly in the
middle of a silence.

Manin soon became a regular institution.

Don Pedro, who scarcely deigned to converse with the wealthiest people
of Lancia, talked familiarly with this servant, and allowed him to
contradict him in the rude rough way peculiarly his own.

"Manin, man, be careful not to give these ladies too much trouble," he
would say to the majordomo when they entered some shop together.

"All right," returned the rough fellow in a loud voice, "if they want to
be at their ease, let them bring a mattress from home and recline upon
it."

Don Pedro would then bite his lips to keep from laughing, for such
coarse and brutal remarks were just to his taste.

When they repaired to a café, Manin drank quarts of red wine, whilst his
master only sipped a glass of muscat. But although he left it almost
full, he always asked and paid for a whole bottle.

An apothecary of the place, with whom the count sometimes condescended
to have a chat, once evinced some surprise at this extravagance, but he
returned with chilly arrogance:

"I pay for a whole bottle because I think it would be unseemly for Don
Pedro Quiñones de Leon to ask for a glass like some ink-stained clerk in
a government office."

The whole town was impressed with his manners, for when he met any
clerics in the streets, he kissed their hands in accordance with the
custom of noblemen of bygone centuries. But, like all the rest of his
ways, this respect was nothing but a wish to appear different to other
people, and to show that he belonged to the old _régime_; because,
although he kissed the hand of his own chaplain in public, he treated
him like a servant in private, and, in fact, accorded him far less
consideration than he did Manin.

But what most astonished the place, and gave rise to no end of remarks
and jokes, was what Don Pedro did with a certain religious solemnity
soon after his arrival from Madrid. He appeared at church in the white
uniform trimmed with twisted cords pertaining to the office of
_Maestrante de Ronda_.

Just before the elevation of the Host at the Mass, he advanced with a
solemn step to the empty space in the centre of the edifice, unsheathed
his sword, and made sharp, firm passes in the air, in the direction of
the four cardinal points. The women were frightened, the children ran
away, and the majority of the congregation thought he had suddenly gone
out of his mind. But those who were better informed, and more
intellectual, understood that it was meant to be a symbolical ceremony,
and that those thrusts in the air signified Don Pedro's resolution, as a
noble member of a military Order, to fight all the enemies of the faith
from every quarter of the globe. The one little periodical published at
that time in Lancia (now there are eleven--six dailies, and five
weeklies) devoted a whole page to a humorous account of this event.

But in spite of the eccentricities of his public and private life, the
prestige enjoyed by the illustrious nobleman in the town was by no means
affected.

He, who in perfect good faith considers himself superior to those about
him, is in no danger of humiliation. In spite of his affectations, Don
Pedro was a man of culture, fond of literature, and endowed with a taste
for poetry. He had been known occasionally to celebrate events
pertaining to the kingdom, or the royal family in several stanzas of a
classic, somewhat pompous, style. But although people had tried to
persuade him to publish them, he never would consent to do so.

Periodicals were one of his particular aversions, for he considered them
a sign of the democracy of the times. So he preferred to keep his poems
in manuscript, known only to a select circle of friends.

He also had a reputation as a man of valour. He had fought a few duels
in Madrid, and in Lancia he had one with a certain political chief, sent
by the progressionists to the province through the intervention of the
archbishop and Chapter of the cathedral. When he was about forty years
of age, our friend married a lady of position who lived in Sarrió. But
his wife died within the year, just when he had hopes of an heir to his
name and estates. Three years after, he contracted another
marriage--this time with Amalia, a Valencian lady, who was a connection
of his. They scarcely knew each other, for Don Pedro had not seen her
since she was fourteen. The alliance formed ten years later was arranged
by letters, and an interchange of photographs. There was no doubt that
the bride's will was coerced in the matter, and it was said that for
many months she had a separate room to her husband. And the story was
told in Lancia, with no lack of detail, how Don Pedro, in pursuance of a
canon's advice, managed to overcome these scruples. But in spite of the
success of the suggestion of the church dignitary, and the subsequent
concession of conjugal rights, Heaven did not see fit to bless the
union.

Not long after, Don Pedro was seized with the dreadful apoplectic attack
which paralysed the whole of the lower part of his body, and the poor
man was much tempted to curse his affliction, although no doubt it was
ordered for the best.

"We are in want of a fourth," he said, warmly shaking hands with the
count.

"Yes, yes, and we will see if the luck will change, for Moro is winning
all our money," said a little old man with a strong Galician accent. He
had a fresh, clean-shaven, round face, white hair, and clear, kind eyes.
His name was Saleta, and he was a magistrate of the Court of Justice,
and a constant visitor at the Quiñones' house.

"Not so much as that, Señor Saleta, not so much! I have only two hundred
counters, and I want three hundred to make up for what I lost
yesterday," returned the man referred to, who was a youth with a genial
frank expression of countenance.

"And why did you not call upon Manin?" asked the count with a smile as
he glanced at the celebrated majordomo, who in his short breeches,
woollen stockings, and green cloth jacket, was sleeping in an armchair.

The other three turned and looked at the man.

"Because Manin is a brute who can play at nothing but _brisca_,"[A] said
Don Pedro, smiling.

"And at _tute_,"[A] returned the fellow, opening his mouth and yawning
loudly.

"All right, and at _tute_."[A]

"And at _monte_."[A]

"Very well, man, and at _monte_, too."

And the friends went on with their cards without paying further
attention to Manin, but presently he began again by saying:

"And at _parar_."[A]

"And at _parar_, too?" asked the count in a joking tone.

"Yes, señor, and at _los siete y media_."[D]

"Get along!" said the other, absently, as he opened his hand of cards
and examined it attentively.

Then they went on playing with much interest, absorbed and silent. But
the majordomo interrupted them again by saying:

"And at _julepe_."

"All right, Manin, be quiet and don't be a fool," said Don Pedro,
crossly.

"Fool, fool," muttered the peasant, surlily; "there are a good many
fools about, but as they have money there is no one to call them so."

He then re-settled his broad shoulders in the seat, stretched out his
legs, closed his eyes, and began to snore.

The players turned their eyes on Don Pedro in surprise, and some
anxiety.

The master looked wrathfully at his majordomo; but seeing him in such a
comfortable position he changed his mind, and, shrugging his shoulders,
he turned his attention to his cards, merely remarking with a pleasant
smile:

"What a barbarian! He is a regular Sueve."

"But, Señor Quiñones," said Saleta, "the Suevi only settled in Galicia.
You are nothing but Cantabrians, and I have reason to know it."

"What! you have reason to know it!" said a gentleman who was not very
old, for he would have passed for fifty, who came in at that moment.

It was Don Enrique Valero, also a magistrate of the Court, a man of an
agreeable presence, with a fine expressive face, albeit somewhat marked
by the fast life he had lived. As shown by his strong accent, which was
mincing and lisping, he was Andalusian, of the province of Malaga.

"I don't quite know that," returned Saleta, calmly, "but I perfectly
well know the history of my country, and the particulars regarding my
family."

"And why do you mention your family in connection with the Suevi, my
friend?"

"Because, according to various documents preserved in my ancestral
archives, my family is descended from one of those brave commanders,
who penetrated Pontevedra at the time of the invasion."

The players exchanged an amused smile of intelligence with Valero.

"Ah!" exclaimed the latter between amusement and irritation, "so my
friend is a Sueve like a cathedral! Who would have thought it to see him
so dwarfish and so small!"

"Yes, señor," said the other, speaking with firmness and deliberation as
if he had not heard the last remark. "The captain to whom our family
owes its origin was named Rechila. He was a man of ferocious and
bloodthirsty presence, a great conqueror, who extended his dominions
immensely, and, from what I understand, his expeditions took him as far
as Estremadura. One day, when I was a child, a crown was found buried in
the foundations of the old chapel of our house."

"Really, my man, really!" exclaimed Valero, looking at him with such
comic indignation that all the others burst out laughing.

But Saleta, quite unperturbed, went on to describe the treasure-trove,
its form, weight, and all its embellishments, without omitting a single
detail.

And Valero, without taking his eyes off him, continued shaking his head
with increasing irritation.

The same thing went on every night. His colleague's unblushing lying
propensity aroused in the magistrate an indignation that was sometimes
real, and sometimes feigned. It was so seldom that a Galician dared to
boast and exaggerate before an Andalusian, that he, wounded in his
_amour propre_ and respect for his country, sometimes wondered whether
Saleta was a fool, or whether he considered his audience as such.

Really the magistrate of Pontevedra lied with so much ease, and in such
a serious way, that it became a question whether he was an artful rogue,
who delighted to upset his friends.

"Did you say that this ancestor of yours got to Estremadura?" asked
Valero at last in a decided tone.

"Yes, Señor."

"Then it seems to me you make a mistake, for this Señor Renchila----"

"Rechila."

"Well, this Rechila got farther still, for he got as far as the province
of Malaga; but there a company of Vandals went out to meet him: the
leader was one of my ancestors. His name is difficult to recollect--wait
a bit, he was called Matalaoza. Well, then, this Matalaoza, who was a
rough, brave sort of fellow, completely routed him, took him prisoner,
and kept him drawing water from a well till his death. And a piece of
the machine is still to be seen in the cellar of our house."

Don Pedro, Jaime Moro, and the Conde de Onis stopped playing, and roared
with laughter.

"It cannot be so. Rechila never went farther than Merida, which he took
after a short siege," said Saleta, not one whit put out.

"Excuse me, friend, in the archives of my house there are documents
which show that this Señor Renchila took a company of soldiers through
the province of Malaga, and that the Señor Matalaoza, my grandfather on
my mother's side, prevented his advancing any farther."

"Excuse me, friend Valero, but it seems to me you are in error. This
Rechila must be another one; there were many Rechilas among the Suevi."

"No, sir, no, the Rechila that my ancestor conquered was an ancestor of
yours; I am certain of it. He came from the province of Pontevedra; that
was clear from his accent."

These remarks were made with great gravity, and the players were more
and more amused. As Saleta was accustomed to his companion's chaff, he
was not the least put out, neither would he modify any of his boasting
assertions. The man was perfectly shameless in the way he invented lies
and then stuck to them.

When he saw it was useless to discuss the matter farther, he turned his
attention to the game, and the others did the same, although they could
not repress an occasional chuckle of amusement.

Jaime Moro went on winning, and he was cheerful and talkative, making
tedious remarks at every turn of the game. He was a good-looking young
fellow, with a short black beard, regular features, large expressionless
eyes, and a delicate pink complexion. His father, who had been parochial
administrator of the province, had died the previous year, leaving him
an income, according to report, of between 70,000 and 80,000 reales,[E]
and this money gave him a certain position in the place. Needless to
say, he was considered a prize in the matrimonial market, and he was the
golden dream, and the ideal of the girls, who contemplated marriage; but
unfortunately Moro was little attracted by the opposite sex. He liked
Mercury much better than Venus; and indeed he was so fond of every kind
of game, that one might almost say he was born to play, for his whole
life was devoted to it.

He lived alone with his housekeeper, man-servant, and cook. He got up
between ten and eleven in the morning, and after making his toilette he
repaired to the confectioner's shop of Doña Romana, where he found
congenial spirits, who told him all the current gossip of the place, and
when this was exhausted, he withdrew to the dark, greasy-looking little
room, pervaded by an overpowering smell of pastry, at the back of the
shop, and there seating himself at a table, which matched its
surroundings in dinginess, he indulged in a glass of sherry, and a game
of dominoes with Don Baltasar Reinoso, who was one of the many who lived
in Lancia on an income of four or five thousand pesetas. At three
o'clock he repaired to the Mercantile Club, where, with three of the
Indians, who formed the nucleus of that social gathering, he indulged in
the classic game of _chapo_[F] until five o'clock, when, if we went to
the house of the dean of the cathedral, we should come across this
gentleman enjoying his daily game of _tresillo_ with the dignitary of
the church, and the rector of San Rafael. When the _chapo_ went on
longer than usual, an acolyte appeared at the club to tell him that his
friends were waiting. Then Moro hastened to give the three or four final
strokes, the boy, between them, helping him on with his coat to save
time; then, after paying or receiving the balance of his account with
trembling hands, he ran in breathless haste to the house of the dean.
There the _tresillo_ lasted till eight o'clock. Then home to supper. At
nine he repaired to Don Pedro Quiñone's house to spend an hour or two in
the same sort of way, and if he did not go there, he went to Don Juan
Estrada-Rosa's for the same thing; and at twelve to the Casino, where a
few night-birds met for a game of _monte_, or lottery. Finally Jaime
Moro retired to rest at two or three in the morning, quite tired out
with such a hard day's work, to wake to another exactly the same.

It must not be thought that he was a covetous young man, for the whole
town knew, and lauded his liberality. He was not incited to play by a
passion for gain, but by a devotion to the pastime, which extinguished
all better feelings.

His was an excessively active temperament, without the intelligence or
the wish for any serious aim in life. In his short moments of idleness
he looked like a quiet, careless, lymphatic man, but directly he had the
cards, billiard-cue, or dominoes in his hand, he evinced an interest
which utterly changed his expression, as his eyes brightened and his
hands showed more power.

He was a universal favourite, and there never was a man more suave and
gentle in manner. He was never heard to speak ill of anybody, and those
who see only the dark side of things and the weak point of people's
characters, said that he never grumbled because he did not know how to,
and that he was as good as he was, because he could not be otherwise.
But there must always be some perverse fools!

However, Moro had one fault, begotten of his playing propensity, he
considered he was invincible in every game. It could not be denied that
he was a great expert at them, but there is a great difference between
that, and being utterly unrivalled, which was the case with Moro. This
gave rise to those tedious, eternal commentaries, which seasoned every
game, until they became quite a byword in Lancia.

When, after making a stroke on the billiard-table, the balls did not go
as he wanted, he struck his head in despair:

"A little less ball and mine would have gone into the pocket! But I was
obliged to strike well on the ball so that the red ball should go down,
because if the ball does not go down, you know how it would be."

If things went according to his ideas, he did not mind how much he lost;
the money was nothing to him as long as he saved his professional
honour. He talked unceasingly, making a running commentary upon every
stroke he made; and he went on just the same at cards. However, he never
blamed his companions, or lost his temper when his plan of action was
defeated. He certainly talked incessantly, but it was always to explain
or to palliate some point in the game, and the eternal repetitions,
delivered in the same eloquent and persuasive tone, provoked a smile
from the onlookers.

"If I had only had a king then! If I had but had another trump! I did
not dare give the lead because I thought that Don Pedro--Why could not
this three of hearts have been three of diamonds? With the deuce of
spades this trick was once got."

He was a noisy fellow, but very polite and kind.

"I say, it is your play now, is it not?" said Valero to our friend as he
looked over the players' shoulders and had a glance at their cards.

"Do you think that can be done?" said Moro, vacillating.

"Yes, I think so."

"There is too little of this and not enough of that," returned Moro,
discreetly pointing at the cards with his finger.

"Nevertheless, nevertheless, I think----"

"Well, well, let us play," replied Moro, with his usual politeness.

That game was lost. Moro gave a look at his companions, and shrugged his
shoulders; then as Valero turned away, he said in a low tone:

"I did not want to vex Don Enrique, but I knew that that play could not
win."

And having thus vindicated his reputation, he was as pleased as if he
had won the game.

The Conde de Onis seemed absent when he came in, and as time went on, he
became more and more thoughtful and gloomy; and he played so carelessly
that his friends called him to book several times.

"But, Conde, what has come to you?" said Don Pedro, at last, "you seem
so very preoccupied."

"Yes, you have actually trumped my trick," added Valero, in distress.

Seeing himself thus taken to task, the count looked as confused as if
his companions had read his thoughts.

"Nothing particular is the matter with me," he replied; and taking
refuge in an innocent excuse, he added, "I am only suffering from
toothache."

"So the poor fellow is ill!" said Valero.

Whereupon they all began pitying him, and asking him particulars about
his complaint.

The count being now at his wit's end, answered the questions at random.

"Well, for that pain, Señor Conde," said Saleta, "there is no finer
remedy than iron. You will find that it is so. When I was a student I
suffered dreadfully from my teeth. I never dared have one drawn, but the
landlord I had in Santiago told me the best thing to do was to take a
thread, and tie one end to the tooth, and the other to the back of the
chair, so that it was gradually drawn out without any pain. I sat myself
in a chair, and when the tooth was well tied I got up from the chair and
left it hanging behind me. You see I had nothing to do but jump up."

Valero shook his head in despair, and the others looked at him and
smiled. But Saleta did not notice, or pretended not to notice it, and
continued his story in the quiet matter-of-fact way and the strong
Galician accent peculiar to him.

