IV

Darlés got up next morning very early and went wandering out into the

street. He was completely done up. The night had been one of terror and

insomnia; and when day had dawned, finding him in his miserable little

room--a room whose only furniture was a bureau covered with books and

magazines, a rickety pine table and a few rush-bottomed chairs, all mean

and old--the realization of his solitude had struck him with the

violence of a blow. He had felt that profound agitation which

psychologists call "claustrophobia," or the fear of enclosed spaces.

For a long time he wandered about, absorbed in vacillations that had

neither name nor plan. He hardly knew himself. His conscience had been

cruelly wrung in a few hours of suffering; and from this savage

convulsion of the soul unsuspected developments were emerging, enormous

moral unfoldings, filled with terrifying perplexities. His despair had

loosed a stupendous avalanche of problems against the bulwark of those

moral principles which had been taught him as a child. And each of these

questions was now a terrible problem for him. Where, he wondered, does

virtue end? Where does sin commence? And if all our natural forces

should go straight toward the goal of happiness, why should there be any

desires that codes of formulated ethics should judge depraved and

sinful? Why should not everything which pleases be allowed?

When he reached the Calle de Atocha, he met a friend of his, called

Pascual Cañamares. This friend was a medical student like himself. The

two young fellows greeted each other. Cañamares was on his way to San

Carlos.

"Do you want to come along with me?" he asked. "I'll show you the

dissecting-room."

Darlés went along with his friend. Cañamares noticed Enrique's pallor.

"You don't look a bit well this morning," said he.

"No, I didn't sleep much last night."

"Maybe you were out having a good time?"

"No. On the contrary, I cried all night."

There was such a depth of manly pain in this reply that Cañamares did

not dare probe the matter any further.

The dissecting-room, cold and white, produced some very lively

sensations in Darlés. Floods of sunlight fell from the tall windows,

painting a wide, golden border over the tiled walls. A good many corpses

lay on the marble tables, covered with blood-stained sheets; and all

these bodies had shaven heads and open mouths. Their naked feet, closely

joined together, produced a ghastly sensation of quietude. An

indefinable odor floated in the air, a nauseating odor of dead flesh.

Darlés felt a slight vertigo which forced him to close his eyes and

leave the room. For more than an hour he wandered about the

gravely-echoing, spacious cloisters of San Carlos. A strange sadness

hovered over the building; the damp, old building which once on a time

had been a convent and now had become a school--the building where the

vast tedium of a science unable to free life from pain was added to the

profound melancholy of a religion which thinks only of death.

When Pascual Cañamares left his classroom, he asked Darlés to go and

dine with him. Enrique accepted. It was just noon. Cañamares usually ate

at a little tavern in the Plaza de Anton Martín. This was a gay little

establishment, with high wooden counters, painted red. The two students

sat down before a table, on which the hostess had spread a little

tablecloth.

"Well, what do you want?" asked Cañamares.

"Oh, I don't care. Anything you do."

"Soup and stew?"

"All right."

Cañamares ordered, in a free and easy way:

"Landlady! Bring us a stew!"

He was a big, young fellow, twenty, plump and full-blooded, vivacious

with that healthy, turbulent kind of joviality which seems to diffuse

vital energies all about it. He was very talkative; and in his

picturesque and frivolous chatter lay a contagious good-humor. Darlés

answered him only with distrait monosyllables. His whole attention was

fixed on a few coachmen at the next table. They were talking about a

certain crime that had been committed that morning. Two men, in love

with the same woman, had fought for her with knives, and one had killed

the other. The murderer had been captured. It was a vulgar but intense

crime of passion; it seemed to have a certain barbarous charm which, in

its own way, was chivalric, since there had been no foul play in the

crime. The fight had been fair and open. And the student admired, he

even envied those two brave men who, for the sake of love, had not

shrunk before the solemnity of a moment in which the death-dealing wound

coincides with the knife-thrust which carries a man off to the

penitentiary.

As they left the tavern, Pascual took unceremonious leave of his

companion.

"I'm going to leave you," said he, "because no one can have any fun with

you. Hanged if I know what's the matter with you, to-day! Why, you won't

even listen to a fellow!"

Then he took his leave. Unmoved, Enrique saw him walk away; but after

that he felt a painful sensation of loneliness. Yes, and this loneliness

had come upon him because he had been frank enough not to hide his ugly

state of mind, because he had let all the melancholy of his soul shine

forth freely from his eyes. And in that moment he understood that to be

thoroughly sincere is tremendously expensive, for all sincerity--even

the most innocent--invariably exacts a heavy price.

