A TERM OF PEACE
The Senora de Belinchon descended the iron staircase leading to the
second floor, and, meeting the grandee's valet, she asked:
"What is the senor duke doing?"
"He is painting," replied the servant, looking with surprise and
astonishment at Dona Paula's red eyes.
"Tell him that I wish to speak to him."
While the man went to inform his master, Dona Paula thought her strength
would give way, for she began to feel premonitory symptoms of the spasms
to which she was occasionally subject; but her strong wish to restore
peace to her children overcame her weakness at the moment. Commending
herself to our Lady of Pity, she entered Don Jaime's study, full of
resolution.
The senor, clad in the fantastic garb worn at home in the morning, came
forward to receive her with his palette and brushes in his hand.
"Senora," he said, bowing respectfully and raising the gold-tasseled
Turkish cap that covered his head, "I am sorry you troubled to come up.
A message would have summoned me immediately to your presence."
Dona Paula made a gesture of thanks, putting her hand to her heart,
which was beating at her side like a sledge-hammer. The duke looked at
her in surprise.
"Take a seat, senora," he said, putting his palette and brushes on a
chair.
Whereupon the lady dropped into an armchair, and Don Jaime remained
standing.
"The door must be shut," she said, beginning to rise from her seat; but
the gentleman anticipated her, and then took up his stand in front of
the lady, squaring his feet with exaggerated respect, and waiting for
her to speak.
Several minutes passed in silence, then, raising her sad eyes, she said:
"Senor duke, you have conferred a great honor on us in coming to our
house. We can never sufficiently thank you for this mark of favor--"
The duke bowed as he raised his heavy eyelids to cast upon his
interlocutor a look tinged with curiosity.
"Why do you not sit down?" asked Dona Paula, interrupting her speech.
"I am very comfortable, senora; continue."
But the interruption had upset her; she could not proceed for some
minutes. Finally she murmured:
"It is dreadful!--you do not know, senor duke, what I am going through
now. I wish I were dead!"
And the tears rushing to her eyes, she drew her handkerchief from her
pocket and buried her face in it.
The duke, now quite astonished, said:
"Calm yourself, senora. I am a true friend of both you and De Belichon.
Whatever trouble you may have, let me share it as if it were mine, and I
will do what I can to assuage it."
"Many thanks, many thanks," murmured the lady, without taking her
handkerchief from her eyes; and after a minute's silence she said in a
trembling voice:
"Will you do me a very great favor? A favor for which I will thank you
all the days of my life--but I don't dare ask it?"
"I repeat that I am at your service; and that anything I can do for you,
you may consider done."
"Oh! no, it is outrageous in me! You would never think, senor duke, that
your visit to this house has caused much misery. Your attention and your
admiration of my daughter Ventura's frank, merry disposition have given
rise to remarks in the town."
"Oh!" interrupted the duke, smiling to hide a certain feeling of shame.
"Yes, very offensive remarks about all of us; more especially about my
son-in-law, who is as dear to us as if he were our own son. I do not
blame you or her. I am sure that in your case it has only been due to
overattention, which, in a little place like this, where nothing escapes
notice--Perhaps you, senor, ought not to have--She has been imprudent
and frivolous, she was always faulty in that way--She is a girl with a
will of her own, as one may say--If there were no divisions in the town
there would not be this fearful feud, which is nearly the death of us;
probably nobody would have noticed--Unfortunately our enemies seize on
the most trifling pretext to annoy us and put us to shame--An article
has come out which attacks my son-in-law in such a shameless way--And
this I can not allow--"
Dona Paula's courtesy had diminished with her speech, and the final
words were rapped out defiantly. A slight flush suffused the duke's
affrighted face. He ought, of course, to have seen the gravity of the
situation, but he merely thought: "This person is reading me a lesson."
"I am very sorry," he said in an obsequious tone, "to have caused you
all any trouble. But I am so used to being an object of public comment
and attack that the remarks and articles you have just mentioned don't
annoy me in the slightest. The lower classes always try to pay off the
superiority of the upper ones by finding fault with them. It is the
eternal law of give and take that can not be altered."