"Afterwards I quite overcame my fear of tooth-drawing. The dentist of
Corunna extracted five, one after the other; and when I was judge at
Allariz I was in dreadful pain, and as there was no dentist the
_Promotor_[G] pulled out three for me with his wife's curling tongs; but
do you know this gave me inflammation of the mouth? I was then at
Madrid, and Ludovisi, the queen's dentist, burnt my gums with a red-hot
iron, and then extracted seven good teeth."

"There went fifteen!" murmured Valero.

"Yes, and I had no further trouble until four years ago, when, whilst I
was staying with a friend in a little place in the province of Burgos,
the pain came on again. There was no doctor, no surgeon, nobody. But a
charlatan happened to come along who extracted teeth whilst on
horseback; and I was in such distress that I was obliged to have
recourse to him, and he took out two with the tail end of a spoon."

"Oh! my man, what humbug!" exclaimed Valero in utter indignation, "and
may I ask if you have a tooth left in your head?"

Manin at this moment, with his usual want of manners, opened his mouth
wide with a loud guffaw, to the astonishment of the party. Then the
great giant turned round in his chair and composed himself to sleep.

"You have never suffered from your teeth, have you, Manin?" asked the
Grandee, who could not be a quarter of an hour without appealing to his
majordomo.

"What?" asked the fellow without opening his eyes.

"He is like a rock!" said the nobleman with real enthusiasm.

Then Manin sat up a little, and rubbing his eyes with his fists, he
said:

"I never had anything worse than a stomach-ache: It came on as I was
loading a cart with hay, and it lasted more than a month. I could not
touch a morsel of food, and it was just as if I had a fox continually
gnawing at my inside. My ribs felt as if they would break in agony, and
I leant against the wall, bowed down with pain, and showed my teeth like
a serpent. I became as yellow as corn in harvest time. One day the señor
priest said to me: 'Manin, you have no heart.' 'I have no heart, señor
curé!' said I. 'You don't know me well if you say that, for it is
beating here for its very life. I have more heart than what you would
think!' 'Then there is nothing to be done, Manin, but to send for the
doctor,' said he. 'No, indeed, señor curé; I want none of their drugs
and plaisters.' 'Well, if you don't send for him, I shall,' was his
answer. At last there was no help for it, and although I was still
against it, Don Rafael, the doctor of the mines, arrived. He made me
undress as far as my shirt, and then forced me by the shoulders on to a
trough. Then he set to giving me blows on the chest with his knuckles,
as if he were knocking at a door. He thumped me here, and he thumped me
there, and listened with his ear pressed against my body. 'Nay,' I
cried. 'Gently! gently my good fellow! Find the truant!' And he went on
for half an hour longer, knocking with his knuckles and listening with
his ear. At last he got tired of hearing nothing. 'Ah! friend of my
soul!' he said, making the sign of the cross, 'you have a liquid heart.
I never saw anything like it in my life!' 'Yes, I knew that before, Don
Rafael,' said I."

Having got so far in his relation, Manin stopped suddenly, turned an
angry glance on the audience, and muttered under his breath: "And what
do these asses find to laugh at?"

Then, throwing his shaggy head back in the armchair, he closed his eyes
in great disgust.

The Grandee's guests resumed their game, laughing all the while, but the
count became more and more thoughtful and absent.

At last no longer able to control his upset state of nerves, he rose
from his seat saying:

"I say, Don Enrique, will you kindly take my place; this pain is so
tiresome that I must move about?"




CHAPTER II

THE DISCOVERY


When the count went back to the drawing-room, he found the young people
preparing for a _rigodon_ (a country dance). The seat at the piano was
occupied by one of the daughters of the _Pensioner_; for such was the
name given in the town to Don Cristobal Mateo, as he was an old
government official, who, after serving many years in the Philippines,
had retired some time ago on an income of 30,000 reales.[H]

He had a military bearing and quite a martial aspect, with his white
moustache, large rolling eyes, thick eyebrows, and powerful hands.
Nevertheless, there was not a kinder man in the Spanish dominions. His
career had been cast in Exchequer offices, and he always expressed
strong opinions against the power of the army. He maintained that the
blood-suckers of the State were not those employed in civil functions,
but the army and navy. The fact was demonstrated by the production of
figures and notes on the subject, when he would quite lose himself in
bureaucratic divagations. He said that war was caused by the thirst for
blood emanating from the superfluous energy of the nation. This was a
phrase he had read in the _Boletin de Contribuciones Indirectas_ and
appropriated as his own with marked effect. He said soldiers were
vagrants, and his aversion to all uniforms and epaulettes was extreme.
When the Corporation of Lancia talked of applying to the government for
a regiment to garrison the city, he, as councillor, opposed the measure
most resolutely.

What was the good of bringing a lot of spongers into the neighbourhood?
Instead of having the comfort of being at some distance from a regiment,
they would have all the disadvantages of harbouring one. Everything
would get dear, for the colonels and officers liked to live well and
have the best of everything, "after all the hard work they did to earn
it," he added, ironically. Then they were all gamblers, and their bad
example would contaminate the youths of the place, who never indulged in
such licence except on times of holiday making. As they were such an
idle lot (Don Cristobal firmly believed that a soldier had nothing to
do), one could imagine what a set of rogues they were! In short, the
regiment would be a corrupting element and a source of disturbance in
the place. So Mateo got his way, not merely because it was his way, but
because the Minister of War did not consider it necessary to send
soldiers to Lancia, considering the peaceable condition of the
inhabitants.

With his income of 30,000 reales, the Pensioner might have lived very
comfortably in such a cheap place, if his daughters had not been
possessed with the silly fancy of preferring the hats of Madrid to those
that were made by the milliner of the Calle de Joaquin, and eight-button
gloves to four-button ones. Such superior tastes gave rise in the
Pensioner's house to many an upset, with all its accompanying tears,
hysterics, regrets, disinclination for food, &c. In these terrible
conflicts it must be confessed that Don Cristobal did not always comport
himself with the dignity, firmness and courage befitting his large
moustachios and strongly marked eyebrows. Certainly he was always alone
in the fray. Never by any chance did one of his girls side with him,
unless it was on a question apart from the domestic arrangement of the
house, when some of the daughters joined with papa against the others.
But whenever a problem of economy came to the fore, the Pensioner was
sure to have all four children against him. Then Don Cristobal, like an
experienced general, tried every means to rout the enemy, or to
capitulate under fair terms.

One day the girls were suddenly seized with a fancy for morocco-leather
shoes like those of some young lady in the town, who proved to be
Fernanda Estrada-Rosa. Then Don Cristobal became pensive and turned the
matter over in his mind, with the result of casually mentioning, in the
course of conversation at supper, that he had heard at _la Innovadora_
(the best bootmaker's) that morocco boots were considered very dangerous
in Lancia on account of the damp; and that Don Nicanor, a local doctor
happening to be there at the time, observed that morocco was fatal in
such a cold rainy climate; in fact, catarrhs, sometimes developing to
galloping consumption, were frequently caught from cold feet. But long
before the poor old man finished his diatribe against morocco, his
daughters burst in with such ironical laughter, and sarcastic speeches
that he was quite crushed.

Another time the girls were bent upon having parasols from Madrid like
Amalia's. Don Cristobal held out for some time until finally, having the
worst of it, he had to give in. But fertile in resources like Ulysses,
he conceived a plan by which the expense would be halved. He went to
Amalia, and begged her to lend him her parasol for two or three days, so
that one of the local milliners could make him four others exactly
similar; and this, at his request, the Señora de Quiñones promised to
keep a solemn secret. But the poor parasols were not up to the mark, and
when they arrived properly packed through the post, and ran the gauntlet
of the sharp, anxious eyes of his four daughters, the old man was soon
called to task for the poorness of the trimmings and the coarseness of
the work.

"These parasols were not made at Madrid!" said Micaela in a tone of
decision, for she was the sharpest of the four.

"For goodness' sake, don't be so absurd! Where then do they come from?"
returned Don Cristobal with assumed surprise, whilst he felt the colour
mount to his face.

"I don't know, but I am perfectly sure they were not made in Madrid."

And the four nymphs turned them over, felt them with their experienced
fingers, and studied and analysed them so minutely, that their father
was plunged into a fearful state of suspense. They exchanged significant
glances, smiled scornfully, and spoke in whispers. In the meanwhile the
Pensioner was a martyr to such an extreme state of nervous anxiety that
his very moustachios were affected.

At last the fanciful beings left the purchases in scornful disdain upon
the drawing-room chairs, and ran and locked themselves in Jovita's room,
where they remained half an hour in secret conclave, whilst Don
Cristobal waited in anxious trepidation, as he walked up and down the
corridor like a criminal expecting his sentence.

At last the door opened, and the guilty creature stood awaiting the
verdict of the judges. But they maintained a cautious reserve, whilst an
enigmatical smile wreathed their white lips. Then two of them put on
their mantillas and gloves, and darted into the street, to return in a
short time to the domestic hearth with blazing eyes, agitated faces, and
in a tremor of indignation.

The pen is powerless to portray the subsequent scene in the Pensioner's
peaceful dwelling. What cries of rage! what bitter sarcasm! what
hysterical laughter! what wringing of hands! what banging of chairs! and
what exclamations of woe! And in the midst of such a scene, terrible
enough to strike terror into the heart of the most serene, the four
parasols, the innocent cause of all the fray, lay on the ground in
ignominious ruin.

With the exception of these periodical disturbances which upset the
somewhat weak nerves of the Pensioner, his existence was very calm and
peaceful, for the numberless, but valuable, little attentions which make
life pleasant were never wanting. His daughters were careful about
having everything in order, and in its place. His shirts and
underclothing were kept in perfect order, his cravats, made from old
material, looked as fresh as if straight from the hosiers, his slippers
were always ready when he came home, the water put for his foot-bath on
Saturdays, his cigar before going to bed, his glass of water with lemon
for his morning draught, &c., all went on with the sweet and regular
mechanism so pleasing to the aged.

It was true that with four daughters it did not represent much trouble,
especially if they were not under the dominion of some fancy or desire.
But the sight of some new-fashioned hat, the news of the arrival of a
dramatic company, or the announcement of some party at the Casino, would
be enough to cause the wildest excitement, in which every other
consideration went to the wall, and they were seen flying off to the
dressmaker, glove-shop, and perfumer. As these wild freaks of fancy did
not harmonise very well with the prosaic details of existence, a slight
disorganisation ensued; but Don Cristobal bore these disturbances with
composure. After a short time of chaos, order returned, and his life
resumed its usual peaceful course. The names of these daughters, in
order of age, were as follows: Jovita, Micaela, Socorro, and Emilita. In
appearance, they were four insignificant beings, neither beautiful nor
ugly, graceful nor ungraceful, young nor old, sad nor vivacious. There
was nothing remarkable in any one of them, and yet by the domestic
hearth the character of each was quite distinct. Jovita was sentimental
and reserved, Michaela was quick tempered, and Emilita was the liveliest
of the party. Don Cristobal was greatly exercised on two subjects, one
was the reduction of the army and the other was the marriage of his
four daughters, or at least two of them. The first project was in a fair
way to success, for political opinion inclined in its favour, but as for
the other, I am sorry to say that there seemed no likelihood of its
realisation. In spite of sacrificing many comforts to dress expenses,
and frequenting the promenades, and the Quiñones' balls with a
regularity deserving success, the precious gifts of Hymen were not
attained.

When some imprudent fellow ventured to pay them any attention he was
told that they would be quite grieved to marry in their father's life,
for it seemed cruel to think of abandoning a poor old man, who loved
them so dearly, and had sacrificed so much for them; and these
protestations were followed by the warmest eulogy on their father's
character.

But the Pensioner was quite anxious to repudiate these too filial
sentiments, and his desire of experiencing the cruelty of being
abandoned was so evident that it was quite a joke. As if the daughters
did not make themselves sufficiently ridiculous, Mateo made the
situation worse by throwing them at the heads of all the marriageable
young men of the town.

But the praises sung by the old man on the cleverness, economy, and good
management of his daughters, were all without effect. Directly a
stranger arrived at Lancia, Don Cristobal took care to strike up an
acquaintance with him. He invited him to coffee at his house, took him
to his box at the theatre, showed him the beauties of the surrounding
country, went with him to see the reliques of the cathedral, visited the
natural history museum, and, in short, did all the honours of the place.

People smiled at the little play which had been acted so many times
without success, for Jovita was the only one who arrived at the dignity
of having a lover for three or four years, which fact made her feel far
superior to her sisters. The young man had been a foreign student who
had courted her during the latter courses of his studies; but when they
were over, he returned to his country, and, forgetting his engagement to
Jovita, he there married a lady of property. The others never even
attained to this degree of love-making, they never got farther than
fancies, or flirtations of a fortnight's duration. Trifling attentions
were paid, but nothing serious ensued.

By degrees the girls assumed a colder demeanour, for although they had
not given up hope, they were tired, and the one all-absorbing idea made
a line of care on their brows. But Cristobal did not think of giving in.
He firmly believed in the husbands of his daughters, and he propounded
the fact with as much assurance as the prophets of the Old Testament
announced the coming of the Messias.

"When my daughters marry," he would say, "instead of spending the summer
in Sarrió, where the etiquette is as strict as in Lancia, I shall go to
Rodillero to breathe the fresh air and fish for perch. Listen to me,
Micaela; don't be so sharp, woman. You will find a husband won't put up
with those frivolous ways; he will expect to be answered in a proper
manner."

"My husband will have to put up with what he can get," returned the pert
girl, with a disdainful toss of her head.

"And if he gets tired of that?" asked Emilita, mischievously.

"He will have double work then, for he will get tired, and get tired of
getting tired."

"And suppose he took the stick to you?"

"He would have to be careful, for I should be quite equal to poisoning
him."

"Goodness! what a horror!" exclaimed the three nereids, laughing.

So that hypothetical husband, that abstract being, figured as constantly
in conversation as if he were of flesh and blood, and lived in the next
house.

The daughter now playing the piano was Emilita, the most musical of the
four sisters. The other three were standing, each hanging on the arm of
a young man.

The count crossed the room to Fernanda-Rosa, who was arm-in-arm with a
girl friend. She did not seem to care for the dancing, albeit she was a
young lady renowned in the town for her beauty, elegance, and fortune.
She was the only daughter of Don Juan Estrada-Rosa, the richest banker
and merchant of the province. Tall, moderately stout, with a dark
complexion, regular, striking features, large, very black, scornful
looking eyes, and a graceful figure, embellished by the elegant
toilettes, that were the despair and envy of all the girls of the town,
she did not look as if she belonged to the place, but as if she had been
transported from one of the most aristocratic court _salons_.

"How charming you are looking, Fernanda!" exclaimed the count, in a low
voice, with a bow of admiration.

The beauty scarcely deigned to smile, but made a little scornful pout.

"How do you do, Luis?" she said, giving him her hand with marked
displeasure.

"Not so well as you are, but I am pretty well."

"Only pretty well? I am sorry. I am perfectly well--you have not
forgotten me, then?" she returned in the same displeased tone, without
looking him in the face.

"Why, no, how could one forget the star Sirius?"

"I do not understand astronomy."

"Sirius is the most brilliant star in the heavens, everybody knows
that."

"Well then I did not know it. You see how ignorant I am."

"I certainly do not; but you have modesty united to beauty and talent."

"No, I know I have no talent, but you do not like to tell me so."

"My girl, I have but just told you the contrary."

There was a touch of bitterness in the displeased tone of Fernanda,
whilst that of the count was calm and ceremonious, although slightly
dashed with irony.

"Very well, then I have misunderstood you."

"That is what you always do."

"Caramba, how polite!" exclaimed the young girl, growing pale.

"You always think something disagreeable is meant," quickly added the
count, as he saw by the change in her face what idea had crossed her
mind.

"Many thanks. I take your words for what they are worth."

"You will be wrong in not thinking them sincere. Besides, there is no
need my telling you how worthy you are of admiration, for everybody
knows it."

"Thank you; thank you! So you are tired of playing?"

"My teeth hurt me a little."

"Have them out."

"All of them?"

"Those that hurt you, man. Ave Maria!"

"With what indifference you say it. I suppose nothing would affect you?"

"I am always affected by the sufferings of a neighbour."

"A neighbour! What a horror! I had not heard that I was put in the
category of neighbour."

"What do you want, sir? Honours come when least expected."

In spite of the vexed, almost aggressive, tone of her voice, Fernanda
did not move away, but stood holding the arm of the little friend, who
never opened her lips. The rich heiress was evidently very nervous. She
gave little taps on the ground with her foot, crushed up her
handkerchief in her hand, her lips trembled almost imperceptibly, and
round her dark Arab-looking eyes there was a paler circle than usual.
The argument evidently interested her.

Her engagement with the Conde de Onis had lasted longer than any
previous one.