That evening he ate only a very light supper and went to bed early. He

lay awake a long time, tortured by a flood of disconnected memories. His

father, who represented all his past, and Alicia Pardo, who symbolized

his whole present, seemed to be striving for him. The image of the girl

at last prevailed.

Little by little he fell to studying the perverse and mocking spirit of

the woman, who, even when she had waked up in the morning with him, had

looked at him and shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. Well, what had

happened? Between them, where had the fault lain? Was the girl naturally

a hard-hearted creature, incapable of high and lasting sentiments; or

was it that he, himself, quiet and peaceful, had not been able to live

up to her illusions?

Scourged by the agonizing tyranny of his will, the student's memory

recalled moments, evoked phrases, and once more endowed with new reality

all the details of that enchanted night in which it had seemed to him

all Madrid had been perfumed with violets. And as the human heart always

yearns to forgive the object of our love, Enrique succeeded at last,

after much reflection, in convincing himself that Alicia was innocent.

He decided that from the first moment she had been blameless. She had

encouraged him to undertake the conquest of her; and afterward

completely and with no other wish than to see him happy she had opened

her arms to him--Venus-like arms, which had cast about his neck a bond

of pity and sweet tenderness. And he, in exchange for such supreme

happiness, what had he given?

Accusingly an implacable voice began to cry out in the student's

conscience. Alicia, he pondered, was accustomed to the ways of the

world; she was a woman of exacting and refined tastes, who adored luxury

and understood Beethoven. Many men of the aristocracy worshiped her,

making a fashionable cult of her beauty; and more than one famous tenor

had sung for her, alone in the intimacy of her bedroom, his favorite

_racconto_. The inexorable voice continued:

"And what have you done, Darlés the Obscure, to be worthy of this

treasure? What merits have you had? Women of such complete beauty as

hers seek that which excels--they love strength, which is the supreme

beauty of man; strength, which is glory in the artist, money in the

millionaire, elegance and breeding in the man of the world, despair in

the suicide, courage and outlawry in the thief who boldly dares defy the

law. But you, you who are nothing, what do you aspire to? Of what can

you complain?"

The student heaved a sigh, and his eyes filled with tears. He was a

fool, a shrinking coward, a poltroon. A man who has ruined himself for a

woman, or who, to keep her as his own, has committed murder and been

sent to prison, may justly complain of her. But _he_, quite on the

contrary----

Suddenly Darlés shuddered so violently that the electric shock of his

nerves made him utter a cry. Deathly pale, he sat up in bed. Since he

could not give Alicia either a fortune or the glory of a great artist,

he must drink a toast to her with his whole honor--he must steal. This

came to him as a terrible revelation, resonant of Hell. And all at once

he understood the enigmatic expression which had shone in the eyes of

the girl and had sounded from her lips the last time they had talked

together. He had asked her: "When am I going to see you again?" And she

had answered: "Never--until you bring me the necklace I have asked you

for!"

Now these mystic words clearly reëchoed in his mind; now he fully

understood them. Alicia was in love with a priceless jewel; and often,

thinking about it, she grew very sad. Her sadness was real; he himself

had seen it. Perhaps the girl, when she had dismissed him, reminding him

of that necklace, had spoken in jest; perhaps it had been in earnest.

Who could tell? At all events, when she had declared that they would

never see each other again, she had in a veiled manner expressed her

belief that he was a coward, incapable of ruining himself for her.

The feverish eyes of Enrique Darlés burned like coals. Why, indeed,

should he not steal? Why should he not prove himself brave, capable of

everything? At the basis of every great sacrifice lies something

superhuman, that confuses and that rends the soul. If he were a thief

and could pay with his bravery something that his small, poor money

could not buy; if he should ruin his whole career just to please her,

should bring down upon his head the rigors of the law and his father's

curses, Alicia--so he fondly believed--would love him blindly, with the

same sort of frenzy that Balzac's hero, Vautrin, inspired in women.

The voice which until now had been thundering accusations in the

student's storm-tossed conscience, now with soft flatterings began to

wheedle and cajole him, saying:

"Alicia, your beloved Alicia would be happy with the emeralds of that

necklace. If you have no way to buy it for her, go steal it! You're a

cowardly wretch if you don't! What does the opinion of the crowd matter

to you, egoist that you are? A man incapable of becoming a thief for a

woman may love her greatly, but he does not love her to distraction.