"That is all very well, senor duke, for such an exalted personage as
yourself--But we are quite different; we are not in such a high
position, and evil tongues, you must know, can do us a lot of harm,"
returned Dona Paula, so simply that it sounded ironical.
The duke, somewhat irritated, played nervously with the tassel of the
cap he held in his hand, as he said:
"I repeat, I am very sorry, senora. If I had thought that my innocent
attentions to your daughter could have been subjected to such malignant
interpretation, I would have been more careful in proffering them. In
the future I will be more discreet. Lord!" he added, smiling, "how is it
possible to imagine that a man of my years could regard a child like
Ventura in any but a paternal way!"
This remark was supposed to completely exculpate him.
"Oh, senor duke, men in your position are never old. The brilliancy of
it is attractive to women--Therefore, it is not sufficient to be merely
more prudent in the future; the world must be robbed of all pretext for
remarks--"
The duke turned suddenly pale, hesitated a few seconds, and finally
said:
"By my leaving the house, eh?"
"This was the favor I came to beg of you," she said without raising her
eyes, and in a tone of humility.
Don Jaime turned a shade paler, took a turn up and down the room,
crushing the Turkish cap in his clenched hand, uttered a sarcastic
laugh, and returning to his place in front of Dona Paula, he said with
mocking arrogance:
"So you turn me out of the house, senora?"
"I, senor duke? What an idea! The only thing I want is to restore peace
to my children and avoid a catastrophe."
"What catastrophe?" asked the duke, while an ominous light shone in his
dull eyes.
Dona Paula saw it boded danger for her son-in-law, so she hastened to
repair her slip.
"The catastrophe of my son-in-law being insulted by those wretches--Look
here, senor, if you are offended at the request I have just made you
make a great mistake--We are so honored at your coming to our house that
nothing could have flattered us so much as this favor--My husband
exerted himself to prefer the request, and he was delighted when he
heard that you accepted the invitation. You can never understand how
proud I was to have such a distinguished person in my house--I, a woman
of the people, the daughter of a sailor, the granddaughter of a
watchman, known in the place as the Serena, as my mother and
grandmother were before me--certainly I should have been prouder still
if it had been some years ago--one's pride decreases with disillusions
and troubles. But at all events I am very flattered, and only the fear
of the great troubles which may accrue to my children obliges me to take
this step; so you will forgive me, senor."
Don Jaime took another turn across the room, stopped in the centre to
think a minute, and ended by shrugging his shoulders and wreathing his
lips in a scornful way. Then advancing toward Dona Paula, he said:
"Is your husband aware of the step you have just taken?"
"No, senor; and I shall be glad if it could be settled without his
knowledge."
"Perfectly. It shall be done to-day."
"Oh, senor duke! a thousand thanks--You will forgive--" she exclaimed,
rising from her seat and extending her hands to him.
The grandee bowed low without replying.
"I entreat you not to bear me malice."
"The subject of our conversation will remain quite between us. We will
manage to avoid disclosing the reason of my departure. Try to play your
part well. I will answer for my own."
Dona Paula quitted the room, escorted by the duke, who led her to the
door with an exaggerated, silent politeness.
On reaching the staircase the anxious lady, once more alone, breathed
freely. Although it had been at the cost of so many painful emotions,
she was delighted at having arranged the matter without any scandal or
danger. And with a fleet foot she who generally dragged herself about in
ill-health now ran to Gonzalo to tell him the result of her mission.
At luncheon the duke mentioned that he had received a letter from one of
his sons, saying he was coming to spend the month of September with him
in Sarrio; and his brother, the Marques del Riego, would probably also
come. He had therefore decided to take rooms at the hotel. Don Rosendo,
seconded by his wife, immediately strongly opposed the step, while
Gonzalo, with gloomy face and lowered eyes, continued his meal in
silence during the discussion.
In spite of all Don Rosendo's arguments to make him stay, even
representing that the house was large enough to receive the new guests,
the sorrow which his whole family would feel at this unexpected
departure, etc., etc., the duke was obdurate, although he responded with
his usual patronizing smile, and a flow of pleasant, friendly phrases.