When Fernanda first appeared in society, and earlier still, when she was
a little maiden going to school with a servant, her figure, her
elegance, and, above all, the six millions she was to inherit, created
quite a sensation. There was not a youth with any pretensions to manners
or money, who did not determine, either of his own accord, or at the
instigation of his family, to walk down the street with her, send her
little notes, and whisper pleasant nothings in her ear.

De Sarrió, de Nueva, and other places also furnished admirers, who came
under the pretext of taking a holiday. The girl, pleased and intoxicated
with the incense of admiration, never thought of keeping faith with
anybody, for she was continually breaking one engagement and entering
into another. A young man seldom remained in her good graces more than a
couple of months. In fact, there was no one in a position to marry her,
and in Lancia and the rest of the province, there was nobody possessed
of property equal to her _dot_. If, perchance, such a one existed, he
was not of fitting age to enter into matrimony with such a young girl,
for he would be some Indian worn out by tropical heat, or the elderly
owner of some remote, grand, country mansion.

It was not necessary for her father to mention the matter, for the girl
perfectly understood that there was no one to suit her; but she enjoyed
flirting all round and making the youths of Lancia adore her. There was
one young man, however, whom no girl of the town had ever dared to think
of marrying, and that was the Conde de Onis. He was deeply respected on
account of his old family in the province, where the abject worship of
aristocracy sinks the burgess beneath the level of the servant and the
agricultural labourer; and his retired style of life and the mystery and
silence of his old palace, added to his handsome income, seemed to exalt
him to an atmosphere aloof from the darts of all the local beauties.

But it was for this very reason, that there arose in Fernanda's bosom a
desire, at first vague, and then strong, and overwhelming, to make a
conquest of him. This is a very natural wish, and being especially a
feminine one, it requires no explanation. In the bottom of her heart the
daughter of Estrada-Rosa felt herself inferior to the Conde de Onis.
Nevertheless, she had heard so much flattery; and the glitter of her
father's money seemed so irresistible, that she thought she could well
aspire to making him her husband. If she did not really think so, she
pretended to do so when speaking of the count behind his back, and
affecting a certain familiarity in his presence.

In Lancia, as in all the little capitals, the young men and women adopt
the fashion of _tutoyant_ each other, and this was authorised from their
having known each other and played together as children. But for a long
time the Conde de Onis never exchanged a word with Fernanda, although
they constantly met in the street. Nevertheless, when they first met at
a little party at the De Meré's, the young beauty immediately addressed
him as _tu_, and dropped his title. It was Luis here, and Luis there, as
if she were quite accustomed to his name. The count was surprised
without being displeased. No one is sorry to find himself _tutoyé_ by a
lovely girl, and a naturally shy and timid man, like the count, was not
likely to be the exception.

Fernanda at once tried to enlist him as an admirer, or at least to make
him appear as such in the eyes of the public, who looked upon it as a
proper state of things. There was no other husband for Fernanda, and no
other wife for the count in the province.

The distance that separated them was retrospective: it existed only in
Fernanda's lack of ancestors, and it was generally thought that the
young girl's beauty, money, and brilliant education, would make the
count overlook this drawback.

These relations lasted about a year.

The two met at a party of the Señoritas de Meré, which was always
considered a pleasant occasion. She had often hinted to the count that
he might go to that house, but he had either not understood, or
pretended not to understand her. But one day Fernanda openly made the
suggestion. He tried to get out of it as well as he could. Was he timid?
or was he proud? Fernanda could not make him out; however, this reserve
increased his attraction for her, and made her like him all the more.
But suddenly, when the public least expected it--when, in fact, it had
begun to ask the reason of the delay of the marriage, the engagement was
broken off. It was done diplomatically and secretly, so much so that it
had been over for a month, and yet people were still joking them, not
knowing there had been a break. The fact when revealed, produced a great
sensation, and became the subject of ceaseless conversation at all the
parties. No one could say what had happened, or who had given the
initiative in the matter. If the count was asked, he stoutly maintained
that Fernanda had given him up; and so much stress did he lay upon the
statement, that nobody doubted his sincerity. The heiress, Estrada-Rosa,
corroborated her lover's assertion without going into particulars, and
this in the off-hand tone she always adopted when speaking of, or to,
the count, for they went on seeing each other pretty frequently, albeit
not quite so often, although they attended parties at the houses of
mutual friends. Moreover, Fernanda soon after became an _habituée_ at
the dances at the Quiñones' house. But the past relations were never
renewed, and when the two former lovers met and talked a little as now,
the guests looked on with bated breath and interested eyes.

"They will go on as before; they will end by marrying!" they thought.

But they were disillusioned at the sight of the indifference with which
they parted.

Just as he was going to reply to the last words of the proud heiress,
the glance of the count wandered absently round the room and fell upon a
pair of eyes fixed upon him with a sharp and jealous gaze, whereupon he
gave his hand to his friend and said with a forced smile:

"How badly you treat me, Fernanda! It will ever be so, I suppose, but I,
you know, am always your devoted admirer. _Au revoir._"

"I am sorry that this devotion neither pleases nor displeases me," she
returned, without moving a step away.

Then the count went off shrugging his shoulders resignedly and saying:

"And I am still more sorry."

Passing by the couples, who had commenced the _rigodon_, he returned to
the lady of the house, who was at that moment with Manuel Antonio, one
of the persons most worthy of note in this period we are recording.

He was known as much by the nickname of the Chatterbox, or Magpie, as by
his own name. This fact is sufficient to give us an idea of his moral
and physical characteristics.

Manuel Antonio was not young--he was certainly fifty; and all the
artificial means not distinguished for refinement, then in vogue in
Lancia, were brought into play to hide the fact.

He had an unmistakable wig, several false teeth badly put in, a little
black on his eyebrows and red on his lips; there was a strong scent of
patchouli about him, and there was a dash of originality in his whole
get-up befitting his reputation for former splendour. He really had been
a rare combination of face and figure: tall, slender, and well-built,
with regular delicate features, fine auburn hair falling in graceful
curls, a smiling countenance, and gentle voice. There now only remained
a faint trace of all this beauty. The straight shoulders had become
bent, the beautiful curls had vanished like a dream that was past;
unwelcome wrinkles furrowed the smooth brow; and the rows of pearly
teeth, so ornamental to his mouth, were substituted by ugly gaps which
time had made, and the dentist had failed to replace satisfactorily.
Finally, his slight, delicate, silky moustache had become white,
bristly, and shaggy, and neither dye nor cosmetic could keep it
presentable.

What a trial this was for the handsome young man of Lancia and for the
friends who had known him in the palmy days of his beauty! But his mind
kept as youthful as when he was eighteen. He was the same impassioned,
affectionate creature, sweet one moment, irascible and terrible another,
following the bent of his caprices and living in quiet idleness.

He enjoyed the pleasures of the bath so intensely that he would have it
three or more times running, until the water was as clear as when it
left the spring. He loved flowers and birds, but no delight equalled
that of trying on different articles of adornment before the glass to
see which suited him best. He considered that a dash of the feminine
made his costume more fetching, so in winter he liked to wear a short
cape with a gold clasp and a wide brimmed hat which suited him to
perfection. In summer he dressed in white flannel, very well cut to show
off the graceful lines of his figure. His neckerchiefs were nearly
always of gauze, his shoes low, and the collar of his shirt cut sailor
fashion. On his wrist he wore a bracelet; it was certainly only a bright
gold band, but this detail caught the eyes of all his fellow citizens.
Whenever Manuel Antonio was spoken of, the bracelet was sure to be
mentioned, as if there was nothing about his interesting person more
calculated to excite attention. But if years had not materially changed
this kind creature, so eminently created for love, they had nevertheless
made him more cautious and more reserved. He did not show his
preferences in the ingenuous fashion of former years, and he did not
give play to the impulsive fancies of his susceptible heart until he had
proved the worthiness of the object of his affection. Many were the
disillusions he had suffered in his life, and it was particularly sad
when he was getting old to meet not only coldness from his old friends,
from those to whom he had been lavish in marks of kindness, but to find
that he was an object of derision, in fact the laughing-stock of the
youths of the new generation. The young people of the present day made a
regular butt of him.

As they had not witnessed his triumphs, nor known his past radiant
beauty, they were far from professing that respect that the last
generation had had for him. They never lost an opportunity of worrying
and teasing him cruelly. When he appeared in the Calle de Altavilla, or
entered the Café de Marañón, he was surrounded by a crowd of _gamins_.
Cristo! the remarks that were made; and, sad to say, they passed from
using their tongues to using their hands. This was what Manuel Antonio
could not put up with. They could talk as much as they liked, for he had
the gift of repartee and could well hold his own with his turn for
sarcasm and his sense of the ridiculous; and years, and long practice
had made him such an adept in this art of repartee, that his retorts
were terrible; and those who tried to get a rise out of him generally
got the worst of it, and were staggered by the words they brought on
themselves. But when these shameless fellows passed from speech to
touch, patting his face and pulling his beard, he entirely lost his
self-control, and gave vent to expressions which were neither
intentional nor rational. Needless to say that as this was known to be
his weak point, the teasing always terminated in this way. Nevertheless,
apart from the pardonable desire to retort on those who hurt him, he was
not naturally malignant, but really a most useful and serviceable being.
His talents were many, and various. He could crochet most perfectly, and
his coverlets were unrivalled in Lancia. He decked an altar, or dressed
the images as well as any sacristan. He could upholster furniture, make
wax flowers, paper walls, embroider with hair, and paint plates. And
when any of his female friends wished to have her hair well dressed to
go to some ball, Manuel Antonio gallantly went to the rescue, and did it
as cleverly as the best hairdresser in Madrid. If any of his friends
were ill, then was the time to see the unfailing care and attention of
our old Narcissus. He immediately took up his post by the sick bed, he
kept count of the draughts, made the bed, and put on poultices as
cleverly as the most practised nurse. Then, if the illness became
serious, he knew how to suggest the idea of confession with so much
tact, that instead of the patient being offended, he accepted it as the
most natural thing in the world. And when he saw that death was
imminent, he prepared for the reception of the solemn guest, and no lady
could have taken greater pains to receive some most important personage:

There was the little altar with the embroidered cloth, lighted with
candles, the staircase adorned with pots of flowers, the ground covered
with rose-leaves, and the servants and relations at the door, holding
lighted tapers in gloved hands. Not a single detail was forgotten. The
Chatterbox, in his glory, assumed the manners of a general at the head
of his troops. Everybody obeyed and seconded him as if he were a chief.
Then, if the patient died, it is hardly necessary to say that his power
was still more omnipotent. From the laying-out of the corpse to the
final function of burial, there was nothing but what he had a hand in.
And as there were generally sick people to nurse, images to dress,
friends who wanted their hair dressed, or flowers to be arranged, Manuel
had rather a busy life. In performing these offices, or in going from
house to house fetching and carrying news, the days and years slipped
by. He lived with two sisters, older than himself, and they looked
after him, and cared for him as if he were still a child. They paid no
heed to their brother's wig, wrinkles, or false teeth, and the hours he
spent on his toilette, and his baths provoked a compassionate smile.
Whilst they bitterly deplored the ravages made by time on their own
faces and figures, they seemed to think that their brother had arrested
the course of the common enemy, and that he had in fact some elixir for
keeping himself eternally young. Manuel Antonio was methodical in his
visits: he had several houses at which he called every day at the same
time. He went to Don Juan Estrada's at three o'clock, the coffee hour;
he took chocolate with the Countess of Onis every afternoon, and he was
a regular _habitué_ at the evening receptions of the Señora de Quiñones.
There were several other families that he frequently visited. He dropped
into the houses of Maria Josefa Hevia and the Mateos in the morning for
a little while, just to hear any news that was going, or to inspect
their work, and sometimes of an evening, he went to the Señoritas de
Meré.

"Look, here is the count!" he exclaimed in his peculiarly effeminate
tone. "Ah! what a cunning fellow the count is!"

"How?" said the count, approaching.

"Ask Amalia."

Then the smile suddenly left the lips of the nobleman.

"What? What do you mean?" he exclaimed with undisguised confusion.

Amalia also looked upset, and her pale cheeks grew red.

"We have been grumbling at you, my man, and a pretty character we gave
you. Yes, Manuel Antonio has been saying that you are a dog in the
manger," said Amalia.

"No, you were the one who said so."

"I?" exclaimed the lady.

"And why am I the dog in the manger?" said the count. "Let us hear."

"Because Amalia says you do not want to eat the meat yourself, and you
will not let Don Santos eat it."

"Get along! Hold your tongue, you rude fellow!" said the lady
half-laughing, giving him a pinch.

"What is being said of Don Santos?" asked a short, broad gentleman, with
a fat purple face, who approached the group.

The count and Amalia did not know what to answer.

"They were remarking," said Manuel Antonio, with his ready tongue, "that
Don Santos thought of taking us up to his place, the Castañeda
(Chestnuts)."

"No, no, it was not that," returned the stout man with a forced smile.

"Yes it was, and Amalia maintained that you were not up to taking us to
the Castañeda for the day."

"But, my good fellow, you seem bent on painting me in very black
colours," said Amalia.

"Because I am a real friend. How pale you have been looking lately....
You must credit me, Santos, for having a higher opinion of your
generosity than the majority of people. 'You don't know Don Santos,' I
often say to those who declare that you do not like spending money. 'If
Don Santos does not spend and does not entertain his friends, it is not
from avarice but from indolence, and from want of a fitting occasion.
The man is self-distrustful, and incapable of proposing banquets or
festivities; but let anybody start the idea, and you will see how gladly
it will be followed up.'"

"Thank you, thank you, Manuel Antonio," murmured Don Santos, with a
rabbit-like smile.

The poor man was indeed continually haunted by the fear of appearing
mean. Like many of the Indians, the fact of his being immensely rich
gave him a reputation, not utterly unfounded, of being mean. He arrived
a few years ago from Cuba, where by dint of first packing cases with
sugar and then selling them, he amassed an immense fortune. He was like
a Bedouin, without any regard for what went on in the world; he could
not speak a dozen words correctly, nor comport himself like other men.
The thirty years he had spent behind a counter had caused his legs to
swell, which had given him the gait of a drunken man. The high colour of
his complexion was so characteristic, that in Lancia, where few people
escaped a nickname, he was dubbed _Garnet_.

In the midst of his misery he enjoyed making some show with his riches.
He built a most magnificent house: the steps were of marble from
Carrara, the furniture from Paris, &c. Nevertheless, when he came to pay
the large bills contracted in its construction, he was careful to see
what could be taken off for the value of the paper and cord, used for
packing the things for their transit from Paris. With this object in
view, he would carefully examine these wrappings accumulated in a heap
in a corner. When the house was finished, he took possession of the
ground-floor, and let the other two. And then began his martyrdom--a
martyrdom long and terrible. The servants and children of the second and
third floors were his torturers. If he heard the floors of the second
storey being rubbed, he was put in a bad humour, for he said that sand
was bad for boarded floors. If he saw a mark made on the stucco by the
careless hand of some little child, he was very angry and muttered words
of dread import. If he heard a door shut violently, the sound seemed to
go to his heart, and fears filled his mind lest the hinges should be
loosened, and the bolts displaced. At last the continual excitement
threw him into such a highly nervous state that his health visibly
declined. A friend of his, who was quite as miserable, although endowed
with more spirit, suggested that he should leave the house and live in
another one. And so he did, for he returned to the hotel where he had
put up during the building of his palace.

But Santos was remiss in the performance of the duty considered
incumbent on all those who make large fortunes from the sugar trade in
America--he failed to enter into matrimony with any lady, young or old,
pretty or ugly.

None of his friends ever took a tradesman's daughter for a wife, and
Garnet could not do less than they. On the contrary, as he was richer
than any of them, it was natural that he should expect more social
advantages. And so it came about that he fixed his prominent, bloodshot
eyes upon the prettiest, richest, and most charming girl in the town--on
nobody less than Fernanda Rosa. The fact aroused the astonishment and
derision of the neighbourhood. For highly as money was esteemed in
Lancia, it was not thought equal to the accomplishment of a feat like
this. The pride of the province marry a fellow of his caste! The girl
was angry and indignant. At first she considered it a joke; then she
became annoyed, and finally she ridiculed the idea. At last she became
used to Garnet's attentions, and it pleased her self-love to be a
subject of adulation, which she unmercifully snubbed in return. But
Santos was pertinacious in his courtship. With the persistence of a fly
which dashes against glass, trying a hundred times to pass through the
obstruction, neither repulses, ridicule, nor rude remarks rebuffed him
for long. He returned the next day, metaphorically speaking, to break
his head against the cold disdain of the proud heiress. He really
thought that the real obstacle to the realisation of his hopes was the
Conde de Onis. He acknowledged that Fernanda was somewhat attracted to
him, or, as he thought, to his title, and he seriously considered going
to Madrid to buy one of the same rank as that of his rival. But when he
was told that the papa set no store by such things, he gave up the idea.
In the meanwhile, he vowed revenge on the gallant count, and hated him
with a deadly hatred, which he showed by never losing an opportunity of
making fun of his ugly, old-fashioned, dilapidated house. The count was
rich in land, but his income could not be compared with that of the
opulent Garnet.

