On the morning of the morrow André Stévenol had a radiant awakening.
The light flooded his room, which had four windows. There also came to
him the murmurs of the town. There were the feet of horses passing,
street cries, mules’ bells, and the bells of convents.
He could not recall having known a morning as happy as this present
one was; no, not for a long time. He flung out his arms and stretched
them; then held them tightly folded around his breast as though to
give himself the illusion or the anticipation of that eagerly awaited
embrace.
“How easy, how simple the affairs of life are, after all!” So he mused,
smiling. “Yesterday, at this hour I was alone, without an object to
fill my mind, almost without a thought. It was merely necessary to
take a walk and, behold! a change of scene, a love-affair in view. What
is the use of taking any notice of refusals, of disdain, or any such
things. We desire and demand, and the women give themselves. Why should
it ever be otherwise?”
He rose, and in dressing-gown and slippers rang for his bath to be
prepared. Whilst waiting with his forehead pressed to the window-panes
he stared into the thoroughfare before him, now full of the stir
of day. The houses in sight were painted in light colours that
Seville favours as a rule: colours like the gay tints of women’s
dresses--cream, rose, green, orange, violet, but not the fearful
brown of Cadiz or Madrid, or the crude white of Jérez. There were
orange-trees in sight, bearing fruit; running fountains and laughing
girls, holding their shawls close. From all sides come the sound of
the mules’ bells. André could not then imagine any other place in which
to live but--Seville.
He finished dressing, and slowly sipped a little cup of the thick
Spanish chocolate, then, easy in mind, almost aimlessly he went out
into the busy street.
By chance he went the shortest way, to the Plaza del Triunfo. Then he
remembered that he was not to haunt the residence of his “mistress,”
as he called her to himself, so he went to Las Delicias. The place was
strewn with paper and the usual signs of the Carnival. It was also
deserted, for Lent had recommenced. Nevertheless, by a way that led
from the city’s outskirts, André saw coming towards him one whom he
recognized.
“Good-day, Don Mateo,” he said, holding out his hand. “I had not
thought of seeing you so soon.”
“Well, here I am, alone, idle and at a loose end. I stroll about in the
morning and evening, and fill up most of the day reading or playing in
some way. It’s a dull sort of existence.”
“But you have nights that console the monotony of the days, if one may
credit the chatter of the city busybody?”
“Whoever says so says wrongly. From now to the day of his death Don
Mateo Diaz has no woman about him. But do not let us talk about me. For
how long are you still going to remain here?”
Don Mateo was a Spaniard, forty years old, to whom André had been
introduced during his first stay in Spain. He was a man of florid
phrase and declamatory gesture, very rich, and famed for his love
affairs. So André was surprised to hear that he had renounced the
pomps and vanities of the flesh, but did not attempt to weary him with
questions.
They walked by the river for a time, and all their talk was of Spain,
its people, its policy, and history.
Then, “You will come and break your fast or lunch,” said Don Mateo.
“My place is there, near the route D’Empalme. We shall be there in
a half-hour, and, if you will permit me, I will keep you till the
evening. I have some fine horses I should like to show off before you.”
“I agree to take lunch with you,” said André, “but I cannot stay. This
evening I have a rendezvous that I must not fail to keep; that is a
fact.”
“A lady ... I ask no questions. But stay as long as you can. When I was
your age I did not want to be bothered with the outer world during my
’days of mystery.’ The only person I loved to speak to on such days was
the woman of the moment.”
Don Mateo was silent for a while, then said in a tone of advice--
“Ah, guard yourself against the women! I should be the last man to say
fly from them, for I have spent my life upon them until now. And if
I had my life to live again, the hours passed with women are those I
would most desire to revive. But guard yourself; guard yourself!”
Then, as though he had found a phrase that fitted exactly to his
thoughts, Don Mateo added more slowly--
“There are two kinds of women that one should avoid, at all cost: those
who do not love you, and those who do. Between these two extremes
there are thousands of women of great charm, but we do not know how to
appreciate them.”
The lunch would have been very slow indeed if the animation of Don
Mateo had not replaced by a monologue the interchange of thought for
thought that should have taken place. André was mentally preoccupied,
and only appeared to hear the half of what his host said to him. As the
hour of his assignation drew nearer, the throbbing of his heart, as on
the Carnival day, came back to him, but intensified. It was a kind of
persistent appeal within him, and all thoughts save the thought of the
longed-for woman were driven out of him. He would have given much for
the hands of the dial near him to have pointed to the next hour, but
the face of the clock was cold to his emotion, and time would no more
flow than the water of a stagnant pond.
At last, almost incapable of holding his tongue any longer, he
surprised his host by saying--
“Don Mateo, you have always given me the best advice. May I confide a
secret to you and appeal to your advice again?”
“I am entirely yours,” replied the Spaniard, rising and making for the
smoking-room.
“I would not ask any one but you,” said André hesitatingly. “Do you
know a lady of Seville named Donna Concepcion Garcia?”
Mateo leaped up, then rapidly uttered--
“Concepcion Garcia! Concepcion Garcia! But which one? Explain. There
are twenty thousand Concepcion Garcias, in Spain to-day. It is a name
as common as Jeanne Duval or Marie Lambert in France. For Heaven’s sake
tell me what is her other name. Is it Perez, Concha Perez?”
“Yes,” said André, completely astonished.
Then Don Mateo continued in precise tones--
“Concepcion Perez de Garcia: twenty-two, Plaza del Triunfo, eighteen
years old, hair almost black, and a mouth, Heavens what a divine mouth!”
“Yes,” again answered André.
“Ah! You have done well to mention her name. If I can stop you at the
gate in this affair, it will be a good action on my part, and a piece
of good luck for you!”
“Is she a girl who would go to the arms of any one?”
“No. She has had but few lovers. For these times, she is chaste and
very intelligent, with wit and a knowledge of life. She dances with
eloquence, speaks as well as she dances, and sings equally well. Have I
said enough?”
André could hardly get a word out before Don Mateo resumed--
“And she is the worst of women. I hope that God will never pardon her!”
André rose as if to go.
“Nevertheless, Don Mateo, I--who am not yet able to speak of this
woman as you are--I, at present, am still less able to fail to keep an
assignation she has made with me. I have made you a confession, and I
regret to break yours by a premature departure.” He held out his hand.
Mateo placed himself before the door.
“Hear me, I beg of you. I speak to you, man to man, and I say Stop!
return as you came. Forget who you have seen, who has spoken to you
and written to you. If you would know peace, calm nights and a life
lacking in black care, _do not approach Concha Perez_! Do not approach
this woman. Let me save you. Have mercy upon yourself, in fact.”
“Don Mateo. Do you then love her?...”
The Spaniard stroked his forehead, and answered--
“Oh no! I do not now love or hate. It is all over and done with, all
trace effaced.”
Mateo gazed at André, then, quite changing to a tone of banter, said--
“Besides, one should never go to the first rendezvous a woman gives
one.”
“Why not?”
“Because she never comes there.”
A memory of an affair made André smile, and admit it was often true.
“Very often. And if by chance she comes, be sure _your_ absence will
deepen her liking for you.”
A short silence came. They had reseated themselves, and Mateo said--
“Now listen, please.”