What your Alicia desires, you should give her. Have no longer any

doubts, but go and steal! Steal this necklace for her and then clasp it

about her neck--that neck whose snow so many times in the space of one

night offered its refreshing coolness to your lips!"

These ideas combined to strengthen his more recent impressions--the

impression of his visit to the dissecting-room where once more he had

seen that nothing matters; and the impression of that crime of jealousy

which he had heard talked about in the tavern. And all at once, Enrique

Darlés felt himself calmed. His future had just been decided. He would

steal. Fatality, incarnate in the body of Alicia Pardo, had just mapped

out his road for him.

* * * * *

Every evening at sunset, at that hour of mystery when the street-lights

begin to shine and women to seem more beautiful, the student left his

lodgings and, passing through the Calle Romanos and the Calle Carmen,

took his way toward the Puerta del Sol, always full of an idle,

loitering crowd which seems to have nowhere to go. He always stopped in

Calle Mayor, to cast an eager, timorous look into the jeweler's shop,

whose show-window glowed like a bed of living coals.

This calculating, daily contemplation of those treasures completely

overturned Enrique's moral standards. He, himself, did not grasp the

profound change coming upon him. Steadily this thought of stealing kept

growing in his soul, obsessing him, evolving into a resistless,

overwhelming determination.

As if to increase his torment, the emerald necklace which served as an

advertisement for the shop, found no purchaser. It was far too dear.

With his nose pressed against the plate glass of the window, Enrique

suffered long moments of anguish, unable to take his eyes from that

abyss, that precipice of gold and velvet at the bottom of which the

diamonds, topazes, emeralds, pearls, rubies and amethysts seemed the

eyes of a strange multitude peering out at him. All this time his

imagination was developing a mad, adventurous tale. With his prize

hidden in his most secret pocket, he would go to see Alicia and would

say to her: "Here, take it! Here is your necklace, the necklace that

neither Don Manuel nor any of your millionaire aristocrats would buy for

you. I, gambling my life, have got it for you! What do you say now?"

And thinking thus, he would close his eyes, seeming to feel that all

about him the air was perfumed with violets. And then when he once more

opened his eyes, the emeralds of the necklace, green and hard as

Alicia's pupils, seemed to say to him: "All your dreams and hopes, all

your sweet visionings, shall now come true!" It was the secret voice of

temptation, a voice which had transformed itself to radiance.

One night, as he was recovering from one of these long, deep fits of

abstraction, before the jeweler's window, he saw that Alicia Pardo and

her friend Candelas were really drawing near. They, too, had seen him.

Upset, almost speechless, the student saluted them. Alicia

affectionately pressed his hand; and now more strongly than ever he

breathed that violet odor which had perfumed all his dreams of theft.

The girl asked:

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"Nothing much, only passing a little time."

Alicia inspected the shop window.

"Ah, yes, yes, you were looking at my necklace, weren't you?"

"Yes, that's just what I _was_ doing."

And as he said this, he blushed deeply, because this confession was

equivalent to another, that he was drawing closer to her. Smilingly

Candelas peered at the student. Alicia added with cruel malice:

"You know, dear, I asked him to get it for me."

"Yes, I know, I remember," said Enrique.

He spoke sadly. Alicia began to laugh.

"Well, how about it? Are you really thinking of giving it to me?"

"_¿Quién sabe?_"

Sudden anger had endowed his face with virile and aggressive tension.

Forehead and lips grew pale. Candelas, good-natured in a careless way,

tried to salve his misery.

"You'd better leave us women alone," said she. "We're a bad lot. Believe

me, the best of us, the most saintly of us, isn't worth any man's

sacrificing himself for."

Alicia interrupted her friend, exclaiming:

"What a little fool you are, to be sure! We were only joking. Do you

think Enrique would really do any such crazy thing for me? What

nonsense!"

Proudly the student repeated:

"_¿Quién sabe?_"

Then, after a little silence, he added:

"I don't know what makes you talk that way. You've never proved me. You

don't know what kind of a man I am!"

Two months earlier, the laughing, mocking words of these girls would

have disconcerted him. But now he felt himself transfigured; he felt

new, vigorous ardors in his blood. He no longer doubted. An

extraordinary dominating concept of his own person had taken possession

of him; and this concept of his youth and boldness, of his strength and

courage, had exalted him like strong drink. In a single moment the youth

had grown to be a man.