"And if not, you will see the day that he marries what a change will be
effected in the place," continued Manuel Antonio; "we shall have
banquets, and balls, and _fêtes champêtres_ every day."

"But suppose Fernanda does not like balls?" said Emilita Mateo, who was
dancing with Paco Gomez, and had her back to the group.

"I do not know that I have mentioned Fernanda," said the Chatterbox
severely.

"I thought you were talking of Don Santos marrying, and I supposed you
meant with her."

"Then do not suppose any more, but attend to your dancing with Paco, for
I reckon he has been waiting five minutes."

Paco was a very slender young man, so tall that he reached the lintels
of the doorways, with a head about the size of a potato, and such a thin
face that he really only seemed to walk about by permission of his
undertaker. And with these physical peculiarities, he was the wittiest
person of the place.

"Well, my child!" he exclaimed, standing in front of the Chatterbox.
"The only thing for which I should regret dying would be to be deprived
of the pleasure of seeing such bewitching creatures as yourself."

With this he gave his beard a derisive sort of touch.

We know that Manuel Antonio could not bear anybody's hands near him in
public.

"Be off, you jackdaw, be off!" he returned, with visible irritation as
he pushed him away.

"But are you not fetching? Why, my man, if this were lost to view! Look
what a mouth! Goodness alive, what shaped eyes! Did you ever see such a
texture of the skin?"

And as he touched him again, Manuel repulsed him with a hard push of
real anger.

"Caramba! how cross you are to-day!" said the Conde de Onis.

"It does not matter," returned Paco with a sigh, "white hands never
offend."

At that moment it was his turn to figure in the _rigodon_, and he went
off with Emilita.

Maria Josefa, who had been dancing a little way off, now came up with
her partner, a lieutenant of the battalion of Pontevedra.

"Why, Don Santos, you are cruel! Why do you not go and keep Fernanda
company? She is quite alone."

This was true, for the little friend of the rich heiress having found a
partner for the dance, Fernanda was sitting by herself.

"Yes, yes, you ought to go, Santos," said Manuel Antonio; "see, the girl
has left an empty chair by her side; she could not give a stronger
hint."

So saying, he winked at the count, who confirmed his statement by
saying: "I think it would only be polite."

Garnet cast a sharp glance at the speaker and surlily returned:

"Then why don't you go yourself and sit by her side?"

"For the simple reason that we have nothing to talk about. But with you
it is quite different."

"That is understood, Señor Conde. I am not a child," he murmured very
crossly.

"Although you are not a child in age," said Amalia, intervening to
prevent discord, "you are one in the frankness and spontaneity of your
sentiments, and in the freshness of heart, that other people younger
than you are remiss in. Children love with more simplicity and fervour
than men."

"But men do something more heroic--they marry," said Paco Gomez, who was
again standing near with his partner.

"There are occasions when they do not marry either," returned Manuel
Antonio, making an imperceptible grimace, by which it could be seen
that he was thinking of Maria Josefa.

"Very well," returned that gentleman, abandoning the argument; "but it
must be allowed that there are cases when such an act would require a
heroism beyond human nature."

The old maid who overheard this last remark, cast a withering look at
the speaker.

"Human nature, indeed!" she retorted with displeasure, "human nature
sometimes assumes such eccentric forms that heroism would appear out of
place."

However, Paco Gomez was not a whit confused, and merely touched his face
with comic gestures, feigning a dumb submission, which made the others
laugh. Amalia, seeing the conversation was getting dangerous, changed
the subject by exclaiming:

"Look, see what Don Santos has been doing whilst we have been busy
talking!"

And, in fact, the Indian had quietly left his seat and glided into a
chair by Fernanda's side.

She glanced at him coldly, and hardly deigned to respond to his
ceremonious and pompous greeting. Nevertheless, the red face of Garnet
shone like that of a god sure of his omnipotence. With his large, broad,
fat hands spread out on his knees, his body bent forwards, and his head
raised as much as the fat nape of his neck would permit, he disclosed a
row of large teeth as his lips wreathed in a beneficent smile. Trying,
according to his wont, to make conversation, he said:

"Have you noticed in what quarter the wind is?"

The young lady made no reply.

"It does not signify now," he continued, "as all the fruit is gathered
in, but if it had come sooner, we should not have had a chestnut nor a
grain of maize left, he! he!"

To judge from the expression of pleasure which shone in his eyes,
Garnet delighted in giving utterance to this remark.

"But it is not cold here, eh? I am not cold, he! he! On the contrary I
feel hot. It is because your eyes are two coals--they are burn----"

Another time he would have finished the word burning without any
hesitation, but to excuse his confusion, he feigned a cough which made
his purple face look as if he were suffering strangulation.

The beauty, who had kept her eyes fixed on space, now turned her head
towards her adorer, and looked at him with a vague, absent expression,
as if she did not see him. She then got up, and without vouchsafing a
word, took a seat a little way off. So the Indian was left with the same
stereotyped smile on his face, like the petrified grimace of a satyr.
But when he saw the eyes of the others fixed derisively upon him, he
suddenly became cross and peevish.

"What has this Garnet to do with the ladies?" said Paco Gomez to the
count. "As I was saying the other day, you do not need to go to America
for rich women. Your face is your fortune."

"Look, my dear count, you ought to go and sit by her side. You will see
she won't get up then," said Manuel Antonio.

"Yes, yes, you ought to go, Luis," said Maria Josefa, "we shall be able
to see then whether she is in love with you or not. Really, Amalia,
ought he not to go?"

"Yes, it seems to me that you ought to sit by her side," said the lady
in measured, trembling tones.

"Do you think so?" asked the count, looking earnestly at her.

"Yes, go," returned the lady, with perfect serenity, avoiding his eyes.

"Then you must allow me to disobey you, as I do not wish to expose
myself to a rebuff."

"What do rebuffs signify when you are in love?... Because from what I
hear, you are in love with Fernanda. It is known for a mile round."

"Certainly for a mile round, for that is not saying much," interposed
Manuel Antonio.

And Maria Josefa, and Emilita Mateo, and Paco Gomez all corroborated the
remark with a smile.

Amalia insisted effectually. Luis had tried his best to avoid suspicion;
but as all efforts are ineffectual to exclude every ray of light, she
had guessed for some time past that the count nourished in the depths of
his heart an affectionate regard for Fernanda.

"Listen to me," she said; "a few days ago somebody happened to say to
Moro that he had two false teeth. You cannot think how put out the poor
man was; a little more and he would have beaten him who told him of it."

"I am not as bad as that," said the count, "but I expressed myself
somewhat emphatically, as injustice always annoys me," and he smiled
shamefacedly.

"Oh! excitement in such cases is always suspicious. When one feels no
interest in anybody, one is not so vehement in denying it. Caramba! I
never saw you so put out as you are now. One can see that the girl has a
valiant champion ready to break lances on her behalf."

The lady did not leave the joke. She seemed to wish the count to think
that his love for Fernanda was a foregone conclusion. In spite of the
kind smile on her face, there were certain strange inflexions in her
voice that were only noticeable to one person present at that moment.

But the _rigodon_ was over and the little group was augmented by the
arrival of several other couples. Some came, and others went, until at
last the lady found herself surrounded by fresh people. Another waltz
was danced, and another. Then twelve o'clock struck from the cathedral
clock. And as the young people showed no sign of dispersing, Manin,
according to the custom of the house, appeared by Don Pedro's order at
the drawing-room door with an armful of wraps belonging to the ladies.
This was the signal for withdrawal adopted by the Señor de Quiñones at
his parties. It was not very courteous, but nobody was offended; on the
contrary, it was received in good part and considered a pleasant sort of
joke.

After they had all shaken hands with the Grandee, they formed a group in
the middle of the drawing-room, and Amalia in the centre bade farewell
to her female friends, as she kissed them affectionately. She was pale,
and her eyes looked anxious and feverish as she gave her hand to the
count; she turned her head aside, feigning inattention; but she pressed
his fingers firmly three or four times as if to inspire him with
courage, for indeed the poor man was in want of it. He was so nervous
and trembling that Amalia thought that he would collapse entirely.

And then the guests quickly passed into the passages and down the damp
stone staircase. A servant was there to open the street-door.

"Ah! Who left this basket here?" said Emilita Mateo, who was the first
to come across the obstruction.

"A basket?" asked several ladies as they came up to her.

"Perhaps some poor creature asleep about here," said the servant, who
had not yet closed the door.

"There is nobody to be seen," said Manuel Antonio, who had quickly
surveyed the portico.

Curiosity then prompted one of the ladies to raise the cloth which
covered the basket. Whereupon the same exclamation was heard that
Pharaoh's daughter uttered when she saw the celebrated basket of Moses
floating on the river.

"A child!"

Then ensued a moment of amazement and curiosity among the guests. They
all rushed forward, all wishing to see the foundling at once. For no one
doubted for an instant but that the child had been purposely left
there. Paco Gomez picked up the basket and uncovered it completely, so
as to show the sleeping child to his friends.

Then followed a storm of exclamations.

"Little angel! Who could have been so wicked? Poor little soul! What
stony-hearted creatures! Oh, my goodness! Look how beautiful he is! Has
he been left in the cold long? The little thing must be perished. Paco,
let me touch it."

The basket was passed from hand to hand. The ladies, who were very
interested and trembling with emotion, pressed so many tender kisses on
the cheeks of the newly-born that it was aroused from its sleep.

A feeble cry from the little pink creature filled every heart with pity,
and some of the ladies burst into tears.

"Let us take it upstairs so that it may be warmed a little."

"Yes, yes; let us take it upstairs."

And forthwith the chattering crowd rushed into the hall and up the
staircase of the mansion of the Quiñones, carrying the mysterious basket
in triumph.

Amalia was standing pale and motionless in the middle of the
drawing-room when the doors were re-opened. Don Pedro had been taken to
bed by Manin and another servant. The fresh sudden invasion seemed a
great surprise to the lady of the house.

"What is the matter? What is this?" she exclaimed, in an agitated voice.

"A baby, a baby!" was the simultaneous cry of many voices.

"We have just found it in the doorway," said Manuel Antonio, putting
down the basket which he had carried upstairs.

"Who left it there?"

"We do not know. It is a foundling. Look! See how beautiful it is,
Amalia."

"Perhaps some poor person, who will come and fetch it, just left it in
the doorway."

"No, no; we have inspected the doorway, and the street is deserted."

The little creature, who was disturbed by all this excitement, now
stretched out its two little rosebud fists, and the compassion of the
ladies was evinced in passionate exclamations. Each one wished to kiss
it and press it to her bosom. At last Maria Josefa managed to get
possession of it, and taking it from the basket she tenderly wrapped it
in the cloak with which it had been covered, and pressed it to her
bosom. Then a paper which had been in the child's clothes fell to the
ground. Manuel Antonio picked it up. On the paper was written in large
awkward-looking characters, evidently with the left hand: "The unhappy
mother of this baby girl commends her to the charity of the Señores de
Quiñones. It is not baptised."

"It is a girl, then!" exclaimed several ladies in one voice.

And in the tone of this remark it was evident that the discovery was
somewhat disappointing. They had been so certain it was a boy.

"What mystery is this?" asked Manuel Antonio, whilst a malicious smile
curled his lip.

"Mystery? There is no mystery," returned Amalia with some displeasure.
"It is evidently some poor woman who wants her child to be maintained."

"Notwithstanding, there is a _je ne sais quoi_ strain of mystery about
the matter, and I would wager that the parents of this baby are
well-to-do," replied the Magpie.

"Well, now you are getting foolish!" exclaimed the lady, with a nervous
smile. "Well-to-do people do not leave their children dressed in rags."

Certainly the baby was dressed in miserable clothes and covered with a
scanty, dirty cloak.

"Gently, Amalia, gently," interposed Saleta in his clear, quiet voice.
"Many years ago I found in the doorway of my house in Madrid a child
enveloped in very old clothes, and at the end of some time we
ascertained that he was the son of a very important personage, who shall
be nameless."

All eyes were now turned to the Galician magistrate in surprise.

"It was a very important personage, it was----" he continued, after a
pause, with the same cool impertinence: "well, it was very easy to guess
who it was; the features of the face showed him to be a perfect
Bourbon."

The audience was quite taken aback. They looked at each other with the
slightly amused smile prevalent on such occasions, and Saleta was quite
unconcerned.

"Hurry up!" exclaimed Valero; "won't you have your umbrella?"

"The child died when he was two months old," continued the imperturbable
Saleta; "and it was a fact that when we went to the cemetery, a carriage
joined the funeral cortège, and nobody knew to whom it belonged. But I
knew it, for I had seen it in the royal stables; however, I held my
tongue."

"Will the babbler never cease?" murmured Valero.

"All right, Saleta; you must tell us this story by day, at night such
things are rather boring," said the Chatterbox intervening and winking
at the others. "What we have to think of now, Amalia, is what is to be
done with the baby."

The lady shrugged her shoulders with indifference.

"I don't know. We will leave her here to-night, and to-morrow we will
look for a nurse for her, for it is really quite an upset."

"If you do not care about keeping her in the house, I shall be very
pleased to take charge of her, Amalia," said Maria Josefa, who had stood
a little apart cooing to the baby to keep it quiet.

"I did not say that I did not wish to," returned the lady, somewhat
sharply. "I will take the child, because it concerns me more than
anybody, since it is confided to my care. But, as you can understand,
before doing so I must consult my husband."

The guests greeted these words with a murmur of approbation.

Just at that moment Manin appeared, to ask the meaning of all the
excitement. It was explained to him. Then the Señor de Quiñones had
himself brought back into the drawing-room in his wheeled chair; and
when he saw the baby, he at once interested himself in her behalf.

He immediately declared she should not leave the house, and he told a
servant to find a nurse in the morning. In the meanwhile the little
creature had a little milk and tea in a flask with an india-rubber top;
and it was then enveloped in better wraps. The guests watched these
operations with the keenest interest. The ladies uttered cries of
enthusiasm, and their eyes overflowed with tears when they saw the eager
way the baby sucked the top of the bottle.

When all was done, they said good-bye again; but they did not leave
without each one pressing a kiss on the cheeks of the poor little
foundling baby.

All this time the Conde de Onis did not open his lips. He stood in the
third or fourth row, following with eager eyes all the attention and
care bestowed upon the infant. But when he was about to depart without
again taking leave, Amalia stopped him with an audacity which almost
petrified him.

"What is this, count? Do you not wish to kiss my charge?"

"I, yes, Señora."

This was the finishing stroke. And pale and trembling he approached, and
put his lips on the little creature's forehead, whilst the lady watched
him with a provoking triumphant smile.




CHAPTER III

THE TOWN


This was the third night that the Conde de Onis could hardly close his
eyes. Nothing was more natural than that he should be agitated and
feverish the last two nights; but now, wherefore? All had happened as it
had been arranged. The undertaking had succeeded well, he had nothing to
do but sleep on his triumph. But it was not so. In spite of his strong
robust figure, the Conde had an excessively nervous and impressionable
temperament. The slightest emotion upset him and excited him to an
indescribable extent. Such intense sensibility was the result of
heredity as well as education. His father, Colonel Campo, had been a
self-centred sensitive man, of such keen susceptibility that he was
quite a martyr to it the last years of his life. Everybody in Lancia
recollected the interesting touching episode which closed the life of
the single-minded gentleman.

The colonel had had to send forces to defend a place in Peru during the
insurrection of the American colonists; but the place was taken by
surprise in an underhand way. By a false report the colonel was accused
of treachery before the Government at Madrid, it being asserted that he
had been in collusion with the enemy. With severe precipitancy, without
impartial evidence of the facts, and without taking into consideration
the Conde of Onis' brilliant career in the Service, the king deprived
him of his commission, and all the crosses and decorations in his
possession. The punctilious old soldier was completely crushed by this
unexpected blow. His comrades snatched the pistol from him just when he
attempted his life. Accompanied by a faithful attendant, he left Madrid
and came to Lancia, where his wife and son of tender age were awaiting
him. The family life was a sedative for the wounded heart of the
soldier. But the brave man who had so often defied death, had not the
courage to face the curious eyes of his fellow-citizens. Instead of
rebelling against the injustice that had been done him, instead of
trying to convince his compatriots of his innocence, which would not
have been very difficult, as they all esteemed his character, and knew
his bravery, he was so conscious of his disgrace that he avoided the
sight of people and retired to his house, and he never walked farther
than the garden at the back of the house, bounded by high, crumbling
walls.

