We deceived the old man and went. The night was now far advanced, as
the interment which I have just described had lasted more than three
hours. The light of the fire could no longer be seen. The mass of the
tower was lost in the darkness of night, and its great bell did not
sound except now and then to announce the coming of a bomb. We arrived
soon at the Plazuela of San Felipe. Seeing the roof of a house near the
church still smoking, we knew that it was this, and not the house of
Candiola, which three hours before the flames had attacked.
"God has preserved it!" cried Augustine, joyously. "If the meanness of
her father should bring divine anger upon that roof, the virtues and
innocence of Mariquilla would preserve it! Let us go there."
In the Plazuela of San Felipe there were a few people, but the Calle de
Anton Trillo was deserted. We stopped close to the wall of the garden
and listened attentively. All was in such deep silence that the house
seemed abandoned. Could it really be abandoned? Although this quarter
was one of those least damaged by the bombardment, many families had
left it, or were living as refugees in their own cellars.
"If I go in," said Augustine to me, "you must come in with me. After
the scene of to-day, I am afraid that Don Jeronimo, suspicious and
cowardly, like a good miser, will be up all night and about his garden,
lest they return and carry off his whole place."
"In that case it is better not to go in," I answered, "because besides
the danger of falling into the hands of that old scoundrel, there would
be a great scandal, and all Saragossa will know that the son of Don
José Montoria, the young man destined for a bishop's mitre, goes by
night to see the daughter of the goodman Candiola."
But this and all that I could say to him was like preaching in the
desert. Without listening to reason, and insisting that I should
follow him, he made the signal of love, waiting and watching with
great anxiety for the reply. Some time passed, and at last, after long
looking and looking again from the pavement in front, we saw a light in
a high window. We heard the fastening of the gate drawn back softly,
and it was opened without creaking. Love had taken precautions, and the
ancient hinges had been oiled. We two entered meeting, unexpectedly,
not a perfumed and fascinating damsel, but a vinegary countenance which
I recognized at once as that of Doña Guedita.
"He lets hours pass before he comes, and then he comes with another,"
she grumbled. "Young men, be so kind as to make no noise. Walk on
tip-toe, and be careful not to stumble over even a dried leaf, because
Señor Candiola seems to me to be very wide awake."
This she said to us in a voice so low that we heard with difficulty;
then she went on before, making signs that we should follow her,
putting her finger to her lips to enjoin absolute silence. The garden
was small. We soon crossed it, and came to the stone staircase which
led up to the doorway of the house. Here there came to meet us a
shapely figure wrapped in a mantle, or cloak. It was Mariquilla! Her
first gesture was to impose silence, indicating with anxiety, as I saw,
a window which opened upon the garden. She then showed surprise that
Augustine had not come unaccompanied. But he knew how to soothe her,
saying, "It is Gabriel, my best, my only friend, of whom I have spoken
so many times."
"Speak lower," whispered Mariquilla; "my father went out of his room a
little while ago with a lantern, and made the rounds of the house and
the garden. I doubt if he is asleep yet. The night is dark. Let us hide
in the shadow of the cypress, and talk in a very low voice."
The stone stairway led up to a kind of balcony with a wooden railing.
The great cypress in the garden cast a deep shadow at the end of the
balcony, forming there a refuge against the clear light of the moon.
The bare boughs of an elm spread above the other end of the balcony,
casting a thousand fantastic shadows upon the floor, upon the walls
of the house, and upon ourselves. In the protection of the cypress,
Mariquilla seated herself upon the only seat that was there, and
Montoria threw himself upon the floor beside her, resting his hands
upon her knees. I seated myself also upon the floor not far from the
pair. It was a January night, still, dry, and cold. Perhaps the two
lovers with hearts aflame did not feel the low temperature; but I,
a creature stranger to their fires, wrapped myself in my cloak to
keep myself from the chill of the tiles. Guedita had disappeared.