Alicia closely observed him. Her mouth grew serious, and under the

parting of her hair, that lay symmetrically on her forehead, her eyes

became pensive. She knew little of primitive man's hunting-ways, but was

expert in judging characters and stirring up passions. And though she

did indeed care little for books, men's consciences lay open to her

eyes; which kind of reading is far better. Her keen instincts, rarely

amiss, perceived something dominant, something desperate in the

student's voice and gestures. She judged it wise to end the

conversation.

"So long, Enrique. By the way, Manuel's been asking for you, a number of

times."

"Thanks. Give him my best regards."

"When are you coming to see me?"

Still shrouded in gloom, Darlés answered:

"I don't know, Alicia. But you can be sure I'll come as soon as I have

the right to."

In this allusion to what he now called his duty, trembled indefinable

bitterness and pride.

When the student found himself alone, rage seized him--rage that, unable

to express itself in words, found vent in tears. He felt convinced that

his answers, somewhat mysterious, had duly impressed the girl. Yes, they

had been good. Now his conduct must back up his words, or he would lose

all his gains. Boastingly he had pledged himself to something very

serious. Nothing but ridicule could fall on him, if he failed to make

good his offer. This meant he must go through, to the bitter end.

"Yes, I will become a thief," he pondered.

Calmer now, he took his way to his tavern, where he ate a peaceful

supper, and went home and early to bed. He slept well, with that peace

which irrevocable decisions produce in minds long racked by stress and

storm. It was noon when he awoke. He got up at once, put on clean

clothes and wrote his father a quiet letter that contained nothing

except his studies. Then he tied up all his books and went down to the

street with them enveloped in a big kerchief.

"They've all got to be sold," thought he. "If I'm caught, I'll need

money. If I get away and nothing is ever found out about me, I can get

them back, some time."

After having disposed of the books, he went to a fashionable restaurant

and had rather a fine dinner. In all these little details, so different

from the order and simplicity of his usual life, you could have seen a

certain sadness of farewell. After dinner, he went to drink coffee on

the terrace of the Lion d'Or, and stayed a while there, observing the

women. Many, he saw, were beautiful. As yet he had decided nothing

definite about what he meant to do. He preferred to let things take

their own, impromptu course. Sometimes great battles are best decided

off-hand, on the march, in the imminent presence of danger.

At exactly six o'clock he got up, crossed the Calle de Sevilla and went

through the Carrera de San Jerónimo toward the Puerta del Sol. The

street-lamps and the lights in the shops had not yet begun to burn. It

was an April evening; a cool, fresh, damp breeze wafted through the

streets. Far to the west, shining in rosy space, Venus was shedding her

eternal beams. Darlés went peacefully along, his calm movements in

harmony with the perfect equanimity that had taken possession of him.

When he reached the Ministerio de la Gobernación, he stopped a while to

watch the street-cars, the carriages, the crowds circulating about him.

Then the idea that, before long, these people would catch him, rose in

his mind once more.

"To-morrow," thought he, "I'll be seeing nothing of all this."

In his eyes gleamed the sadness of a last farewell. It seemed to him he

had gone too far, now, to change his resolution of stealing.

A romantic desire, almost a dandified pride, that drove him to make good

with the girl, formed the basis of his madness, rather than any carnal

desire. This desire, which had at first possessed him, had now evolved

into a refined and purely artistic sentiment, a wish to accomplish some

heroic deed. At last analysis, merely to get possession of Alicia had

become unimportant. The most vital factor, practically the only one now,

was to assume in her opinion a splendid heroism. Darlés wanted to show

this kind of heroism, which the adventurous soul of woman always

admires. He was finding himself on a par with great criminals, with

illustrious artists, with multimillionaires who wreck their fortunes in

a single night, with every man who steps outside the common, beaten

paths. And the poor student, reflecting how the girl would always

remember that an honorable man had gone to jail for love of her, thought

himself both happy and well-paid.

Absorbed in these chimerical fancies, Enrique Darlés came to the

jeweler's shop in Calle Mayor. Its lights had just been turned on, and

now they flung bright radiance across the sidewalk. The boy stopped in

front of the window, which was filled with blinding splendor. There, in

the middle of the display, was the terrible necklace of emeralds. It was

hung about a half-bust of white velvet. Darlés studied it a long time,

and at first felt that mingled chill and fear which the sight of

firearms will sometimes produce in us. But soon this sensation faded.

The green light of the emeralds exalted him. It seemed to exercise a

kind of magnetic attraction, resistless as the force of gravitation.