The palace of the Counts of Onis deserves especial mention in this
story. It was a very old building; some remains of the original edifice
which were still extant, were the oldest part of the town. Nothing else
was saved from the dreadful fire which destroyed the city in the
fourteenth century. It was more like a fortress than a mansion. There
were a few narrow windows fitted with stone columns, scattered
capriciously over the façade, a bare stone wall blackened by time, with
several square holes like ventilators near the roof, and a large door in
the middle studded with heavy nails. Inside it was immense, and more
cheerful. The courtyard was broader than the street.

The sun came in at the window at the back at midday, and its rays were
tempered by the branches of the garden-trees which formed a pleasant
curtain.

There was a great deal of mystery and enchantment about this old house
for the Lancians, who were endowed with imagination; more especially for
the children, who are the only beings who are open to weird fancies in
this prosaic age.

The façade, if such a name can be given to the aforesaid wall, faced the
Calle de la Misericordia, one of the most central streets of the town.

One of the windows, perchance the largest, overlooked the Calle de
Cerrajerías, and from it could be seen the cathedral in the distance.

Here it was that the ex-colonel buried himself; for neither the
entreaties of his wife nor the few relations who came to see him,
prevailed on him to change his habits.

But his retirement was useful to the house, for he put the garden in
order, had balconies placed at the back of the house, furnished various
rooms, had the courtyard paved, &c.

Thus, without losing its character of mystery, the dismal old house was
transformed into a pleasanter abode.

But the old soldier having fallen into disgrace, seemed to wither up
within its walls like a tree in want of air and water.

A profound melancholy sapped his constitution: his skin became wrinkled,
his hair turned white, his legs grew feeble, and his hands shaky.

At fifty-eight he looked as old as if he were seventy, but this change
was unnoticed in the house.

He glided about the corridors like a ghost. Whole days went by without
any one hearing the sound of his voice. But he was not disagreeable to
anybody, and there was a sweet pleasant smile always on his lips.

He never courted caresses from his child, but when he met him by chance
in the passages he would lay his hand on his head, kiss him fondly,
murmur tender words in his ear, and then turn away, sometimes with tears
in his eyes. He thought it a blot on the life of that little boy, ruddy
and beautiful as a cherubim, to have been born of a disgraced father,
and the unhappy man seemed to ask his pardon for his existence. It was
the year 1829; four years had elapsed since the colonel arrived from
America, and he looked a very spectre. He slept well, ate well, and
nothing seemed to worry him; but his life seemed slipping away, in a
slow but sure consumption. His wife sent for a doctor, and then another
and another. But they all said the same: it was necessary for him to
amuse himself and to associate with people. And these were just the
particular remedies which the count declined to adopt. By degrees he
stayed longer in bed, he rose later, and retired to rest earlier. He
lost all inclination to work in the garden, never went outside the four
walls of the house, and indoors he gave up looking after the things
which used to interest him, being generally handy, such as attending to
the aviary and other manual occupations. The few hours that were not
passed in bed were spent in an armchair, or in walking through the
corridors in silence, until at last he left off getting up altogether.
Luis recollected all this perfectly. When he used to go into his
father's apartments he saw him with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and an
expression of terrible distress upon his face. He would turn his head
when his son entered the room, smile, call him to him by signs, and
after giving him a kiss would seem to want him to go.

One day the boy saw much coming and going in the house; the servants
were running about in distress, exchanging rapid words with each other.
The few available friends and relations were summoned, and frightened
the child by their long faces. On entering his father's room he saw that
an altar was being erected. Having been placed in a corner by one of the
servants, he was told not to be afraid, but his father was about to
confess, and partake of the Holy Communion when the Divine Majesty would
be present. The injunction not to be frightened, which was repeated
several times, produced a contrary effect. The boy understood that
something serious was going on. In fact, the Count of Onis was dying; he
was certainly taking his departure, as his relations said. The doctor
said he was to be prepared.... At six o'clock in the evening the doors
of the palace of Onis were thrown open to receive the priest, who had
come in the carriage of the house bearing the Sacred Host. The servants
and relations were waiting in the doorway with lighted torches. A large
file of people of all classes, also bearing lights, came behind. Many of
them came out of real regard and devotion for the patient; but the
majority came out of curiosity to see one who had lived so long apart
from the world under such solemn, critical circumstances.

All those that wished to, came right into the presence of the dying man.
No obstacle was put in anybody's way, so a strange and motley crowd
filled the count's room: well-to-do people, poor people, and children,
were all anxious to see the fallen man, now that he was about to fall
into the dark bosom of death, the oblivion of eternity. The dean of the
cathedral, his friend and confessor, approached with the elevated Host.
The people present fell on their knees, a solemn silence reigned. At
that moment the sick man, who had been propped up in bed, said in a loud
voice, addressing himself to the kneeling assembly:

"I swear by the Sacramental God about to enter my body, that I have
never been a traitor to my country, and that in the American war I
always behaved like a loyal and honourable gentleman."

His voice, which appeared to come from a corpse, sounded clear and sharp
in the room. There was a repressed murmur among the people. The dean,
with tears in his eyes, replied:

"Blessed are those that hunger and thirst after righteousness;" and he
put the blessed Sacrament in the colonel's mouth. The news of the old
soldier's affirmation ran through the town. The strange and terrible
oath, which was repeated from one to the other, made a profound
impression on the public. The relations and friends of the count made a
great parade of the matter. One of them thought of presenting a
petition to the king, signed by all the neighbours, begging him to
revoke the colonel's sentence. But the dean had anticipated him, and
being an energetic, eloquent man, he got the archbishop and the Chapter
of the cathedral to favour his mission to Madrid for the intercession
for the re-installation of the friend of his infancy in his military
rank. Meanwhile the patient slightly improved, the illness did not seem
to get worse; but, although it was not externally noticeable, the
consumption was gaining ground.

Nothing was said about the deputation to the king. However, the dean had
time to get to Madrid, gain an audience of his Majesty, appeal to his
pity with the account of the solemn statement made in his presence,
obtain a royal commission restoring the count all his honours with all
the accompanying crosses and decorations, and return to Lancia mad with
anxiety. How delightful it was to find his friend had not expired! He
ran from the boat in which he had travelled, to the palace of the Onis,
and with the greatest precaution, to avoid over-excitement for the
patient, the good news was communicated to him. The colonel remained
motionless for some time with his face hidden in his hands.

"What time is it?" he said at last.

"It is just two," was the reply.

"Let me have my uniform at once!" he exclaimed with unusual energy,
raising himself up without anybody's help.

"Rayo de Dios! Quick, my uniform," he repeated more emphatically, seeing
that no one moved.

At last the countess went to the wardrobe, and brought it out. He had
himself quickly dressed; the ribbon of Carlos III. put across his
breast, and all the crosses he had won. There were so many, that he
could not put them all on the left side, so some had to come to the
right. In this attire he had himself led to the window looking on to the
Calle de Cerrajerías, and there he stood. It was not long before the
faithful, repairing home from Mass, which was the best attended of the
Sunday services, saw this strange, corpse-like figure, dressed in his
grand uniform, at the window. And with a feeling of sadness, respect,
and compassion, they all filed by the house with their eyes riveted upon
him.

For three consecutive Sundays the colonel made a point of getting up and
going through the same ceremony. He stood for half an hour displaying
his signs of honour, with his eyes ecstatically fixed on space, without
seeing or hearing the crowd which collected before the palace with
manifestations of the gravest interest and concern. On the fourth Sunday
he wished to do the same, and peremptorily insisted on being dressed,
but he at that instant fell back on the pillows, never to rise again. So
that night God took the brave, punctilious soldier unto Himself. Poor
father! The count could never think of that scene, so deeply graven in
his mind, without tears rising to his eyes. He had inherited from him
the exquisite delicacy of feeling, and a susceptibility that almost
amounted to weakness, without the serenity, power of taking the
initiative, and the unbending will that had characterised Colonel Campo.
The present count had an excessively sensitive and affectionate
disposition, together with the integrity and modesty peculiar to the
Campos. But these qualities were counteracted by a weak, fanciful, moody
character, which was doubtless inherited from his mother's family.

Donna Maria Gayoso, the widowed Countess of Onis, daughter of the Baron
de los Oscos, was a very original person; so exceptionally original that
she bordered on the eccentric. In her whole family for the last three or
four generations there had been some exhibition of eccentricity that in
some members had passed into madness.

Her grandfather had been a hardened atheist and a follower of Voltaire
and the Encyclopædia; then he became a victim to drunkenness in his last
days, and, according to the general report, he was carried off by
devils to the infernal regions. He had really died of spontaneous
combustion, which fact gave rise to such a fabulous story. Her father
was a weak-minded man, and her mother, a woman of uncommon energy, had
him completely under her thumb. Of his uncles, one had gone melancholy
mad; another distinguished himself in mathematics, but he was so
eccentric that his curious ways were retailed as amusing anecdotes in
Lancia; and another retired to the country, married a peasant, and
killed himself with drinking. She had only one remaining brother, the
present Baron de los Oscos. He was an original and an eccentric
creature. At the commencement of the civil war he put himself under the
banner of the Pretender, and entered his army, but only on condition of
serving as a common soldier. This resolution made a great sensation.

But all the persuasions of the grandees about Don Carlos, and even those
of the king himself, were powerless to make him accept an officer's
commission. He was wounded several times, and in one case he was so
seriously injured in the face that he was deeply scarred; and as his
face was already as ugly as it could well be, the deep red seam finished
by rendering his appearance ghastly to a degree that was terrible.

He was younger than his sister Maria, not being yet fifty, and he lived
alone and celibate in the dreary old house belonging to the los Oscos in
the Calle del Pozo, which had certainly nothing grand about it. He
rarely went to see his sister, not from any antipathy, but from the
unsociability and crustiness of his disposition. He seldom left his
house, particularly in the daytime. He had very few friends, and his
most intimate one--in fact, the only one who might be said to enjoy his
friendship--was an uncloistered friar, who before taking orders had
served as an officer in the army. This Fray Diego was his constant
companion. The baron inspired universal terror with his gloomy
character, his eccentricities, and more especially by the fearful
appearance of his face. The children were quite panic-stricken in his
presence. Parents and nurses used him as a bugbear to make them
obedient:

"I will go and tell the baron about you! The baron will come! I saw the
baron to-day, and he asked me if you were obedient," &c.

And the baron, with his strange gestures, and rough, loud voice, became
a very ogre to the poor little innocent things. He constantly went about
armed with a pair of pistols; and the handle of his stick was a
veritable club. It was said that he once made an end of a servant merely
for having opened a letter, and that on several occasions he seized hold
of children who dared to make faces at him in the street, put them in
the stable, undressed them, and thrashed them soundly with the bridle of
his horse. True, or invented, these stories were calculated to make the
infant minds of Lancia regard him as a monster of ferocity from whom
they fled as fast as their trembling legs would carry them.

One of the things which inspired the terror of the little ones, and
caused respect not devoid of fear in the grown-up people, was the horse
that the baron had. It was a creature with a fiery eye, and so fierce
that nobody but he and his friend Fray Diego, who had served in the
cavalry, dared to mount him. He had to be most cleverly managed when
taken to drink, and even then the ungovernable brute reared and kicked
to the alarm of all the passers-by. When the baron mounted and left his
house, striking about him, and laying into the horse with his whip, the
neighbours rushed to their windows, the children took refuge in the
bosoms of their mothers, and everybody gazed in terror at the fearful
centaur. Certainly the Baron de los Oscos presented at such times a
formidable aspect, with his scarred face, bloodshot eyes, waxed,
fierce-looking moustache, and his figure looking like part of the
horse.

One's imagination had to go back to the invasions of the barbarians to
find anything equal to it. Neither Alaric, Attila, nor Odoacer could
have looked more strange and sinister, nor could they have inspired more
terror than he. Judge, then, of the effect upon the timid neighbours
when one day he took it into his head to parade the streets of the town
at midnight, accompanied by a servant, a man very like him, on another
charger.

The Countess of Onis was as strange in her way as her brother. She was
short and stout, with a pale, round face, dull black eyes, hair
plastered down with quince-juice gum, and constantly dressed in the
mournful garb of a nun. She lived as secluded in her place, as a nun in
a convent. She was absolutely absorbed in devotion, but it was a
capricious, fantastic devotion, in no way similar to that practised by
really mystic souls. All her life she had shown a tendency to
eccentricity, but after the count's death it became so marked, that her
strange ways assumed the form of rather serious manias. When she was
young, her modesty was so extreme that it became ridiculous. The ears of
the Señorita de los Oscos were so chaste that the conversation of an
English "Miss" would seem like a serjeant's in her presence. She could
not tolerate her brother's under-linen being put with hers when the
laundress took it away or brought it home. If she was asked to sew a
button on his underclothes, she ran to her room when the task was over,
and washed her hands, when, it was said, she sprinkled them with holy
water. She compressed her figure to a hurtful extent, and the height of
the collar of her dresses was contrary to the regulations of fashion;
her under-garments were only changed in the dark, and she never shook
hands with a man unless she had gloves on. The history of her marriage
was truly curious, full of funny incidents which were for a long time
the talk of the town, and the account of the first night of her
marriage, whether true or false, was worthy of figuring in a novel of
Paul de Kock. One need hardly say that during her marriage this virtue
of chastity became somewhat modified. But as soon as she became a widow,
she resorted to her eccentric ways to a remarkable degree, and in her
latter years they assumed the aspect of madness. When she told her
beads, which was twice a day, she sent a servant to the poultry-yard to
separate the cock from the hens; then the forks had to be separated from
the spoons, and the hooks from the eyes. One day the coachman came to
tell her that one of the mares had foaled, and she was so angry that,
after having sharply rebuked him for his audacity in acquainting her
with such a fact, she gave orders for having it sold. One day she came
upon a lad giving a kiss to the cook, and she became ill with disgust,
and both parties were immediately dismissed from the house.

She liked to have a party at an early hour in the evening, when she only
invited clerics. On these occasions she used to sit in an armchair
where, intentionally or unintentionally, probably intentionally, there
were put two cushions so that she seemed to be in a valley. Soon after
the arrival of the company, when the conversation became animated, she
would fall into a deep sleep, and thus remain until nine o'clock, when
the cassocked gentlemen retired, presumably, without shaking hands. As
there was a chapel in the house she seldom went out, and when she did
so, it was in the carriage. She kept all the money that came to her
hands hidden away in secret places in the garret or the garden.
Sometimes this avarice or, as it may be more correctly termed, this
mania for hoarding, brought them into difficulties, and she preferred to
let her son borrow money to disinterring her treasure. She was very
greedy, and fond of dainties; and she could consume a quantity of sweets
with no signs of indigestion. But such things were not made for nuns,
and so, in strange contradiction to her pious inclinations, she hated
all that savoured of the convent.

And it was by this eccentric, one may almost say mad, woman, that the
present Count of Onis was brought up, and his character was much
affected thereby. To counteract his excessive sensitiveness, his weak
and vacillating temperament, and his imaginative and gloomy disposition,
of which sad signs were shown at times, he ought to have been brought up
in the open air under an intelligent and energetic master, who would
have known how to inspire him with manly strength and resolution. But,
unfortunately, it was just the contrary. The countess would not hear of
any career which would take him away from Lancia; so he went to the
local university, where he followed a course of jurisprudence, after
which rich young men think they are entitled to pass the rest of their
days in idleness. During his college career the countess kept him under
her authority in a way that became ridiculous. He never left the house
without permission, he came in at dark, he told his beads, and went to
confession when she bade him to. Whilst his body developed to a
marvellous degree, so that he became a fine athletic young fellow, his
mind remained as submissive and childish as that of a ten-year-old
child.