Mariquilla led the conversation, plunging at once into the difficulty.
"I saw you in the street this morning. When Guedita and I heard the
noise of the people crowding about our gate, I went to the window, and
I saw you on the sidewalk in front."
"It is true, I was there," replied Montoria, with emotion, "but I was
obliged to go at once. I couldn't stand it."
"Didn't you see how those barbarians were trampling my father
underfoot? When that cruel man struck him, I looked everywhere, hoping
that you would come forward in his defence. But I did not see you
anywhere."
"I tell you, Mariquilla of my heart," said Augustine, "that I was
obliged to go. After they told me that your father had been so
ill-treated, I came as soon as I could get a chance."
"A pretty time to come! Among so many, so many people," said
Mariquilla, weeping, "not one lifted a hand to help him. I nearly died
of fright, seeing him in such danger. I looked anxiously into the
street, and there was no one but enemies, no one; not one kind hand or
voice among all those men! One of them, more cruel than all, knocked
my father down. Oh, oh, remembering this, I scarcely know what happened
next! When I saw it, my fright paralyzed me for a few moments. Until
then I never knew what violent anger was, how a sudden impulse, an
inward fire, could drive me on. I came to him. My poor father was lying
on the ground, and the wretch was trampling upon him as if he were a
venomous reptile. When I saw that, I felt my blood boil in my veins. As
I have told you, I ran about the house, looking for a weapon, a knife,
an axe, anything. When I heard the cries of my father, I flew down.
Finding myself among so many men, I felt a strange, uncontrollable
timidity, and could not stir a step. The same man who had kicked him
handed me a fistful of gold. I did not want to take it, but I did; then
I threw all the coins into his face, with all my strength. My hand was
as if filled with thunderbolts, and I felt as if I were avenging my
father, hurling them at that villain. I went out afterwards, looking
everywhere for you; but I could not see you. I found my father alone in
that inhuman crowd, down in the mud, begging for mercy."
"Oh, Mariquilla, Mariquilla of my heart!" cried Augustine in anguish,
kissing the hands of the unhappy daughter of the miser. "Don't talk
any more about all that. You tear my soul in two! I could not defend
him. I--I had to go. I believed the crowd was after something--else.
You are right. But let us talk no more of this which grieves me so, and
gives me such bitter pain."
"If you had come to the defence of my father, he would have felt
gratitude towards you. From gratitude one passes readily to affection.
You would have been received openly in the house."
"Your father is incapable of affection for any one," replied Montoria.
"Do not hope that we can accomplish anything in that way. Let us
trust that we may arrive at the fulfilment of our desires by hidden
ways, perhaps by the help of God when it least seems likely. Let us
not depend upon aught else, or think of what is before us. We are
surrounded by dangers and obstacles that seem unsurmountable. Let us
hope for help from the unseen, and filled by faith in God and the power
of our love, let us wait for the miracle which will unite us. For it
will be a miracle, Mariquilla, a wonder like those they tell of in
olden times, that we refuse to believe."
"A miracle!" exclaimed Mariquilla, sadly. "It is true. You are a young
gentleman of position, the son of parents who would never consent
to see you married to the daughter of Señor Candiola. My father is
abhorred all over the city. Everybody flees from us. No one visits us.
If I go out they point at me, and look at me with insolent contempt.
Girls of my own age will not associate with me, and the young men of
the city who go about singing serenades under the windows of their
sweethearts, come to mine to utter insults against my father, calling
me also dreadful names to my face. Oh, my God, I understand that it
would be indeed a miracle for me to be happy! Augustine, we have known
each other now for nearly four months, and you have not yet told me the
name of your parents. It certainly cannot be as odious as mine. Why do
you hide it? If it were necessary that our love should be made public,
you would not dare meet the looks of your friends, you would flee with
horror from the daughter of Candiola."
