fortune, which fifteen years before had caused a certain commotion in
Paris, having been ostentatiously cast to the four winds, was exhausted.
The count was now living on the remains of his opulence, like those
shipwrecked seamen who live upon the débris of the vessel, postponing in
anguish the arrival of the last hour. The very servants who danced
attendance upon him like slaves in dress suits, knew of his misfortune
and discussed his shameful plight; but not even the slightest suggestion
of insolence disturbed the colorless glance of their eyes, petrified by
servitude. He was such a nobleman! He had scattered his money with such
majesty!... Besides, he was a genuine member of the nobility, a nobility
that dated back for centuries and whose musty odor inspired a certain
ceremonious gravity in many of the citizens whose fore-bears had helped
bring about the Revolution. He was not one of those Polish counts who
permit themselves to be entertained by women, nor an Italian marquis who
winds up by cheating at cards, nor a Russian personage of consequence
who often draws his pay from the police; he was genuine _hidalgo_, a
grandee of Spain. Perhaps one of his ancestors figured in the _Cid_, in
_Ruy Blas_ or some other of the heroic pieces in the repertory of the
Comédie Française.
The count entered the salons of the club with head erect and a proud
gait, greeting his friends with a barely discernible smile, a mixture of
hauteur and light-heartedness.
He was approaching his fortieth year, but he was still the _beau_
Sagreda, as he had long been nicknamed by the noctambulous women of
Maxim's and the early-rising Amazons of the Bois. A few gray hairs at
his temples and a triangle of faint wrinkles at the corner of his brows,
betrayed the effects of an existence that had been lived at too rapid a
pace, with the vital machinery running at full speed. But his eyes were
still youthful, intense and melancholy; eyes that caused him to be
called "the Moor" by his men and women friends. The Viscount de la
Tresminière, crowned by the Academy as the author of a study on one of
his ancestors who had been a companion of Condé, and highly appreciated
by the antique dealers on the left bank of the Seine, who sold him all
the bad canvases they had in store, called him _Velazquez_, satisfied
that the swarthy, somewhat olive complexion of the count, his black,
heavy mustache and his grave eyes, gave him the right to display his
thorough acquaintance with Spanish art.
All the members of the club spoke of Sagreda's ruin with discreet
compassion. The poor count! Not to fall heir to some new legacy. Not to
meet some American millionairess who would be smitten with him and his
titles!... They must do something to save him.
And he walked amid this mute and smiling pity without being at all aware
of it, encased in his pride, receiving as admiration that which was
really compassionate sympathy, forced to have recourse to painful
simulations in order to surround himself with as much luxury as before,
thinking that he was deceiving others and deceiving only himself.
Sagreda cherished no illusions as to the future. All the relatives that
might come to his rescue with a timely legacy had done so many years
before, upon making their exit from the world's stage. None that might
recall his name was left beyond the mountains. In Spain he had only some
distant relatives, personages of the nobility united to him more by
historic bonds than by ties of blood. They addressed him familiarly, but
he could expect from them no help other than good advice and admonitions
against his wild extravagance.... It was all over. Fifteen years of
dazzling display had consumed the supply of wealth with which Sagreda
one day arrived in Paris. The granges of Andalusia, with their droves of
cattle and horses, had changed hands without ever having made the
acquaintance of this owner, devoted to luxury and always absent. After
them, the vast wheat fields of Castilla and the ricefields of Valencia,
and the villages of the northern provinces, had gone into strange
hands,--all the princely possessions of the ancient counts of Sagreda,
plus the inheritances from various pious spinster aunts, and the
considerable legacies of other relatives who had died of old age in
their ancient country houses.
Paris and the elegant summer seasons had in a few years devoured this
fortune of centuries. The recollection of a few noisy love affairs with
two actresses in vogue; the nostalgic smile of a dozen costly women of
the world; the forgotten fame of several duels; a certain prestige as a
rash, calm gambler, and a reputation as a knightly swordsman,
intransigent in matters of honor, were all that remained to the _beau_
Sagreda after his downfall.