His retired effeminate life increased the natural timidity of his
character, his sensitiveness became weakness, and his gloomy nature
secretive. And the most lamentable thing was, that without being a
shining light, he was gifted with clear intelligence, and possessed a
penetration frequently found in reserved and timid men. He was wanting
in self-confidence and experience; but he showed a great deal of tact in
conversation; shortcomings of his neighbour never escaped him and, as
with most weak characters, he took a mischievous delight in drawing
attention to them. It is the revenge taken by characterless people upon
those who have a vigorous and spontaneous one. Nevertheless, these
outbursts of irony and malignity were not very frequent. He generally
appeared a prudent, reserved, melancholy young man, with courteous
gentlemanly manners, a feeling heart, and full of affection and respect
for his mother. After his college career was over, his inclination and
plans were in favour of leaving Lancia, going to court, and travelling
for some time. But the countess's disapproval was enough to make him
give up the idea and remain at home. So he spent his days in idleness
without feeling in anyway obliged ever to glance from time to time into
his books of jurisprudence. He amused himself occasionally with certain
manual occupations, and in reading the works of romance much in vogue at
the time. He became a clever carpenter, but not so clever as his father;
and then he took up watch-making. Finally, he developed an interest in a
little property in the suburbs of the town, and set about making great
improvements there. It was called the Grange, and it was situated a
little more than a mile from Lancia. It was a large old rambling house,
with a beautiful wood of oak trees behind, and fertile meadows in front.
The count took to going there every afternoon after dinner; he bred
black cattle, and horses as well; he planted trees, cut canals, and
raised banks. The house he hardly touched. He gained physically by this
new interest, which made him more active and hardy, and his character
improved at the same time. The melancholy which had been so distressing
to him decreased, and he became more cheerful, his self-confidence
increased, as he had more intercourse with people, whilst the fits of
anger, rage and despair which used to come over him without any cause,
making him seem like an epileptic to the servants, grew rarer and rarer
until they left him altogether. He thus reached his twenty-eighth year
when he began to frequent the house of the Quiñones, and it was then
that his life underwent a complete change.

It was nine o'clock in the morning when his servant woke him from an
exciting unfinished dream to give him a letter. With feigned
indifference he dropped it on the night-table, but scarcely had the
servant left the room when he seized it, and opened it with visible
agitation.

Although his connection with Amalia was of about two years' standing, he
never opened a letter from her without his hands trembling. They
certainly did not often write to each other; and it was probably the
rarity of the occurrence which accounted for its affecting him so much,
as in truth a deep love for her had taken root in his timid, sensitive
nature.

"This afternoon. By the pulpit," was all that the note conveyed, but his
mind was much agitated by the communication. Such appointments were
extremely dangerous. In the midst of his happiness they overpowered him
with a feeling of dread he could not overcome. He had begged Amalia to
give them up, but she paid no heed to his wishes, and he was perfectly
incapable of opposing her will. All the morning he was nervous and
upset. He took a ride to calm his nerves, and went as far as the Grange,
only to return as unsettled as when he left.

At the hour named he left home and went to the Calle de Cerrajerías. It
was the time of day when scarcely anybody is about. It was three
o'clock, and so people were either at table or resting. At the end of
Cerrajerías, at the corner of Santa Lucia, is the church of San Rafael,
and the principal entrance is on that side. The count entered the
building, after taking holy water, like one about to say his prayers. He
was quite alone, or at least he seemed so at first sight. In a few
minutes his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, and he saw two
or three kneeling figures scattered about. He knelt down in the dark
near the little door of the staircase leading to the pew of the
Quiñones, and pretended to pray for a few moments. This was very
repugnant to him. He was a sincere believer, and his strictly pious
education made him have a horror of such sacrilege. The fanaticism of
his mother had left its mark upon him, and he had a fearful dread of
hell. Amalia was also a believer, and she had a reputation for piety in
the place: she belonged to several confraternities, she was patron of
several asylums, she frequently made presents to the images, and she was
generally seen with the clergy; but this profanation she regarded with
the greatest indifference. Religion was for her a thing of
respectability, but her own pleasures and wishes seemed the thing to be
most respected. After a few minutes the count cautiously rose, and
pushed the little door, which had been purposely left open, then he went
in and mounted the narrow winding staircase. The little pew of the
Quiñones was even darker than the Church. He felt for the door of the
passage and opened it, but as it had glass windows looking on to the
street, he crossed it like a cat. At the door communicating with the
house, Jacoba was waiting for him. She was a woman of more than fifty
years of age, of portly form and demeanour. She moved with difficulty,
for her breath was short, from her extreme fatness, and she always spoke
in a falsetto voice. She was discretion itself, a sealed book. The count
and Amalia had never had any other confidante. Nobody else in the world
was acquainted with their love affair, and she had served them
wonderfully through its course. Acting as sentinel, she had often saved
them from discovery, for she had constituted herself their guardian
angel. She was not a servant in the house, but the señora was one of her
patrons. Her occupation was to run errands to the shops for different
houses, and the perquisites made on the purchases formed the staple of
her livelihood. This was not, however, sufficient for her maintenance,
but she was alone and a spinster, and in many houses presents were made
her, and she was helped in a hundred ways. The Señora de Quiñones was
her especial patroness, and when she became her confidante, it was like
coming upon a mine of wealth, for Amalia paid lavishly for services
which certainly deserved great compensation.

The go-between put her finger on her lips as a sign of silence directly
the count entered the door, but as he was already holding his breath to
avoid making a noise, this warning was quite unnecessary. Then going a
little way first, to see how the ground lay, she made him a sign to
follow her. They crossed a corridor, passed by the principal staircase
without going up it for fear of meeting some servant, and went into the
library where there was a little staircase that led thence to the second
floor. The count proceeded on tiptoe with a beating heart. Although this
was not the first time he had been like this to the Quiñones' house, it
always seemed to him the height of temerity, and he inwardly cursed his
lover's boldness and disregard of consequences.

At last they came to the señora's room. The door opened without any one
being seen, Jacoba gave the count a gentle push, and remained herself
outside.

Amalia withdrew her hand, which she had mechanically held out, and with
a sudden impulsive gesture, she threw her arms round the neck of her
beloved and kissed him with tenderness. The grave man, being still upset
by the manner of his arrival, remained quiescent, and did not
reciprocate these demonstrations of affection. The lady then gave him a
maternal tap on the cheek.

"Calm yourself, coward, nobody will eat you here."

Luis made an effort to smile and sank into a French chair upholstered
with bright blue.

Amalia's room with its luxurious furniture was a contrast to the neglect
that reigned in the rest of the house. The walls were covered with rich
tapestry, the best of the collection in the possession of the family;
the bright furniture, of Louis XV. style, was brought from Madrid, with
the magnificent ebony bedstead inlaid with marble in the alcove, when
Don Pedro was making futile efforts to win the heart of his wife. There
was a perfumed sensual atmosphere about the place, showing the refined
tastes that the foreign lady had brought from other lands to the severe
mansion of the Quiñones. She seated herself on the count's knee, and
pulling his beard, she exclaimed with a joy that could scarcely be
restrained and emanated from her whole person:

"See now, see how we have conquered. See how we have got over all those
difficulties which came into your head and prevented your seeing
clearly. Only a little audacity was necessary for God to help us."

"God!" said the count, with a shudder.

She felt she had been wrong in referring to the Divinity, and she
hastened to say with unconcern:

"Well, then, fate, if you like. Come, don't make yourself wretched and
sad. This is a moment of happiness for us. She is really here, and it
seems too good to be true. My daughter, the daughter of my love living
with me; being able to see her and kiss her at all hours! How beautiful
she is! I could not look at her comfortably until this morning, but
to-day I did so to my heart's content. She is like you--particularly
about the forehead between the eyebrows. Jacoba says that the mouth is
mine. I am not sorry, for it might have taken after me in something
worse, is it not so?" she added, with a coquettish smile.

"I think you are beautiful all round."

"That is right!" exclaimed the lady with an affectionate look. "You have
at last recovered the power of speech. Well, then," she added in a
serious tone, "you do not know the trouble we had this morning to find a
nurse. Three were brought to me, and neither of them suited. At last I
settled on the fourth. And how beautifully my angel took to her food. I
could hardly help jumping for joy, and I can hardly help it now. But I
must be grave and solemn, like the señor count. Tell me, how did you
manage to get her here? Tell me about it. How your face looked when the
drawing-room door opened last night!"

"The thing was not easy. At nine o'clock I went to fetch her from
Jacoba's house. But she will have told you about it. I had to spend two
hours there, for the devil seemed in the business, and the child
screamed incessantly."

"Yes, yes; I know all that. And then?"

"What a night it was! The gusts of wind were incessant, especially in
those out-of-the-way suburbs. I turned up my trousers to the knee, for
how could I come into your drawing-room covered with mud? I wanted to
carry the basket on one arm, and the open umbrella in the other hand,
but it was impossible. After a few steps, I came back and left the
umbrella with Jacoba. What a walk! Holy heaven, what a business! The
wind kept blowing down the collar of my coat, the rain dashed in my face
and down my neck. I was frightened the baby would get wet. I went along
fearing to breathe. Supposing I had slipped just then! The wind blew at
times so strongly that I could hardly get along. You can easily believe
that I was tempted to go back and leave it for another day."

"I can easily believe it. I know that a plate of water would be enough
to drown you."

He gave her a sad, reproachful look, and then Amalia began to laugh, and
embracing and kissing him effusively, she exclaimed:

"Don't be cross, poor little dear! Do not think I do not feel for you.
The journey was very difficult. You bore it like a hero."

The count coloured at these praises. His conscience told him he did not
deserve them; and he recollected the terrible ordeal that Amalia had
herself passed through, and said:

"But you! What you must have suffered on your side! How are you? It was
imprudent to go downstairs so soon."

"Oh! I am as strong as a horse, although I appear weak."

"So you seem to be. To suffer what you did without uttering a sound!"

"Pray, what can you know about it, stupid?" she said, putting a hand on
his mouth.

"Then only four days in bed," continued the young man, gently taking her
hand from his mouth and kissing it at the same time; "and on the fifth
to go down to the drawing-room."

"But, then, nothing was supposed to have happened, and if I had not gone
down yesterday, Quiñones would certainly have sent for the doctor! On
the second day he was worrying for me to go down. But what do you think?
He is in love with the baby--quite mad about it! All the morning he has
had the nurse in his room. And he has such strange ideas. He says, 'God
has sent us this child to console us for having no family.'"

Then the count relapsed into sadness and gloom, whilst a smile of cruel
irony played on the lips of the lady.

"And all this time you have never asked for her, you unnatural father!"
she said, as she passed her delicate white fingers through her lover's
thick, curly, reddish beard. "For you _are_ her father--yes, her father.
That you can't deny," she added, fondly putting her face against his so
that her lips were close to his ear. "I will go and fetch her."

"But will the nurse come, too?" he asked in terror.

"No, man, no!" she answered, laughing; "she will come alone. You will
see that can easily be managed."

The count opened his eyes with an expression that made her laugh more.
She got up and, opening the door, she whispered a second with Jacoba who
was stationed as sentinel outside. In a few minutes the stout go-between
re-opened the door and brought in the sleeping child. Amalia sat down,
and told her to put it on her lap. And then, for a long time, they both
gazed in ecstasy at the little delicate creature as it softly breathed
in its sleep. It was a moment of happiness. The count forgot his fears
and became quite calm, whilst a smile of real pleasure illuminated his
gentle, melancholy features. The minutes passed, and neither cared to
break the blissful silence, nor disturb the intense absorption in which
their minds were one. That tiny, unconscious being, that atom of rosy
flesh riveted their gaze equally, and bound their souls and lives to her
with invisible threads.

"How beautiful she is! She is like you," murmured the count so softly
that the words hardly reached the ears of his lover.

"She is more like you," she returned in the same subdued voice.

And by a simultaneous movement, they both turned and looked at each
other with a long intense look of love.

"I adore you, Amalia," he said.

"I love you, Luis," she replied.

Their hands met and pressed affectionately, and their heads were bent in
the interchange of a chaste kiss.




CHAPTER IV

THE HISTORY OF THEIR LOVE


Chaste, yes, and perhaps it was the first kiss that had been so in that
long love affair. All that was tender and poetic in their affection
seemed to rise like a perfume, and transport them with raptures of
delight. The remorse that had hitherto weighed so heavily on the
sensitive soul of the count was gone. The mad agitation that had
tormented them both, the ardour, violence and bitterness which, like the
hidden worm in the bud of a rose, had poisoned their wicked love
passages, had passed away. Nothing remained but pure love--love
satisfied, love consecrated by the holy mysterious force of nature's
mysteries.

If only they had met earlier! How often has this been said by people in
similar circumstances! And if they had met earlier, they would probably
have parted without the slightest feeling of attraction.

Love flourishes on difficulties and takes root on shifting sand, in fact
they seem to be the most propitious circumstances for its cultivation.

The report in Lancia was true about Amalia having been forced into a
marriage with Don Pedro by her family who were in great straits. Don
Antonio Sanchiz, the lady's father, was a Valencian gentleman of means,
but gambling and dissipation swallowed up three-fourths of his property.
His eldest son, who had the same tastes, spent the remaining fourth by
the same means. Amalia was the youngest of the family, which consisted
of four girls and one boy. Her eldest sister, who had come in for a
little of the decaying splendour of the house, managed to marry a rich
banker. Nobody approved of the connection, especially as neither Don
Antonio nor his son Antonito managed to see the colour of the money of
their respective son, and brother-in-law. The other two married men of
good family but without money. Amalia grew up in the midst of the total
ruin of her house. Neither her elegant figure nor her high birth brought
her admirers. The well-known misfortunes of the house, and her father
and brother's bad reputation, constituted an unsurmountable barrier
around her. Her feelings were often touched by those who only paid her
attention out of idleness, or love of flirtation. She was certainly not
a typical beauty: she was wanting in gracefulness of figure, plumpness
of form, and brightness of complexion. But in spite of her slight, and
not at all well formed figure, and the constant pallor of her cheeks,
there was something attractive about her, which grew upon one the more
you saw of her. Perhaps this charm lay in her large expressive dark
eyes, which reflected every emotion: now they shone with a fire that
breathed a deep and passionate nature, now they looked quiet, ecstatic
and limpid in a sort of mystic rapture, now they were merry and
mischievous, now they were dreamy and melancholy, now tender and
tearful, now sparkling with fun or shining with anger. Perhaps her charm
lay in her versatility, in the keenness of her intellect, in her
sympathetic and insinuating voice. She was, in short, an interesting,
charming woman. I do not know whether it was owing to her pride or her
naturally tempestuous mind, but scorning the young men of her own rank,
who courted her without resolving to ask for her hand, she lost her
heart to a modest young man, a poor government clerk with an income of
forty thousand reales,[I] son of a schoolmaster. The blue blood of the
Sanchiz in the veins of Antonio, Antonito, her sisters, and the banker,
her brother-in-law, in whom it was conspicuous by its absence, boiled in
indignation.

She was the victim of active, fierce persecution. But as she was not
wanting in spirit, and was moreover possessed of a mind fertile in
resources, she certainly managed to defy the family for some time; their
entreaties and threats were of no avail and her time of enforced retreat
in a convent was equally ineffectual. If the clerk had not happened to
die of phthisis, which killed him in a few months, it is almost certain
that the very noble and straitened house of the Sanchiz would have had
to see itself allied to the son of a schoolmaster.

After this adventure Amalia lost caste in the place. But she well knew
that if she had retained her prestige, it would have been the same. Men
do not marry for prestige, but for money. It never occurred to her to
feel remorse for the past. She lived sad and resigned for two years,
showing an utter indifference to the pleasures belonging to her
position, and without making any effort to gain the good graces of the
young men so as to get a husband. It was when she was about twenty-four
years old and she had given up all thought of matrimony, that Don Pedro
Quiñones, her third or fourth cousin, began to think about her. She
rebelled against marrying this gentleman, whom she had only seen two or
three times as a child, and who had been a widower for a short time, and
whose eccentricities she had heard her father and brother relate with
fits of laughter, and now they were the very ones to press her
acceptance of him as a husband! She was not very firm in her resistance.
She was so disillusioned, she lived in such a state of deep dejection
and apathy, that as soon as her father became angry about the matter and
pressed her to accede to his entreaties he extorted a consent. They all
said that the marriage would be the salvation of the family. She did not
trouble to find out if that were the truth or not. After she was
married, she found that all that they could get out of Don Pedro was a
little allowance, which gave them hardly enough for food.

So the noble descendant of the Quiñones of Leon was hopelessly in love
with a statue. On the journey that they made from Valencia to Lancia the
bride was so cold and circumspect, but at the same time polite, that Don
Pedro was kept at the same distance as at the beginning of his suit. In
Lancia we know what the public version of the story was. The persistent
coldness and the infinite contempt with which she treated him for some
time, far from repelling him, only increased his passion. Quiñones was,
as we know, of a strong, tenacious, indomitable will. The obstacles
which at first merely irritated him, finally enraged him. He wanted to
conquer the heart of his wife, and he spared no means in the attempt: he
overwhelmed her with attentions, he gratified her slightest wishes, and
lived for several months in perpetual anxiety, in a perfect fever of
alternate hope and despair. He would, however, never have attained his
end without the astuteness of his friend the canon, who advised him to
take a journey in the mountains, which, rife with frights and dangers,
drew them together in closer intimacy. During the first two years of her
marriage Amalia led a retired life, without ever hardly leaving the
gloomy old palace of the Calle de Santa Lucia. She lived alone in her
depression, and made her life more sad than it need have been, by
nursing a dumb rebellion against a fate that threatened to drive her
insane. To all outward appearance she was resigned, treating those that
were about her with studied courtesy. The dreadful illness which
happened to her husband distracted her a little, and a sentiment of pity
touched her heart. For some time she thought she was destined for the
vocation of a nursing sister, and she tried with assumed affection to
make his life more bearable to him. By degrees she grew to like the
little gatherings of friends round her husband, and she began to
interest herself and take part in the local political conversations.