At last it was seen that persuasion was useless, and the depressed Don
Rosendo accompanied the duke and his secretary on the inspection of the
rooms at the only decent hotel the town possessed. The first floor was
taken, and on the following day the duke moved into it, in spite of his
host's urgent entreaties that he would at least stay until the arrival
of his relatives.
The whole place was taken by surprise at the move, and eagerly inquired
the cause. But although Don Rosendo gave everybody a full account of the
whole occurrence, it was impossible to prevent people suspecting that
things had not been just as they were told by Belinchon. His enemies
were particularly active in unraveling the mystery, thinking, not
without reason, that the Club party would not have the duke's influence
to oppose them. During the two months and more of the grandee's
residence in Sarrio, the friends of Don Rosendo had successfully brought
into court an indictment against the mayor; the administrator of the
posts, who was of the Cabin party, had been withdrawn, and the problem
of the slaughter-house had been solved according to Belinchon's opinion.
Maza's friends, who had been going about like doomed flies in autumn,
received the fresh news like a tardy ray of sunlight. Holy Heavens! what
excited talk took place that night in the Cabin! Joy shone in all their
eyes, their nostrils dilated with delight as they anticipated the fall
of the Club party and a decisive, a grand victory for themselves. "The
Youth of Sarrio" published in its next number the following laconic but
venomous paragraph:
"His excellency, the Senor Duke of Tornos, who was the guest of Don
Rosendo Belinchon, has moved to the first floor apartments of the
Estella Hotel. We offer the honored duke our sincerest congratulations."
This disgraceful notice made Belinchon ill for days, and then he sent
his seconds to Maza. But the mayor returned that they could not fight
while he was in office, but when that was over he would see if he could
not cross swords with such a blusterer. Then the seconds replying in a
similar tone, they were threatened with imprisonment and had to retire.
The Duke of Tornos continued visiting Don Rosendo's house occasionally,
and Belinchon and his friends always accompanied him when he went out.
The friendship between them remained outwardly the same. The small
neutral party in Sarrio thought that there was no mystery in his move,
and that it all originated in the ridiculous imaginations of the Cabin
party, who were blinded by the desire to get the better of their
adversaries. However, some days had elapsed, and September had come in
without bringing the advent of either the grandee's son or brother. The
duke himself had so much improved in health in Sarrio that he had his
carriage and horses brought from Madrid, and bought a charming little
fishing-boat. He seemed disposed to spend some months in Sarrio. In his
exterior relations with the Belinchon family--that is to say, when he
met them in the town--he assumed a courteous, kind manner befitting
people deserving much attention. He did not take such a familiar tone
with Venturita as before, but he chatted with her in the theatre and at
the Promenade in a playful way. Thus those who pried into the reason of
his leaving the house were put off the scent. Dona Paula was very
pleased at this behavior, and Gonzalo even, seeing that he could not
expect more, was courteous and polite to him.
Peace reigned again between the young couple. Venturita after a few
days, during which she looked pale and cross, and exchanged no word with
her husband, doubtless being hurt by the violence he had shown in the
scene described, resumed her usual demeanor--merry and pleasant
sometimes, cross and capricious at others, and always ready with a
sharp, sarcastic remark. Nevertheless, Gonzalo noticed an unaccustomed
amiability and deference in her manner, and he attributed it to her
desire to blot out the recollection of that transient but perilous
trouble they had undergone.
So the days drifted quietly by in Don Rosendo's house, only disturbed by
Dona Paula's attacks of illness. She was as often in bed as up, but she
took long drives with Cecilia, or Ventura, and often had her grandchild
Cecilita, whom she worshiped, with her. Don Rufo talked of the necessity
of her moving to another climate, to a place above the level of the sea,
where the air would be clearer, and Don Rosendo, although possessed with
the desire of exterminating his enemies and conferring happiness on his
natal town, entertained the idea of moving, albeit with some repugnance,
and amused himself by weaving vague grand utilitarian plans as usual. He
was inspired with the happy notion of transferring "The Light of Sarrio"
to Madrid, and making it a daily paper under the title of "The Light of
the Provinces," to defend the moral and material interests of the
provinces; to maintain their autonomic life independent and free in face
of the monopolizing action and power of the capital, "a raging fire that
dries up the sap of the nation and devours her inherited wealth." What a
great and noble thought!