He lived upon his past, contracting new debts with certain providers
who, recalling other financial crises, trusted to a re-establishment of
his fortune. "His fate was settled," according to the count's own words.
When he could do no more, he would resort to a final course. Kill
himself?... never. Men like him committed suicide only because of
gambling debts or debts of honor. Ancestors of his, noble and glorious,
had owed huge sums to persons who were not their equals, without for a
moment considering suicide on this account. When the creditors should
shut their doors to him, and the money-lenders should threaten him with
a public court scandal, Count de Sagreda, making a heroic effort, would
wrench himself away from the sweet Parisian life. His ancestors had been
soldiers and colonizers. He would join the foreign legion of Algeria, or
would take passage for that America which had been conquered by his
forefathers, becoming a mounted shepherd in the solitudes of Southern
Chile or upon the boundless plains of Patagonia.
Until the dreaded moment should arrive, this hazardous, cruel existence
that forced him to live a continuous lie, was the best period of his
career. From his last trip to Spain, made for the purpose of liquidating
certain remnants of his patrimony, he had returned with a woman, a
maiden of the provinces who had been captivated by the prestige of the
nobleman; in her affection, ardent and submissive at the same time,
there was almost as much admiration as love. A woman!... Sagreda for the
first time realized the full significance of this word, as if up to then
he had not understood it. His present companion was a woman; the
nervous, dissatisfied females who had filled his previous existence,
with their painted smiles and voluptuous artifices, belonged to another
species.
And now that the real woman had arrived, his money was departing
forever!... And when misfortune appeared, love came with it!... Sagreda,
lamenting his lost fortune struggled hard to maintain his pompous
outward show. He lived as before, in the same house, without retrenching
his budget, making his companion presents of value equal to those that
he had lavished upon his former women friends, enjoying an almost
paternal satisfaction before the childish surprise and the ingenuous
happiness of the poor girl, who was overwhelmed by the brilliant life of
Paris.
Sagreda was drowning,--drowning!--but with a smile on his lips, content
with himself, with his present life, with this sweet dream, which was to
be the final one and which was lasting miraculously long. Fate, which
had maltreated him in the past few years, consuming the remainders of
his wealth at Monte Carlo, at Ostend and in the notable clubs of the
Boulevard, seemed now to stretch out a helping hand, touched by his new
existence. Every night, after dining with his companion at a fashionable
restaurant, he would leave her at the theatre and go to his club, the
only place where luck awaited him. He did not plunge heavily. Simple
games of écarté with intimate friends, chums of his youth, who continued
their happy career with the aid of great fortunes, or who had settled
down after marrying wealth, retaining among their farmer habits the
custom of visiting the honorable circle.
Scarcely did the count take his seat, with his cards in his hand,
opposite one of these friends, when Fortune seemed to hover over his
head, and his friends did not tire of playing, inviting him to a game
every night, as if they stood in line awaiting their turn. His winnings
were hardly enough to grow wealthy upon; some nights ten _louis_; others
twenty-five; on special occasions Sagreda would retire with as many as
forty gold coins in his pocket. But thanks to this almost daily gain he
was able to fill the gaps of his lordly existence, which threatened to
topple down upon his head, and he maintained his lady companion in
surroundings of loving comfort, at the same time recovering confidence
in his immediate future. Who could tell what was in store for him?...
Noticing Viscount de la Tresminière in one of the salons he smiled at
him with an expression of friendly challenge.
"What do you say to a game?"
"As you wish, my dear _Velazquez_."
"Seven francs per five points will be sufficient. I'm sure to win. Luck
is with me."
The game commenced under the soft light of the electric bulbs, amid the
soothing silence of soft carpets and thick curtains.
Sagreda kept winning, as if his kind fate was pleased to extricate him
from the most difficult passes. He won without half trying. It made no
difference that he lacked trumps and that he held bad cards; those of
his rival were always worse, and the result would be miraculously in
harmony with his previous games.
Already, twenty-five golden _louis_ lay before him. A club companion,
who was wandering from one salon to the other with a bored expression,
stopped near the players interested in the game. At first he remained
standing near Sagreda; then he took up his position behind the viscount,
who seemed to be rendered nervous and perturbed at the fellow's
proximity.