Don Pedro was the arbiter of the province whilst the Moderate party was
in power. Now that it was out, he still retained great prestige and
influence, from people not knowing how long it would be before it was in
again. It was to augment this prestige and this influence, and to add to
the dignity of the house, that Amalia opened her drawing-rooms to the
Lancian society that she had hitherto kept at a distance, doing nothing
but pay a few complimentary visits. She now gave concerts, organised
sociable gatherings, and had large state balls, by means of which she
regained her lost energy, and the gracious and sympathetic versatility
which had characterised her; the light returned to her eyes and the
smile to her lips. Nobody could better do the honours of her
entertainments. She was a model of gentleness and courtesy, and she made
herself adored by the young people of the place to whom she afforded the
means of killing interminable winter evenings.

Fernanda Estrada-Rosa was one of the most beautiful ornaments of her
concerts and parties. The Count of Onis, her admirer, came in her train.
The count had long been on visiting terms at the house of Quiñones, but
until lately he only went occasionally in the evening for a formal
visit, or at the new year, &c. Notwithstanding, he had a profound
sympathy for Quiñones. It was enough for him to belong to the nobility,
for the young noble to consider him superior in all respects to
everybody else in the place. Amalia, who hardly knew him, began to
observe him with much curiosity. She had heard so much said about his
affection and respect for his mother, his melancholy temperament, his
habits and his exaggerated piety, that she wished to cultivate his
acquaintance, she wanted to gauge the depths of the soul of such a
superior and high-minded young man. She was not long in seeing that he
was not yet in love. Noting his attention to Fernanda with interest,
she perceived a coldness on his side which was certainly not on that of
the rich heiress. She knew that the count was deceiving himself, making
efforts to fall in love, or at any rate, to seem so. He seemed to look
upon love as an obligation pertaining to his age and position. The chief
young man in Lancia ought to love the richest, most beautiful girl of
Lancia. Besides, it seemed as if he also wanted to show the place that
he was neither eccentric nor a maniac, as he had heard that he was
reported to be. He therefore went in for being a recognised lover; he
spent a couple of hours in the morning in the Calle de Altavilla, where
his young lady lived, he sat at her side at the parties of the Señoritas
de Meré or de Quiñones, and he danced with her at the balls of the
Casino. But at the same time Amalia did not fail to see, with
considerable interest, that his conversation was cold, and that the
count was often silent and distrait until she took part in the
conversation and made it more lively.

The love affair interested her more and more, she courted the girl's
confidence as well as his. It was not long before her ardent, sagacious,
strong-willed soul sympathised with that of Luis, which was so timid,
childlike, pitiful, and affectionate. More proficient in the art of
love-making than the Estrada-Rosa girl, she soon won the count's
confidence and affection and she drew from him a number of confidences,
not only about his feelings, but the whole of his life. No clever Jesuit
could have made a better confessor. Luis, delighted at such a show of
interest, completely opened his heart to her, at first telling her his
habits, then relating things of his past life, and finally confiding
secret feelings which are only told to a brother. But Amalia expressed
no surprise at such original and morbid thoughts; she gave her opinion
on them, and told him affectionately that he might confide in her and
count upon her counsel in difficult matters of life, of which
complicated mechanism the count was totally ignorant. This clever game
advanced her scheme, and he confided in her more and more, happy in the
opportunity of unbosoming sentimental ideas, and confessing the strange
unhappy timidity to which he was a victim.

Amalia knew how to avoid arousing Fernanda's jealousy by posing as the
confidante and protectress of her love. If she had long and interesting
conversations with the count, she had equally long and interesting ones
with her. She would have great pleasure in giving them assistance in the
form of finding them opportunities of seeing and talking to each other,
and when they understood each other, &c. &c. But, without the innocent
girl suspecting it, without even the count realising it, the Valencian
lady rapidly gained the affections of Luis. If in youth, beauty, and
elegance, she was inferior to the rich heiress, she was much superior in
expressive grace of countenance, power of conversation, and fine
intelligence. The count soon came to telling her what was the true state
of his heart with regard to Fernanda. The astute Señora knew how to turn
such confidences to her own advantage by making him see that what he
felt was only admiration for the beautiful works of nature, a vain
desire to make himself beloved by the prettiest and richest girl in the
town, the necessity of distraction from depression--anything, in short,
but real love. That was shown in great sadness, ineffable joy, sleepless
nights, anxiety, and agitation, both sweet and bitter, by which the
breast is constantly consumed.

Luis was soon won over to her opinion. Then she added that his coldness
was unjustifiable; she did not understand how a man of such good taste
had not fallen hopelessly in love ere this. She joked him, she laughed
at him, and she praised the qualities of the gentle heiress up to the
clouds.

But whilst she said this with her lips, her eyes belied her words: the
black pupils, so full of fire and intelligence, were fixed on him with
an expression somewhat languid, somewhat malicious, which ended by
fascinating him. At the same time her small, delicate, aristocratic
hands took hold of his on every occasion; and on parting she pressed
them with nervous tenacity. If sometimes, in bending to look at
anything, their heads touched, Amalia did not move hers, and the count
was not loth to inhale the subtle perfume which entered his veins like
poison. She took a great interest in his clothes, and told him what she
liked: he was not to wear a frock-coat, the blue jacket suited him
admirably. Why did he like dark gloves?

"I forbid you," she said, laughing, "to wear them any more."

She professed a great taste for cravats, and she told him that those in
a bow suited him better than those in a knot.

"Why do you not get your hats from Madrid?" she asked. "Those that you
get in Lancia are so old-fashioned and ridiculous."

And the count was pleased to follow her suggestions, and gradually let
himself be ruled by the woman who was so weak in body and so strong in
will.

One night on arriving at the Quiñones' house before anybody else, the
lady said to him sharply:

"Who gave you that button-hole? Fernanda?"

The count smiled and coloured, as he gave a sign in the affirmative.

"Then you must excuse my saying it is a very ugly colour. Look here, I
will give you a prettier one."

So saying, she went straight to a flower-stand in the room, and took out
a magnificent pink clove. She then turned to where the count was
standing, and with great boldness, although with a certain affectation
of one who is showing her power, she took away the flower he was
wearing, and replaced it by the fresh one. He suffered this substitution
in silence, upset and surprised. She, feigning not to notice his
surprise, took a step back, and said with interest:

"Yes, I think that is better!"

Then ensued a few minutes of embarrassed silence. She then began to play
with Fernanda's clove, pulling the petals, whilst darting frequent
glances at the count, who stood confused, not knowing what to say, nor
where to look. At last their eyes met with a smile. There was a spark of
malice in hers, and in the sudden scornful gesture with which she threw
the flower she held in her hand under a chair.

The count instantly became serious, and his cheeks coloured. At that
moment Manuel Antonio came in.

The count could not regain his equanimity.

When Fernanda arrived, and, with visible displeasure, asked him for her
clove, he was in a very awkward position. The gardener's little boy was
said to have pulled it from him when he stooped to kiss him, and so he
had taken another from his mother's room. But Amalia, who was
implacable, made matters worse by saying in a loud voice with a
malicious smile:

"Who gave you that beautiful clove? Fernanda?"

"No, no," he hastily replied.

And then the count, quite red and upset, had to proceed to give in a
loud voice the explanation he had been giving in an undertone to
Fernanda. That little act of treason was a bond between them; it
established a peculiar relation which the count did not dare to define
in his thoughts, for he trembled as though an abyss yawned at his feet.
He continued paying attention to the heiress of Estrada-Rosa with the
same, if not more, assiduity, but he could never talk with the Señora of
Quiñones without feeling agitated; her glances were long and earnest,
the pressure of her hand was full of affection, and yet they both acted
before Fernanda as if she were already his affianced wife. And yet they
had not uttered a word of love! But Luis knew he was not treating the
lady he was courting fairly, and that he was acting criminally with
regard to Don Pedro, his friend. He did not know how, or why, but his
conscience told him that he was. Sometimes he tried to persuade himself
that he had not taken one step in the direction of crime, that he was
involved in a train of circumstances in which love, intelligence,
treason, all played a part without one's knowing how it had happened.

More than a month passed by in this way. Amalia not only discoursed to
him of love with her eyes, but she made him carry out all her most
capricious fancies whilst sometimes sharply calling him to task.

If, for example, he caught a glance from Amalia when he was going for a
walk telling him to stay, he would stay. If he was about to dance with
Fernanda, a severe look would prevent him doing so.

One day he announced his intention of going for six or eight days to his
property in Onis; but Amalia made a negative sign with her head, and he
gave up the idea. What right had she thus to cross his wishes and direct
his line of conduct? He did not know, but he felt very pleased to obey
her. He lived in a state of pleasant, exciting unrest, sometimes hoping
for something so ineffably delightful, that he hardly dared to formulate
it even to himself.

In the meanwhile she quietly watched him with her sphinx-like smile,
strong in the conviction that the something would happen when the time
was ripe.

One afternoon in June the count was at The Grange inspecting the
operations of some workmen he was employing in opening a wider aqueduct
for the mill, when the boy who minded the cattle, came to tell him that
a lady wanted him.

"A lady?" he exclaimed, surprised; "do you not know her?"

The servant stared stupidly without replying. How could he know her,
when he had passed his life among the cattle and only went to Lancia on
some market-day to buy or sell a cow? The count recollected this, and
proceeded to inquire:

"Is she short?"

"No, she is very tall, Señor."

"Eyes very black and bright, pale colour? her gait graceful and
elegant?"

And before the servant could answer these questions that he had not
understood, he began running in the direction of the house with his
heart beating with excitement at the presentiment that it was her.

"Where is she?" he cried, without ceasing running.

"In the courtyard by the garden door," shouted the boy in reply.

He arrived breathless at the courtyard, but before opening the door he
stopped for an instant to check his presumption. How could he have
thought of such a thing? What devil could have put it into his head?...
Notwithstanding he could not dismiss the idea. It was she, it was
she--he could not doubt the fact.

He raised the bolt of the large wooden door, painted green, and went in.
The courtyard was large. Several outhouses for working purposes were
built against the wall. Tied up to a roughly made wooden kennel was an
enormous mastiff, who pulled at his chain as if he would break it in his
attempts to get near his master.

There at the other end, near the iron gate communicating with the
garden, he actually saw her looking through the bars at the flowers. She
had her back to him. She was dressed in a light pink and white striped
dress, with a little straw hat trimmed with roses. In her left hand she
had a sunshade which matched her dress, and in her right she held some
silk gloves.

How these details became engraven in his memory! They were indelibly
fixed in his mind!

"You here?" he said, feigning a calmness he was very far from feeling.
"Who would have thought that you were the señora whose arrival the
servant just announced to me?"

"Did you really not think it was me?" she asked, looking at him
fixedly.

"No, no, Señora."

But he coloured even as he said it, and the lady smiled kindly.

"Very well; now show me the Malmaison roses you told me about."

The count opened the gate, and they both went through to the garden,
which was very large and somewhat neglected.

Since the countess had almost entirely given up coming to the Grange,
the servants hardly touched it. Luis was more interested in making
experiments with new modes of agriculture, breeding cattle, and draining
ground, than in gardening. But there were many kinds of flowers, put
there when his mother used to tend them every afternoon, and there were
great bushes which time, combined with the fertile soil, had transformed
into thick trees.

Whilst they passed along the walks, which were over-grown with moss, the
countess explained in high, clear tones how she came to be there.

She had wished to drive to Bellavista, but passing by the little road
that led to the Grange, she recollected the beautiful roses, and gave
orders to the coachman to go that way. She had never seen the place
before, she said; and she became quite enthusiastic over the thick
foliage and the intense green of the place. In her country the
vegetation was much paler.

"But more fragrant--like the women," said the count with gallantry.

The lady turned to give him a smile of thanks, and went on praising the
beauty of the rhododendrons, the azaleas, and the gigantic camellias.

As soon as they had seen the roses, and the count had made her choose
some to have sent to her the next day, they directed their steps towards
the entrance-gate.

"And are you sure that I only came to see the roses?" said Amalia,
suddenly stopping and fixing her eyes upon him.

The count's heart gave a bound, and he commenced to stammer in a
lamentable fashion.

"I do not know--this visit, certainly. I should be so pleased if the
rose-trees----"

But the lady, taking pity on him, did not let him proceed.

"Well, besides the rose-trees, I came to see the whole place,
particularly the wood. And so you can show it to me," she added
resolutely, taking him by the arm.

Whereupon the count was conscious of a new and violent emotion, at first
painful, and then pleasurable, as he felt the lady's hand upon his arm.
And moved to his inmost being at the honour conferred on him, he showed
everything of interest on the estate: the beautiful large meadows, the
stables, the new machinery for working the mill, and finally the wood.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes a smile of
amusement played about her lips. She entered into everything with
interest, praised the improvements he had made, and suggested fresh
ones. And, in going about, she sometimes let the count's arm drop, and
then took it again, which inspired the count with many diverse
sensations, all intense and exciting. When she noticed he was getting
more at his ease, she made some little sudden mischievous remark which
plunged him into fresh confusion and made him blush to the roots of his
hair.

"Now, count, when you caught sight of me just now, you said to yourself:
'Amalia has fallen in love with me and she cannot resist the desire to
come and see me.'"

"Amalia, _por Dios_! What can make you say that? How could I ever have
dared----?"

But the lady, without seeming to notice his distress or to lay any
importance on her own words, passed immediately to another subject. She
seemed to like shocking him, and keeping him agitated and trembling. And
in the furtive glances she cast at him there was the touch of
superiority and irony of one, who was sure of the game.

The count turned grave under that enigmatical smile. He saw he was
playing an awkward part, and, feeling that she was laughing at him, he
made heroic efforts to recover his equanimity.

The lady admired, and was more enthusiastic about the wood than
anything. It was a mass of ancient oaks, where the sun never penetrated.
The ground was carpeted with thick turf and quite free from caltrops. No
other private property was so richly wooded; it was, perhaps, due to the
primitive forest where the monastery had been founded which was the
origin of Lancia.

The lady found it pleasant to rest a little under the green bower where
the light hardly penetrated. A peace, a pleasant calmness sweeter than
the silence and calm of a Gothic cathedral, pervaded the place. She
leant her back against a tree and gave a long look at the thick foliage
around her.

The count stood near. Both were silent for some time. At last the man
felt, without seeing it, that the lady's gaze was fixed upon him. He
resisted the magnetic attraction of the look for some minutes. When at
last he raised his eyes, he saw that her expression was so merry and
daring that he dropped them again. Amalia gave vent to a mischievous
laugh, which surprised, confused, and somewhat irritated him; and then
seeing that her merriment did not cease, he said with a forced smile:

"At what are you laughing, my friend?"

"Nothing, nothing," she returned, putting her handkerchief to her mouth.
"Take me to see the house."

And then she took his arm again. The house was a large, very old
building of yellowish stone, worm-eaten by age, with two little square
towers at the sides. Everything about it was shabby or worn out. Some
bars were wanting in the stair-rails as well as in the balconies; the
ceilings of the rooms were discoloured, the partition walls cracked,
the plaster in holes; the looking-glasses, so much thought of in bygone
days, were so covered with dust that they reflected nothing; the walls
were damp and dirty, and the pictures hung thereon were so discoloured
that one could not see what the artists had intended to depict; the
scanty furniture of the rooms was worn out by the use of past
generations. The things were all quite done for. Amalia liked the look
of past grandeur. How many different beings had lived in that house! How
they must have laughed and wept in these large rooms. Each one had its
particular name: one was called the cardinal's room, because in times
past a cardinal of the family occupied it when on a visit to the Grange;
another the portrait-room, because a few pictures hung on the walls; and
another the new room, although it looked as old and even older than the
rest of the apartments. Everything bore traces of the private life of a
family of bygone ages.

"This is the countess's chamber," said Luis, as he took his friend into
a moderate-sized room, which, in spite of the dust and ravages of time,
looked better furnished than the others. It was an elegant style of
apartment, bearing evidence that past generations had not been destitute
of a love of decoration. There was a Pompadour escritoire, some chairs
of the Regency, several pictures in pastel; and painted on the ceiling
were cherubs floating in an atmosphere which had once been blue.

"Is this your mother's room?" asked Amalia.

"No," replied the count, smiling; "my mother sleeps on the other side.
It has been called the countess's from time immemorial. Perhaps some old
ancestor of mine chose it for herself. I often take my siesta here when
the fatigue of going about the estate makes me want to have a sleep."