"Oh, no, don't say that!" cried Augustine, pressing against Mariquilla,
and hiding his face in her lap. "Don't say that I am ashamed of loving
you. In saying that you insult God. It is not true. To-day our love
remains a secret, because it is necessary that it should be so. But
when it is necessary to make it known, I will make it known, and defy
the anger of my father face to face. Yes, Mariquilla, my parents will
curse me, and turn me out of doors. A few nights ago you said to
me, looking at that monument which we can see from here, 'When that
tower becomes straight, I will leave off loving you.' I swear to you
that the strength of my love is more immovable than the equilibrium
of yonder tower; for that could fall to the ground, but could never
stand upright. The works of man are variable, those of Nature are
unchangeable and rest evermore upon an everlasting base. You have seen
the Moncayo, that great rock which is near Poniente in the suburb?
Well, when Moncayo gets tired of being in that place, and moves and
comes walking towards Saragossa, putting one of its feet upon our city
and reducing it to powder, then and then only will I cease to love you."
By this sort of hyperbole and poetic naturalism my friend expressed
his great love, flattering the imagination of the beautiful girl, who
responded, leaning forward, moved by an impulse like his own. They were
both silent for a moment, then the two, or rather the three of us,
exclaimed all together, looking at the tower whose belfry had flung
to the winds two signals of alarm. At the same moment a globe of fire
ploughed the black space, describing rapid circles.
"A bomb! It is a bomb," exclaimed Mariquilla, trembling, and throwing
herself into the arms of her lover. The dreadful light passed swiftly
over our heads, over the garden and the house, illuminating on its way
the tower, the neighboring houses, and the nook where we were hidden.
Then the report was heard. The bell began to ring violently, and was
joined by others near and far, loud, heavy, sharp, jangled; and we
heard the noise of feet and voices of people in the nearest streets.
"That bomb will not kill us," said Augustine, soothing his sweetheart.
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes, very, very much afraid," she answered. "I spend the nights
praying, asking God to keep the fire away from our house. Until now
no misfortune has come near us, either now or in the other siege. But
how many unhappy ones have perished, how many houses of good people
who never harmed any one have been destroyed by the flames! I long
earnestly to go like other women and take care of the suffering; but my
father forbids me, and is angry with me whenever I propose it."
As she said this, we heard within the house a distant sound of talking,
in which the harsh tones of Candiola were mingled with the voice of
Guedita. We three, obeying one impulse, drew into the shadow and held
our breaths, fearing to be surprised. Then we heard the voice of the
miser coming nearer, and saying,--
"What are you doing up at this hour, Señora Guedita?"
"Señor," answered the old woman, showing herself at a window which
opened upon the balcony, "who can sleep during this dreadful
bombardment? Perhaps a bomb may come and meddle with us here. What if
the house should take fire, and the neighbors should come to drag out
the furniture and put out the fire, and find us in our night-clothes?
Oh, what a lack of modesty! I do not intend to undress myself while
this devilish bombardment lasts."
"Is my daughter asleep?" asked Candiola, appearing at another garden
window.
"She is upstairs sleeping like a kitten," replied the duenna. "They
speak truly when they say that there are no dangers for innocence. A
bomb does not frighten the child any more than a sky-rocket."
"I wonder if I can see from here where the projectile has fallen," said
Candiola, stretching his body out of the window, in order to be able
to extend his range of vision. "I can see the light of a fire, but I
cannot say whether it is near or far."
"Oh, I don't know anything about bombs," said Guedita, who had come out
on the balcony. "This one has fallen over there by the market."
"So it seems. If only all would fall upon the houses of those who
persist in keeping up the defence and causing the destruction! If I
am not deceived, Señora Guedita, the fire is near the Calle de la
Triperia. Are not the storehouses of the junta of supplies over there?