"But that's awful silly of you!" the inquisitive newcomer soon
exclaimed. "You're not playing a good game, my dear viscount. You're
laying aside your trumps and using only your bad cards. How stupid of
you!"
He could say no more. Sagreda threw his cards upon the table. He had
grown terribly white, with a greenish pallor. His eyes, opened
extraordinarily wide, stared at the viscount. Then he rose.
"I understand," he said coldly. "Allow me to withdraw."
Then, with a quivering hand, he thrust the heap of gold coins toward his
friend.
"This belongs to you."
"But, my dear _Velazquez_.... Why, Sagreda!... Permit me to explain,
dear count!..."
"Enough, sir. I repeat that I understand."
His eyes flashed with a strange gleam, the selfsame gleam that his
friends had seen upon various occasions, when after a brief dispute or
an insulting word, he raised his glove in a gesture of challenge.
But this hostile glance lasted only a moment. Then he smiled with
glacial affability.
"Many thanks, Viscount. These are favors that are never forgotten.... I
repeat my gratitude."
And he saluted, like a true noble, walking off proudly erect, the same
as in the most smiling days of his opulence.
* * *
With his fur coat open, displaying his immaculate shirt bosom, Count de
Sagreda promenades along the boulevard. The crowds are issuing from the
theatres; the women are crossing from one sidewalk to the other;
automobiles with lighted interiors roll by, affording a momentary
glimpse of plumes, jewels and white bosoms; the news-vendors shout their
wares; at the top of the buildings huge electrical advertisements blaze
forth and go out in rapid succession.
The Spanish grandee, the _hidalgo_, the descendant of the noble knights
of the _Cid_ and _Ruy Blas_, walks against the current, elbowing his way
through the crowd, desiring to hasten as fast as possible, without any
particular objective in view.
To contract debts!... Very well. Debts do not dishonor a nobleman. But
to receive alms?... In his hours of blackest thoughts he had never
trembled before the idea of incurring scorn through his ruin, of seeing
his friends desert him, of descending to the lowest depths, being lost
in the social substratum. But to arouse compassion....
The comedy was useless. The intimate friends who smiled at him in former
times had penetrated the secret of his poverty and had been moved by
pity to get together and take turns at giving him alms under the pretext
of gambling with him. And likewise his other friends, and even the
servants who bowed to him with their accustomed respect as he passed by,
were in the secret. And he, the poor dupe, was going about with his
lordly airs, stiff and solemn in his extinct grandeur, like the corpse
of the lengendary chieftain, which, after his death, was mounted on
horseback and sallied forth to win battles.
Farewell, Count de Sagreda! The heir of governors and viceroys can
become a nameless soldier in a legion of desperadoes and bandits; he can
begin life anew as an adventurer in virgin lands, killing that he may
live; he can even watch with impassive countenance the wreck of his name
and his family history, before the bench of a tribunal.... But to live
upon the compassion of his friends!...
Farewell forever, final illusions! The count has forgotten his
companion, who is waiting for him at a night restaurant. He does not
think of her; it is as if he never had seen her; as if she had never
existed. He thinks not at all of that which but a few hours before had
made life worth living. He walks along, alone with his disgrace, and
each step of his seems to draw from the earth a dead thing; an ancestral
influence, a racial prejudice, a family boast, dormant hauteur, honor
and fierce pride, and as these awake, they oppress his breast and cloud
his thoughts.
How they must have laughed at him behind his back, with condescending
pity!... Now he walks along more hurriedly than ever, as if he has at
last made up his mind just where he is going, and his emotion leads him
unconsciously to murmur with irony, as if he is speaking to somebody who
is at his heels and whom he desires to flee.
"Many thanks! Many thanks!"
Just before dawn two revolver shots astound the guests of a hotel in the
vicinity of the _Gare Saint-Lazare_,--one of those ambiguous
establishments that offers a safe shelter for amorous acquaintances
begun on the thoroughfare.
The attendants find in one of the rooms a gentleman dressed in evening
clothes, with a hole in his head, through which escape bloody strips of
flesh. The man writhes like a worm upon the threadbare carpet.