In one of the corners of the apartment there was a splendid bedstead of
carved oak, grown black with age, one of those beds of the fifteenth
century that antiquaries go perfectly mad on. The hangings were also
very ancient, but there was a modern damask counterpane spread over the
mattress.

"So it is here that you retire to think of me to your heart's content,
is it not?" said Amalia.

The count looked as stunned as if she had given him a blow on the head.

"I! Amalia! How?"

Then with a sudden assumption of courage he exclaimed:

"Yes, yes, Amalia, you are quite right! I think of you here as, for some
time past, I think of you everywhere I go. I do not know what has come
to me: I live in a constant state of excitement, which, as you told me,
is a sign of true love. I am in fact madly in love with you. I know that
it is an atrocity, a crime, but I cannot help myself. Forgive me."

And, like one of his noble ancestors of the Middle Ages, the gentleman
fell on his knees at the feet of the lady.

She was terribly angry at first. What? Was he not ashamed of such a
confession? Did he not understand that it was an insult to address such
words to her in his house? How could he suppose that she could quietly
listen to such words? It seemed impossible that the Conde of Onis, such
a perfect gentleman, could be so wanting in the respect due to a lady
and to himself.

The count remained prostrate on his knees under such a storm of
invectives. He knew his words had been of grave import, but the anger
that they provoked in the lady was not what he had most feared.

At last Amalia was silent. She regarded him for some seconds with eyes
blazing with fury, but a happy smile soon suffused her expressive face.
She approached him with a slow, majestic step, put her hand upon his
shoulder, and bending down to bring her lips to his ear, she said in a
loud voice:

"You are quite right not to be ashamed of anything of this, for I love
you at least as much as you love me."

Then the young man seemed to go mad with joy. The terror was over, and
he clasped and kissed her knees in a frenzy of delight, breaking into a
torrent of incoherent, passionate words, full of fire and truth; whilst
she, so short and diminutive, gazed at the adoring Colossus with her
mysterious Valencian eyes glowing with passion and love.

It was thus that the Conde of Onis accomplished the difficult task of
winning the affections of the elegant Señora of Don Pedro Quiñones de
Leon.

The first months of their connection, fraught with poignant remorse and
fascinating delight, were very agitating to the count. Amalia went
occasionally to the Grange. At the social gathering in the evening she
would give an account of her visit in a high-pitched voice; and he was
in an agony of confusion, anxiety, and distress, whilst she with perfect
_sang froid_ told all that she could tell; spoke of the garden, scolded
him for its state of neglect; and she amused herself with bringing home
some plants every time she went there, so as to clear the ground, as he
did not care for them; in short, her audacity became almost farcical.

"Would you believe it?" she said one day; "there is no bearing with this
gentleman since ladies have taken to visiting him. You cannot think what
airs he gives himself. I am afraid that the next time I go to the Grange
he will make me wait in the hall."

The guests laughed, and said really some notice ought to be taken about
it; and as Fernanda smiled she cast an affectionate glance at the count;
Don Pedro even relaxed his severe expression and burst into a roar of
laughter. At such moments it was indeed a superhuman effort for the
count to keep his countenance, when an abyss seemed to open at his feet.
When alone with Amalia he reproached her for her audacity, and implored
her by all that she held sacred to be more cautious; whilst she,
perfectly unmoved, seemed to take a pleasure in his anxiety, and her
lips curled in a disdainful enigmatical smile.

As they could not often meet at the Grange, Amalia managed other
interviews, by admitting Jacoba into her confidence. In this person's
house they met two or three times a week. The count entered by a little
door opening on to a certain little street at one o'clock in the day,
when people were dining. He had to wait at least two or three hours, and
Amalia at last managed to get there under the pretext of having some
commission for her _protégée_. But not being satisfied with this
arrangement, she conceived the idea of his entering her house by the pew
of the church of San Rafael. The count was horrified at such a
manoeuvre; all his religious scruples revolted at the idea; he was
terrified at the possibility of the discovery of the intrigue and the
profanation of the sanctuary. What a scandal it would be! But Amalia
laughed at his fears as if the terrible consequences of retribution did
not concern her. She was a woman who had absolute confidence in her
star. As first-rate toreadors consider themselves quite safe under the
very horns of the bull, as long as they keep their presence of mind, so
she set danger at defiance, and even went out of her way to court it
with a coolness that was foolhardy.

And it must be confessed that her supreme calmness and incredible
audacity saved her more than once. The Conde de Onis, the colossal man
with a long beard, was a mere puppet in the hands of the bold,
unprincipled little woman.

A mad passion had taken possession of them both, especially of her. By
degrees she became so accustomed to not living without him, that a day
was not bearable without seeing him alone, and to this end she brought
incredible efforts of ingenuity and skill into play. If the combination
of circumstances was such as to render it impossible for three or four
days to have a _tête-à-tête_, her temper revolted against the restraint
like an impatient prisoner, and she was ready to commit the greatest
imprudence: she squeezed his hand and gave him little pinches in the
presence of guests; she embraced him behind the doors, when under some
pretext or another she escorted him into another room; and more than
once she kissed him on the lips in the very presence of the Grandee,
when he happened to turn his head, whilst Luis trembled and turned pale
as a catastrophe seemed imminent.

By the expiration of some months his engagement with Fernanda gradually
cooled, and it ended by being broken off altogether. This was all a
preconcerted plan of Amalia's, arranged from the beginning with
consummate art: she began by telling him how long he might be with his
_fiancée_, notified the number of times he could ask her to dance, and
finally it was she who suggested what he was to say to her. And as she
had foreseen, the heiress of Estrada-Rosa, being proud, could not brook
her lover's coldness, and so gave him back his liberty and his word.

The poor girl confided her trouble to Amalia, who was the only person
who knew the cause of the much-talked-of broken engagement. She
expressed great indignation at the count's behaviour, and spoke in
strong terms of disapprobation of his conduct. In fact, she took the
young girl's part and launched into praises on her behalf and spoke most
flatteringly of her eyes, figure, discretion, and amiability; and she
even went so far as to take ostensible measures for their
reconciliation. In the bosom of confidence, particularly among the
friends of Don Juan Estrada-Rosa, she was not contented with saying that
Fernanda was superior to her ex-lover in every feeling, but she
proclaimed Luis as an arrant impostor, hypocrite, &c. And when she saw
him the next day in Jacoba's house, she embraced him, choking with
laughter, saying:

"What a character I gave you yesterday before the various friends of
Don Juan! You don't know! pincers would not get the words out of my
mouth again!"

What with all this, and the remorse continually preying on him, the
count was in a perpetual state of agitation. How far he was from being
happy! But it was a way strewn with flowers, compared to what was
coming. Five months after entering into this _liaison_, Amalia informed
him that she believed she was _enceinte_. She told him this with a smile
on her lips, as if she were mentioning that she had drawn a good ticket
in the lottery. Luis felt giddy with terror, turned pale, and looked as
if he were about to fall.

"_Dios mio_! what a misfortune!" he exclaimed, covering his face with
his hands.

"Misfortune?" she returned in surprise. "Why? I am very happy."

Then seeing his eyes dilate in stupefaction, she laughingly explained
that she was glad to have a pledge of their love, and that she had no
fear because she would have everything so arranged that nothing would be
discovered. And in truth she laced herself so tightly that nobody would
have thought another creature's life was bound up in hers. The anxiety
and distress of the count during this time of expectancy was awful! If
any one looked at her attentively he trembled, and if, in the course of
conversation, any guest made a casual allusion to some act of
dissimulation, he turned pale as he thought they were speaking of him.
He imagined smiles and meaning glances in every face, and the most
innocent remarks were fraught in his mind with the deepest and most
compromising insinuations.

In the meanwhile, Amalia ate and slept with composure, and her constant
cheerfulness astonished the count, whilst it excited his admiration.
Time went by, the seven months passed, and then the eighth. And hide as
he would the fact from himself, there was no denying that the figure of
his beloved was no longer slight; but when he made the remark to her in
a great state of anxiety, she burst out laughing:

"Be silent, you foolish creature! You notice it because you know about
it. Who is going to suspect anything because I am a little stouter?
Sometimes one likes a loose corsage."

When the critical time arrived, she evinced a courage bordering on
heroism. Luis wanted her to have a doctor.

"But why?" she said; "Jacoba's services will be quite sufficient, and it
would be dangerous to trust the secret to anybody else."

The first symptoms came on in the early morning, so she kept her bed;
but it was not until eight o'clock that she sent for Jacoba, who had
been sleeping for some days in the house on pretence of making curtains.
Then they were both locked in the room where everything in the way of
linen was prepared; and without a groan, without an unnecessary
movement, this brave woman went through the ordeal. The little creature
was subsequently taken away by Jacoba in a bundle of linen after the
servants had been sent out on various pretexts.

The count wept with joy and admiration at the happy solution of the
difficulty. But when Jacoba told him that he was to take the child to
the Quiñones' door, he was quite overwhelmed. However, although his
lover's plan quite took him aback, he did what he was told, and the
crowning audacity of the lady turned out as she had foreseen. So now
that the child was safe for ever, their love not only seemed
strengthened and purified, but they felt the delightful flush of victory
over unheard-of dangers before finally arriving in the port of safety.

With their heads bent over the child, and sometimes touching its
forehead with their lips, they sat with their hands clasped in one
another's, and talked, or rather wove dreams in their efforts to gain a
glimpse into the unfathomable abysses of the future.

"What was to be the fate of the lovely little creature? How was she to
be educated?" Amalia said she would undertake to have it treated like
her own daughter, she would have her brought up as a perfect little
lady, and she was sure Don Pedro would not oppose her in the matter. And
as he would have no sons, what was more likely than that he would take a
fancy to it and leave her a lot of money at his death.

But the count repudiated this idea with scorn. The child should have
nothing from Don Pedro. He would leave her all his own money.

"But perhaps you will marry and have children," returned the lady,
glancing at him with a mischievous smile. Then his fingers were laid on
her lips in protest.

"Silence! silence! You know I can't bear anything of that; I am for ever
united to thee."

Whereupon she kissed him with effusion.

"That's a compact, is it not so?"

"It is a compact," he replied, in a tone of decision.

"But do not trouble about leaving her your property in a will, because
it would give rise to the suspicion that she is your daughter."

This difficulty absorbed them both for some minutes. Both were busy
devising some means of eluding it. The count wanted to leave it to some
confidential person in trust; but this idea also bristled with
drawbacks, and they thought it would be better for the money to
accumulate in his name in some bank until she came of age, and then a
father could be invented who had fallen from the skies.

At last Amalia concluded by saying: "We shall talk for ever of this.
Leave it to me."

And he was only too pleased to leave it to her, as he had unbounded
confidence in her inexhaustible imagination, power of will, and
limitless audacity.

When tired of talking of the future, they turned their attention to the
present. The child had to be baptised, and the ceremony was fixed for
the following day.

"Yes, and we have settled that I am to be the godmother, and you the
godfather."

"What! I?" he exclaimed in astonishment. "But, my dear woman, do you not
understand that it will give rise to suspicions?"

But the lady was obstinate. She had set her heart on his being
godfather. If it gave rise to suspicions, well and good. She would do it
without the least fear.

Then, seeing that he was really distressed at the idea, she changed her
mind.

"Do not vex yourself, man, do not vex yourself," she said, giving a
little pull at his beard. "It was only a joke. It would be fun to see
you hold it at the font. I believe you would call out: 'Señores, here!
come every one of you and see the father of this child.'"

It was finally settled that the godfather was to be Quiñones, with Don
Enrique Valero as his proxy, and she was to be the godmother, with Maria
Josefa as her representative; and the count was quite satisfied with the
arrangement. All that was cleverly and prudently arranged in a way to
secure the welfare of his child. But just when he was feeling more
comfortable, a noise in the passage made him jump from his armchair, and
turn perfectly livid.

"What is the matter, man?"

"That noise?"

"It is Jacoba."

But seeing he was still uneasy, and his eyes looked scared, she got up,
and holding the child in her arms she opened the door and exchanged a
few words with Jacoba, who was in fact still there. After giving her the
baby and locking the door, she came back and sat down again.

"How could you be such a coward, eh?"

"It is not cowardice," he returned, blushing. "It is being so
constantly upset. I don't know what has come to me. Perhaps it is
conscience."

"Bah! it is because you are a coward. What is the good of having such a
powerful body if you have no spirit in it?"

Then, noticing the expression of pain and distress that overshadowed his
face, she turned and embraced him with enthusiasm.

"No, you are not a coward, but you are innocent, eh? And it is that that
I love you for. I love you more than my life, and you love your little
girl, don't you? I am all yours. You are my only love. I am not really
married."

Then she caressed him in a kitten-like way, passing her delicate white
hands over his face, and kissing him several times; then she put her
arms round his neck, and gave him little mouse-like bites. And at the
same time, she, who was generally so grave and quiet, let flow a
perfect stream of affectionate words which calmed and charmed him to
a wonderful degree. The fire which shone in her mysterious, large,
treacherous-looking eyes, now broke forth in veritable flames. Passion
had taken possession of her being, but it was also fraught with the
malicious pleasure of a satisfied caprice, vengeance and treachery.

The Conde de Onis felt himself more in her power with every day that
dawned. The caresses of his lover were tender, but her eyes, even in the
moments of greatest abandon, retained a cruel cat-like look; and his
love was strangely mingled with fear. Some times his superstitious mind
would make him wonder if this Valencian woman were an incarnate devil of
temptation.

After saying three or four times that he must go without being able to
break away from her, he at last got free from her arms, and rose from
the armchair. The farewell was long as usual, for Amalia would not leave
him until she saw he was quite intoxicated with the power of her
caresses.

Jacoba was expecting him outside the door. After taking him along
several corridors, they came to the place of the secret staircase
leading into the library. Here she signed to him to wait whilst she
reconnoitered to see that nobody was about the passages. Then she came
back again to tell him all was right, and the count went down with as
little noise as possible.

The intermediary left him at the passage after opening the door. Then he
bent down with his hands on the ground to prevent any one seeing him
from the street, and so crossed the passage to the pew. He opened the
door and entered. The darkness blinded him. He made a few steps forward,
when he felt a sudden blow on his shoulder, and a rough voice said in
his ear, "Die, wretch!"

The blood froze in his veins, but he gave a spring forward and saw a
dark heap blacker than the darkness. Quick as a dart it threw itself on
him, and he would soon have done for it with his enormous strength if he
had not heard a stifled laugh, and the voice of Amalia said:

"Take care, Luis, or you will hurt me!"

He was dumb with astonishment for some minutes.

"But how did you get here?" he said at last.

"By the front staircase. I popped on this black cap and ran down."

Then, seeing that he looked cross and disgusted at a joke in such bad
taste, she stood on tiptoe, put her arms round his neck, and after
pressing a long and passionate kiss upon his lips, she said, in a
coaxing tone:

"Now I know that you are not a coward, but I wanted to prove it."




CHAPTER V

THE JOKES OF PACO GOMEZ


In spite of all the efforts of Paco Gomez, Garnet could not be made to
believe that he was acting in good faith. His jocose nature and the
practical jokes he had been known to perpetrate had made an unfavourable
impression on the Indian. It was in vain that he put on a grave and
circumspect manner and held long conversations on the rise and fall of
stocks, besides praising his house above all modern buildings, and
giving him valuable hints in the game of _chapo_, the dandy of Lancia
saw that there was no dissipating the look of distrust in the old bear's
bloodshot eyes. In this dilemma he appealed to Manuel Antonio for help,
for he had such a delightful joke in his head that any assistance seemed
better than giving it up.

"Don't be so foolish, Santos," said the Chatterbox to him one evening,
as he was walking through the Bombé with Garnet. "You see that as you
have passed the half of your life behind a counter you don't understand
these Lancians. I won't say Fernanda is deeply in love with you, but she
is going the way to be so. I tell you, and I say the same everywhere,
for I have remarked it for some time. Women are capricious and
incomprehensible; they reject a thing one day, and want it the next,
when they are then disposed to stretch a point to get it. Fernanda began
by snubbing you----"

"In every possible way, in every possible way," returned the Indian
sullenly.

"Pure fancy, my man; she is a very proud girl who will never make
herself cheap. But proud as she may be, she will marry either the Conde
de Onis or you, the only two matches there are in Lancia for her: the
count with his nobility and you with your money. But Luis is a strange
sort of man; I think he is quite incapable of marrying, and I am sure
she thinks so too. You are the only one left, and you will be the one to
get the prize. Besides, whatever women may say, they admire great strong
fellows like you; why you are a perfect oak, my man," he added with a
look of admiration.

Garnet gave vent to a grunt of assent, and the Chatterbox passed his
hands over his body, as if he were a learned connoisseur 

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