Autumn and winter passed. Memory was pitiless to me, and I felt
shattered. The months were empty. Oh, how I loved her, God of Heaven! I
thought sometimes that she was trying me, testing me, to be sure of me.
So be it. We met again. I was returning from the theatre, and in the
Calle Trajano I heard her voice call my name. She was at a window about
shoulder high from the ground, in night attire and shawled.
I gazed at her as one entranced. She held her hand to me, and I covered
hand and arm with kisses. I was half insane with love. I craved for her
lips only to get for answer, “Later.”
I pressed her with questions. They had been to Madrid then to
Carabanchel. By economy with my money they had now rented her present
place. There was enough money left to live honestly for a month.
“And after that do you seriously think I shall feel embarrassed?”
Then she paused.
“You do not understand me. I can still work at the factory, sell
bananas, make bouquets, dance the Sevillana, can I not, Don Mateo?”
Then with a sigh she leant forward, and said--
“Mateo, I will be your mistress the day after to-morrow.”
“Are you sincere?”
“I have said it. Leave me, Mateo. Be not impatient or jealous.” Then
she left me.