Nevertheless, the boy still hesitated. He still understood that in this

little space between him and the shop-window a great abyss was yawning.

But suddenly he thought:

"Suppose Alicia should see me here, now?"

This idea overthrew his last fears. With a sure hand he opened the shop

door. He walked up to the counter. His step was easy and self-possessed.

A tall, finely-dressed clerk, with large red mustaches, advanced to meet

him.

"What can I show you, sir?" asked the clerk.

With an aplomb that just a moment before would have seemed impossible to

him, Enrique answered:

"I'd like to see that emerald necklace in the window."

"Yes, sir."

Darlés glanced about him. He noted that a white-bearded old

gentleman--doubtless the proprietor--was closely observing him from the

rear of the shop. Already the student had made up his plan of attack. He

would snatch the jewels and break for the door. He had left this door

ajar, on purpose.

The clerk came back with the necklace, which he laid on the moss-green

cloth that covered the show-case. Enrique hardly dared touch it.

"How much?" asked he.

"Fifteen thousand pesetas."

The student clacked his tongue, like a drinker savoring the state and

quality of good wine. The clerk added:

"I'm sure you've seen very few emeralds like these."

The white-bearded old gentleman had now come nearer. Saying nothing, he

slid his hands into his trouser pockets. His face looked grave and

puzzled. You would have thought his merchant soul had scented danger.

Darlés gave him a glance. It was not yet too late. He still was honest.

There was still time for repentance.

The clerk set out a number of trays, and from these took various

necklaces. His way of handling them, of caressing them with careful

fingers, of spreading them out on the cloth, all showed his love of

jewels. There were diamond, turquoise, sapphire, topaz necklaces.

The student hesitated. A dizzying pleasure, bitter-sweet, enveloped this

nearness to crime. He kept asking:

"What's this one worth? And this?"

"This is very cheap. Two thousand pesetas."

"How about this ruby one?"

"Forty-five hundred."

Darlés took them up, studied them carefully, put them down again.

Suddenly he felt his cheeks were growing very pale. To give himself

countenance he commented:

"This black pearl one is very beautiful."

"Yes, and it's more expensive, too. Ten thousand pesetas."

Suddenly the old gentleman, who till then had uttered no word, exclaimed

brusquely:

"Now then, I think you've talked enough!"

He turned to the clerk.

"Look out for these trays," he ordered.

Darlés raised his head, and proudly looked the old man in the eyes, with

the hauteur of one still innocent.

"What are _you_ interfering for?" he demanded. "What's the idea?"

"We can't waste any more time on you," answered the jeweler. "If I'm not

mistaken, you're not overburdened with money."

He turned to his clerk again. The clerk stared in amaze. Imperatively

the old man ordered:

"I tell you to put these trays away!"

The student had not yet, perhaps, fully decided to steal. Perhaps

something good and sound still lay in his conscience, that might have

barred him from fatal temptation at the crucial moment. But the

merchant's provoking words spurred him on and made him sin. A spirit of

revenge drove him to it. This is no novelty. How many times is crime

nothing more than the logical reaction against injustice!

Beside himself, Enrique stretched out his hand toward the place where

lay the emerald necklace. His fingers clutched convulsively. He turned,

and with one leap reached the door.

At that second, two shots crackled.

Darlés flung himself into mad, headlong flight toward the Viaducto. At

first he heard a voice behind him, screaming:

"Stop him! Stop the thief! Stop thief!"

It was a horrible, nightmare voice. Then came the thunderous tumult of

the pursuing mob. Before him, the pedestrians opened out. He saw

astonishment and fear in their faces. As he rushed into the Calle de

Bordadores, a man brandished a stick and tried to stop him. Darlés

veered to the left, and ran up the grade of the Calle Siete de Julio

with the speed of a hare.

Some one threw a chair at him, from a doorway. It hardly grazed him, but

tripped up his nearest pursuers. When the human hunting-pack, raging and

giving tongue, rushed in under the archways of the Plaza Mayor, its

menacing tumult echoed louder than ever:

"_Thief, thief! Stop thief!_"

Beside himself with terror, the student flung himself along. He kept

straight ahead, reached the park railing and leaped it with one bound.

This saved him. The dim light and the shadows under the trees masked his

figure. Still, he kept on running till he came to the fence again, and

once more jumped it.

This time as he landed, his knees could no longer hold him up. They

doubled, and he almost fell on his face. But he struggled up, once more,

and still ran on and on. Now the pursuers' voices sounded far-off, under

the echoing archways of the Plaza.