At the end of October Gonzalo went to Lancia on business for his
father-in-law. It was a question of persuading a banker of the town not
to proceed with certain negotiations with a capitalist in Sarrio, a
certain member of the Cabin, according to report; anyhow, he was to let
Don Rosendo have the refusal of the offer in question on the same terms.
Gonzalo had been away two days. At dusk on the afternoon of the third
day Dona Paula thought she would go up and see Ventura, who had
returned to the second floor after the duke's departure. The good lady
very rarely ascended that iron staircase. But that day she felt
stronger, she had less pain in her side, and she wanted to try her
strength and prove to herself how much better she was. The immediate
object of her visit was to take her little granddaughter Cecilita a doll
which the maid had just finished dressing. The stairs seemed very high.
When she was half-way up she stopped to take breath, and on reaching the
landing she called as loudly as she could:
"Cecilita, my child, where are you?"
"Here, grandma, here," returned the child, coming out of her mother's
room.
She was a little creature, not yet three years old, with sunny golden
hair, and so spontaneous in her baby talk that her grandmother quite
adored her.
"What have you got for me, grandma? What have you got for me?" she
asked, looking eagerly at Dona Paula, after having nearly knocked her
over in the impetuous way she caught her by the legs.
"The doll, my child, with its new frock."
"No doll--the doll for Lalina--I'se big--I want chocolate."
"I have no chocolate here, my darling," replied the grandmother, looking
lovingly at the child.
"Mama has chocolates--come and give me one."
And the little girl dragged her grandmother by the dress to her mother's
room. On entering it the child seemed surprised, and looked about
everywhere, while Ventura came forward and embraced her mother
affectionately.
"My goodness! what a surprise! whatever brought you here? I don't know
that it is good for you to come upstairs like this. Do you feel all
right?"
"I am not very tired. I think I am better. Dehand's pills seem to do me
good."
"That's right. I am glad we have at last hit upon a medicine that does
some good. Won't you sit down?"
"Grandma, give me a chocolate," said the child, interrupting them.
"I haven't any, my dear. Have you any caramels, Ventura?"
"No."
"Jaime has some, and he is here."
Venturita turned dreadfully pale.
"What Jaime, child?" asked Dona Paula.
"Nobody, nobody; some nonsense. Well, these pills suit you, then?
Suppose Don Rufo heard of it. Suppose he heard of it!" Ventura repeated
in such a trembling voice and looking so confused that her mother gazed
at her in astonishment.
"Jaime is here--he has chocolate; come and see, grandma."
Whereupon the child dragged Dona Paula by the dress, and the lady,
vaguely apprehending something terrible, let herself be led without
knowing what she was doing.
"Cecilia!" cried Ventura in a voice unlike that ever heard by her
mother.
However, the child paid no heed, and went on dragging her grandmother
toward the bedroom. But before they reached the door the Duke of Tornos
appeared on the threshold.
At the sight of the sudden apparition Dona Paula stood rooted to the
spot, with her face white and terrified and her eyes staring in
amazement. Then she fell heavily to the floor, dragging the child with
her.
The duke hastened to raise her, and then, obedient to an imperious
gesture of Ventura, he laid her on the sofa and took his departure.
The cries of the girl soon brought up the servants and her sister. It
was thought it was a faint brought on by overfatigue. She was carried to
her room, where, thanks to Cecilia's care, she recovered consciousness,
but not her faculty of speech. The unhappy lady was powerless to
articulate a word. Two days went by, and the efforts of both Don Rufo
and another doctor who came from Lancia were powerless to restore action
to the paralyzed tongue.
She generally lay with her eyes shut, while soft sighs escaped her
lips; but when Venturita entered the room she opened her eyes, and fixed
them on her with an expression full of anguish and reproach.
Two days later, and almost at the same hour in which the fatal scene had
taken place, the unhappy lady expired, with her grief-stricken eyes
still fixed on Venturita's face, even in the hour of death.