Oh, blessed bomb, why not fall into the Calle de la Hilarza, upon the
house of that cursed, most miserable thief! Señora Guedita, I am going
to the Calle de la Hilarza, to see if it has fallen on the house of
that proud, meddlesome, cowardly thief, Don José de Montoria. I have
prayed for it to-night to the Virgin del Pilar with so much fervor, and
also at the Santas Masas and at Santo Dominguito del Val, that at last
I believe I have been heard."
"Señor Don Jeronimo," said the old woman, "do not go out! The cold of
the night is bad for you, and it is not worth risking your lungs to see
where the bomb has fallen. It is enough that it has not meddled with
this house. If that one which passed did not fall into the house of
that barbarian of an official, another will fall to-morrow. The French
have a good handful. Now, your honor, go to rest. I will stay up and
look after the house."
Candiola changed his mind about going out, it seemed, in accordance
with the good counsels of his servant, and, shutting the window, he
was heard no more during all the rest of the night. But although he
disappeared, the lovers did not break the silence, fearful of being
overheard. And not until the old woman came to tell us that the señor
was snoring like a peasant was the interrupted dialogue continued.
"My father wished that the bombs would fall upon the house of his
enemy," said Mariquilla. "I should not like to see them fall anywhere;
but if at any time one could wish ill-fortune to a neighbor, it would
be now, do you not think so?"
Augustine made no answer.
"You went away. You did not see how that man, the most cruel, the
most cowardly of all who came, knocked him down in his blind fury, and
trampled upon him. The fiends will kick his soul in hell like that,
won't they?"
"Yes," replied the young man, laconically.
"To-day, after it all, Guedita and I dressed the wounds of my father.
He was stretched upon his bed, crazy, desperate. He was twisting about,
gnawing his fists and lamenting that he was not stronger than his
enemy. We tried to console him, but he told us to be silent. He struck
me in the face, he was so angry when he heard that I had thrown away
the money for the flour. He was furious with me. He told me that since
he could not get any more, the three thousand reales on account should
not be despised. He said that I am a spendthrift, and am ruining him.
We could not calm him in any way. Towards nightfall we heard another
noise in the street, and were afraid that the same ones who were here
in the middle of the day were returning. My father was raging, and
determined to get up. I was greatly frightened; but I took courage,
realizing that courage was necessary. Thinking of you, I said, 'If he
were in the house, no one would dare insult us.' As the noise in the
street increased, I plucked up all my courage. I shut and fastened the
doors and gates, and, begging my father to keep quiet in his bed, I
waited, resolved. While Guedita was on her knees, praying to all the
saints in heaven, I searched the house for a weapon. At last I found
a big knife. The sight of it has always frightened me, but to-day I
clutched it fearlessly. Oh, I was beside myself! Now the very thought
of it makes me frightened. I am usually unable to look upon a wounded
man, and tremble at the sight of a drop of blood. I almost cry if I
see any one beat a dog before me. I have never had the force to kill a
mosquito. But this evening, Augustine, this evening, when I heard the
noise in the street, when I thought those blows upon the gate had come
again, when I expected every moment to see those men before me, I swear
to you that if that had happened which I feared, if when I was in my
father's room, by his bedside, if that same man had come who abused
him a few hours before, I swear to you that there I myself would have
struck him through the heart."
"Hush, for God's sake!" cried Montoria, horrified. "You frighten me.
Hearing you, you almost make me feel as if your own hands, these
divine hands, struck cold steel through my breast. Nobody will maltreat
your father again. You see already that your alarm of to-night was
nothing but fright. No, you would not have been capable of what you
say. You are a woman, and a weak one, sensitive, timid, incapable of
killing a man, unless you kill him of love. The knife would have fallen
from your hands, and you would not have stained their purity with the
blood of a fellow being. These horrible things are only for us men,
born for conflict; sometimes we find ourselves in the sad strait of
wrenching the life from other men. Mariquilla, do not talk any more
nonsense. Do not think of those who offended you! Forgive them, and do
not kill any one, even in thought."