Darlés kept fleeing down the Calle Toledo. He noticed that a good many

women were looking at him with uneasiness. One woman cried:

"He's wounded!"

When he reached the Puerta Cerrada, the student drew near the famous

cross that gives its name to the square. He could do no more. His legs

were collapsing with exhaustion, his heart was bursting, his tongue

protruding. A number of women, frightened, crowded about him.

"You're wounded!" they exclaimed. "What's the matter? They've shot you!"

There was no anger in their cries, but only simple pity. The student

felt calmer. One of the women had a water-jug.

"Give me a drink!" stammered Enrique. "Water! I'm dying of thirst!"

He raised the lip of the jug to his mouth, and drank in huge swallows.

The women kept saying:

"You're wounded. Poor man! You'd better hurry to the hospital!"

To avoid waking suspicion, Darlés answered:

"Yes, I'm on my way there, now."

Then he swallowed a few more mouthfuls, and fled toward the Calle de

Segovia. He ran a long, long time, till his last strength was gone. He

stopped then, and gathered his wits together. His wet clothes were glued

to his body, giving him a disagreeable feeling of cold. His hands were

red. What he had believed to be sweat, was blood.

"I'm wounded!" he murmured.

Then he understood what the women at Puerta Cerrada had told him. Just

at that moment a slight nausea overcame him, and he had to lean against

a wall. Presently he opened his eyes, and looked about him. He was in a

steep, deserted little alleyway, with humble houses on either hand. Very

near, looming up against the black immensity of the sky, appeared the

huge mole of El Viaducto--that splendid, sinister height, that bridge

spanning the city, whence so many a poor soul had bowed itself down to

death in the leap of suicide.

Enrique Darlés began to think again:

"Yes, I'm really wounded."

His ideas became more coherent. He thought of Alicia, of his little room

in the Calle de la Ballesta. He felt of his pockets. His fingers closed

on the necklace--"Her necklace!"

The student smiled. Unspeakable joy soothed his troubled heart. He

sighed, and wiped away a few tears. Alicia was his! The book of his life

was written, was at an end.

V

Candelas and Alicia were coming back in a landau from the race-track.

The afternoon had been unseasonably chilly, but the sun had shone

brightly, and the races had been exciting. Alicia smiled, contented. She

had won eight hundred pesetas, and her eyes still beheld the jockeys

speeding with dizzy swiftness against the background of the April

landscape.

There suddenly, in the last half of the race, a horse had leaped ahead

from that party-colored group of red, blue and yellow blouses and of

white trousers. A horse had sped away to cross the tape; and she had

found herself a winner.

There was something personal, something flattering to her vanity, in

this triumph.

"The count's jockey rides like a centaur," she exclaimed. "He's English,

isn't he?"

"No, Belgian," Candelas answered.

Alicia hardly remembered, very clearly, where the Low Countries might

be. This answer did not satisfy her. But no matter; after all, it was

enough for her to know the victorious jockey had come from one of those

northern countries where all the men are blond and well-dressed.

Candelas began to explain the blind faith that the count, her friend,

had in this remarkable Belgian connoisseur of horses. Then she briefly

outlined the brilliant program of travels and pleasures the count and

she were planning. Along toward the beginning of May they would go to

London, and in June to Paris, where the count was hoping to win the

_grand prix_ at Longchamps. They expected to pass the autumn at Nice.

Alicia answered:

"In September, the little marquis and I will be going to Monte Carlo.

You and I simply _must_ see each other, there. There's not much fun just

with the men, you know. They don't really know how to amuse us."

When the landau reached the Plaza de Castelar, Alicia asked her friend:

"Have you anything on for to-night?"

"No."

"Well then, come to the Teatro Real with me. They're going to give the

divine Bizet's _Carmen_, and Nasi and Pacteschi are going to sing.

Enough said!"

Candelas accepted.

"And now," said Alicia, "I want to go home, to see if any important

message has come. Then I'll take you home, dear. You can change your

dress and we'll go get Manuel, so he'll invite us out to supper."

The carriage stopped before Alicia's door. Teodora, who had been on the

balcony, hurried down. She had a letter in her hand.

"This came for you," said she.

"Who from?"

"From Señor Enrique."

"Enrique!" repeated Alicia, surprised. And she tore the envelope with

feverish haste. She read:

"_Come to my room, I beg you. I must see you to-day, without

fail._"