His eyes, of a dull black, still glitter with life. There is nothing
left in them of the image of his sweet companion. His last thought,
interrupted by death, is of friendship, terrible in its pity; of the
fraternal insult of a generous, light-hearted compassion.
END
LUXURY
"I HAD her on my lap," said my friend Martinez, "and the warm weight of
her healthy body was beginning to tire me.
"The scene... same as usual in such places. Mirrors with blemished
surfaces, and names scratched across them, like spiders' webs; sofas of
discolored velvet, with springs that creaked atrociously; the bed
decorated with theatrical hangings, as clean and common as a sidewalk,
and on the walls, pictures of bull-fighters and cheap chromos of angelic
virgins smelling a rose or languorously contemplating a bold hunter.
"The scenery was that of the favorite cell in the convent of vice; an
elegant room reserved for distinguished patrons; and she was a healthy,
robust creature, who seemed to bring a whiff of the pure mountain air
into the heavy atmosphere of this closed house, saturated with cheap
cologne, rice powder and the vapor from dirty washbasins.
"As she spoke to me she stroked the ribbons of her gown with childish
complacency; it was a fine piece of satin, of screaming yellow, somewhat
too tight for her body, a dress which I recalled having seen months
before on the delicate charms of another girl, who had since died,
according to reports, in the hospital.
"Poor girl! She had become a sight! Her coarse, abundant hair, combed in
Greek fashion, was adorned with glass beads; her cheeks, shiny from the
dew of perspiration, were covered with a thick layer of cosmetic; and as
if to reveal her origin, her arms, which were firm, swarthy and of
masculine proportions, escaped from the ample sleeves of her chorus-girl
costume.
"As she saw me follow with attentive glance all the details of her
extravagant array, she thought that I was admiring her, and threw her
head back with a petulant expression.
"And such a simple creature!... She hadn't yet become acquainted with
the customs of the house, and told the truth,--all the truth--to the men
who wished to know her history. They called her Flora; but her real name
was Mari-Pepa. She wasn't the orphan of a colonel or a magistrate, nor
did she concoct the complicated tales of love and adventure that her
companions did, in order to justify their presence in such a place. The
truth; always the truth; she would yet be hanged for her frankness. Her
parents were comfortably situated farmers in a little town of Aragón;
owned their fields, had two mules in the barn, bread, wine, and enough
potatoes for the year round; and at night the best fellows in the place
came one after the other to soften her heart with serenade upon
serenade, trying to carry off her dark, healthy person together with the
four orchards she had inherited from her grandfather.
"'But what could you expect, my dear fellow?... I couldn't bear those
people. They were too coarse for me. I was born to be a lady. And tell
me, why can't I be? Don't I look as good as any of them?...'
"And she snuggled her head against my shoulder, like the docile
sweetheart she was,--a slave subjected to all sorts of caprices in
exchange for being clothed handsomely.
"' Those fellows,' she continued, 'made me sick. I ran off with the
student,--understand?--the son of the town magistrate, and we wandered
about until he deserted me, and I landed here, waiting for something
better to turn up. You see, it's a short tale.... I don't complain of
anything. I'm satisfied.'
"And to show how happy she was, the unhappy girl rode astride my legs,
thrust her hard fingers through my hair, rumpling it, and sang a tango
in horrible fashion, in her strong, peasant voice.
"I confess that I was seized with an impulse to speak to her 'in the
name of morality,'--that hypocritical desire we all possess to propagate
virtue when we are sated and desire is dead.
"She raised her eyes, astonished to see me look so solemn, preaching to
her, like a missionary glorifying chastity with a prostitute on his
knees; her gaze wandered continually from my austere countenance to the
bed close by. Her common sense was baffled before the incongruity
between such virtue and the excesses of a moment before.
"Suddenly she seemed to understand, and an outburst of laughter swelled
her fleshy neck.
"'The deuce!... How amusing you are! And with what a face you say all
these things! Just like the priest of my home town....'
