Her carriage had turned the corner of the street. André went in
pursuit, anxious not to lose a second chance that might be the last. He
arrived as the horses went through the gates of a house in the Plaza
del Triunfo. The great black gates closed upon the rapidly caught
silhouette of a woman.
Without doubt it would have been wiser if he had prepared to learn the
name and family, or mode of life of the stranger, before bursting into
all the divine unknown of any such intrigue, in which, knowing nothing,
he could not be master of anything. André nevertheless resolved not
to quit the place without a first effort to find out something. He
deliberately rang the gate bell.
A young custodian came, but did not open the gates.
“What does Your Grace demand?”
“Take my card to the Señora.”
“To what Señora?”
“To the one who lives here, I presume.”
“But her name?”
“I say that your mistress awaits me.”
The man bowed and made a deprecatory sign with his hands, then retired
without opening the gates or taking the card.
Then André rang a second and third time. Anger had made him
discourteous.
“A woman so prompt to reply to a declaration of this type,” he thought,
“cannot be surprised that one insists upon trying to see her.” It did
not occur to him that the Carnival and the bacchanal forgives passing
follies, that are not usually permitted in normal social life.
What was to be done? He paced to and fro, but there was no sight of her
and no sign. Near the house was a stall-keeper whom André bribed and
questioned. But the man replied--
“The Señora purchases of me, but if she knew I talked of her to any one
she would buy of my rivals. I can only tell you her name: she is the
Señora Dona Concepcion Perez, wife of Don Manuel Garcia. Her husband is
in Bolivia.”
André heard no more, but returned to his hotel and remained there
undecided. Even upon learning of the absence of the Señora’s husband,
he had not also learnt that all the chances were upon his side. The
reserve of the dealer, who seemed to know more than he would care to
say, rather left one with the idea that there was another and luckier
lover already chosen and enthroned. The attitude of the servant at the
gates increased this awkward afterthought.
André had to return to Paris in two weeks’ time. Would those weeks
suffice for planning and effecting an entry into the life of a
beautiful young dame, whose life was without much doubt planned,
rounded, complete?
While thus troubled with his incertitudes a letter was handed to him.
It had no address on the envelope. He said, “Are you sure that this
letter is for me?”
“It has just been given to me for Don Andrés Stévenol.”
The letter was written upon a blue card, and was as follows--
“Don Andrés Stévenol is begged to not make so much noise, to not give
his name or demand to know mine. If he is out walking to-morrow about
three on the Empalme route a carriage will be passing. It may stop.”
André thought how easy life was, and already had visions of approaching
intimacy. He even sought for and murmured the most tender little forms
of her charming Christian name Concepcion, Concha, Conchita, Chita.