"No, Pepa, I'm serious. I believe you're a good girl; you don't realize
what you've gone into, and I'm warning you. You've fallen very low, very
low. You're at the bottom. Even within the career of vice, the majority
of women resist and deny the caresses that are required of you in this
house. There is yet time for you to save yourself. Your parents have
enough for you to live on; you didn't come here under the necessity of
poverty. Return to your home, and the past will be forgotten; you can
tell them a lie, invent some sort of tale to justify your flight, and
who knows?... One of the fellows that used to serenade you will marry
you, you'll have children and you'll be a respectable woman.
"The girl became serious when she saw that I was speaking in earnest.
Little by little she began to slip from my knees until she was on her
feet, eyeing me fixedly, as if she saw before her some strange person
and an invisible wall had arisen between the two.
"'Go back to my home!' she exclaimed in harsh accents. 'Many thanks. I
know very well what that means. Get up before dawn, work like a slave,
go out in the fields, ruin your hands with callouses. Look, see how my
hands still show them.'
"And she made me feel the rough lumps that rose on the palms of her
strong hands.
"'And all this, in exchange for what? For being respectable?... Not a
bit of it! I'm not that crazy. So much for respectability!'
"And she accompanied these words with some indecent motions that she had
picked up from her companions.
"Afterwards, humming a tune, she went over to the mirror to survey
herself, and smilingly greeted the reflection of her powdered hair,
covered with false pearls, which shone out of the cracked mirror. She
contracted her lips, which were rouged like those of a clown.
"Growing more and more firm in my virtuous rôle, I continued to
sermonize her from my chair, enveloping this hypocritical propaganda in
sonorous words. She was making a bad choice; she must think of the
future. The present could not be worse. What was she? Less than a slave;
a piece of furniture; they exploited her, they robbed her, and
afterwards... afterwards it would be still worse; the hospital,
repulsive diseases....
"But again her harsh laughter interrupted me.
"'Quit it, boy. Don't bother me.'
"And planting herself before me she wrapped me in a gaze of infinite
compassion.
"'Why my dear fellow, how silly you are! Do you imagine that I can go
back to that dog's life, after having tasted this one?... No, sir! I was
born for luxury.'
"And, with devoted admiration sweeping her glance across the broken
chairs, the faded sofa, and that bed which was a public thoroughfare,
she began to walk up and down, revelling in the rustle of her train as
it dragged across the room, and caressing the folds of that gown which
seemed still to preserve the warmth of the other girl's body."
END
RABIES
FROM all the countryside the neighbors of the _huerta_ flocked to
_Caldera's_ cabin, entering it with a certain meekness, a mingling of
emotion and fear.
How was the boy? Was he improving?... Uncle Pascal, surrounded by his
wife, his daughters-in-law and even the most distant relatives, who had
been gathered together by misfortune, received with melancholy
satisfaction this interest of the entire vicinity in the health of his
son. Yes, he was getting better. For two days he had not been attacked
by that horrible _thing_ which set the cabin in commotion. And
_Caldera's_ laconic farmer friends, as well as the women, who were
vociferous in the expression of their emotions, appeared at the
threshold of the room, asking timidly, "How do you feel?"
The only son of _Caldera_ was in there, sometimes in bed, in obedience
to his mother, who could conceive of no illness without the cup of hot
water and seclusion between the bed-sheets; at other times he sat up,
his jaws supported by his hands, gazing obstinately into the furthermost
corner of the room. His father, wrinkling his shaggy white brows, would
walk about when left alone, or, through force of habit, take a look at
the neighboring fields, but without any desire to bend over and pluck
out any of the weeds that were beginning to sprout in the furrows. Much
this land mattered to him now,--the earth in whose bowels he had left
the sweat of his body and the strength of his limbs!... His son was all
he had,--the fruit of a late marriage,--and he was a sturdy youth, as
industrious and taciturn as his father; a soldier of the soil, who
required neither orders nor threat to fulfil his duties; ready to awake
at midnight when it was his turn to irrigate his land and give the
fields drink under the light of the stars; quick to spring from his bed
on the hard kitchen bench, throwing off the covers and putting on his
hemp sandals at the sound of the early rooster's reveille.