While they were talking, I observed the face of Mariquilla, which
seemed in the darkness as if modelled of white wax, and of the soft
tone and finish of ivory. From her black eyes, whenever she raised
them to the heavens, swift lights flashed; her black pupils seemed
to reflect the clearness of the sky; in their depths two points of
brightness shone or were hidden, according to the changeful mood
expressed in her glance. It was curious to observe the passionate
creature telling of that stormy crisis which had moved and exalted her
sensibilities to the heights of courage. Her languorous attitude, her
dove-like cooing, the warm affection which radiated in her atmosphere,
did not associate themselves readily with manifestations of heroism in
defence of her insulted father. Attentive observation easily discovered
that both currents flowed from the same source.
"I admire your noble filial affection," said Augustine. "But you must
think of this. I do not exonerate those who maltreated your father.
But you must not forget that he is the only one who has not given
anything for the war. Don Jeronimo is an excellent person, but he has
not an atom of patriotism in his soul. The misfortunes of the city are
of no consequence to him, and he even seems to rejoice when we do not
come out victorious."
Mariquilla sighed, lifting her eyes to heaven.
"It is true," she said; "every day and every hour I beseech him to give
something for the war. I am able to get nothing; although I exaggerate
the necessities of the poor soldiers, and the bad record that he is
making in Saragossa. He only gets angry with me, and says that the one
who brought on the war is the one to pay for it. In the other siege I
was delighted at news of a victory. The fourth of August I went out
into the street all alone, unable to resist my curiosity. One night I
was at the house of the Urries, and they were celebrating the battle
of that day, which had been very brilliant. I also began to rejoice,
and show enthusiasm. An old woman who was present said to me in a high
voice, and a very unpleasant tone, 'My child, instead of indulging
in these emotions, why do you not carry to the hospital an old sheet
to stanch blood? In the house of Señor Candiola, whose cellars are
full of money, is there not some old rag to give to the wounded? Your
miserable papa is the only one, the only one of all the citizens of
Saragossa who has not given anything for the war.' Everybody laughed
on hearing this; but I was dumb with shame, not daring to speak. I
remained in a corner of the room until the end of the party, and nobody
spoke another word to me. My few girl friends who used to love me so
much did not come near me. I could hear people speak from time to time
the name of my father, with harsh comments and ugly nicknames. Oh, it
was heartbreaking! When I started to come home, they hardly told me
good-bye. The host and hostess dismissed me very abruptly. I came home
and went to bed, and cried all night. The shame of it seemed burning in
my blood."
"Mariquilla," cried Augustine, lovingly, "your goodness is so great
that because of it God will forget the cruelties of your father."
"A few days afterwards," she went on, "on the fourth of August, those
two wounded men came that my father's enemy spoke of this morning.
When we heard that the committee had assigned two wounded men to our
house to be taken care of, Guedita and I were delighted, and, wild
with pleasure, began to prepare beds, bandages, and lint. We were
waiting for them anxiously, running to the window every minute to see
if they were coming. At last they came. My father, who had just come
in from the street in a very black mood, complaining that many of his
debtors had been killed, losing him all hope of collecting from them,
received the wounded soldiers very badly. I embraced him, weeping,
and begged him to take them in; but he would not listen to me and
in his blind anger, he pushed them down into the gutter, barred the
door, and went upstairs, saying, 'Let their own parents take care of
them!' It was night. Guedita and I were in perfect despair. We did not
know what to do. We could hear the moans of those two poor fellows,
dragging themselves along in the street, begging for help. My father
shut himself up in his room to make up his accounts, caring nothing
for them or for us. We went softly, so that he would not hear us, to
the front window, and threw them cloths for bandages; but they could
not reach them. We spoke to them, and they held out their hands to us.
We fastened a little basket to the end of a cane, and passed them out
some food; but one of them was dying, and the other suffering so much
that he could not eat. We said what we could to encourage them, and
prayed to God for them. At last we resolved to come down and go out
to help them, if only for a moment. My father caught us here in the
balcony, and was furious. That night, what a night! O Holy Virgin! one
of them died in the street, and the other one dragged himself on to
find pity elsewhere."
Augustine and I were silent, reflecting upon the monstrous
contradictions of that house.
"Mariquilla," my friend said, presently, "how proud I am of loving you!
Saragossa does not know your heart of gold, and it must be known. I
wish to tell the whole world that I love you, and prove to my parents
when they know it that I have made a good choice."
"I am like any other girl," said Mariquilla, with humility; "and your
parents will not see in me anything but the daughter of the one whom
they call the Mallorcan Jew. Oh, the shame kills me! I wish I could
go away from Saragossa, somewhere that I could never again see any of
these people. My father came from Palma, it is true; but he is not a
Jew. He is descended from the old Christians; and my mother was a woman
of Aragon, of the Rincon family. Why are we despised? What have we
done?"
Mariquilla's lips quivered in a half disdainful smile. Augustine,
tormented doubtless by painful feeling, remained silent, his brow leant
upon the hands of his sweetheart. Gruesome shapes of dread raised
themselves threateningly between them. With the eyes of the soul he and
she beheld them, filled with fear. After a long pause, Augustine lifted
his face.
"Mariquilla, why are you silent? Tell me."
"Why are you silent, Augustine?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking that God will protect us," said the young man. "When the
siege is ended, we will marry. If you wish to leave Saragossa, I will
go with you wherever you wish to go. Has your father ever spoken to you
of marriage?"
"Never."
"He shall not prevent your marrying me. My parents will oppose it; but
my mind is made up. I do not understand life except through you, and
if I lost you I could not exist. You are the supreme necessity of my
soul. Without you I should be like the universe without light. No human
power shall separate us as long as you love me. This conviction is
so rooted in me that if I should ever think that we must be separated
in life, it would be to me as if all nature were overthrown. _I_
without _you!_ That seems to me the wildest of ideas. I without you!
What madness, what absurdity! It is like the sea on the top of the
mountains, like the snow in the depths of the ocean. It is like rivers
running through the sky, and the stars made into fiery powder in the
deserts of the earth. It is as if the trees should talk, and man should
live among metals and precious stones in the bowels of the earth. I
am a coward at times, and I tremble, thinking of the obstacles that
seem overwhelming before us; but the confidence that fills my spirit,
like faith in holy things, reanimates me. If sometimes for a moment I
fear death, afterwards a secret voice tells me that I shall not die
as long as you are alive. Do you see all the destruction made by the
siege which we are enduring? Do you see how the bombs and shells shower
about us, and how numbers of my companions fall never to rise? Yet,
except momentarily, none of this causes me any fear. I believe that the
Virgin del Pilar keeps death away from me. Your sensitiveness keeps you
in constant communion with the angels of heaven. You are an angel of
heaven, and loving you and being loved by you gives me a divine power
against which the forces of man avail nothing."
Augustine went on for a long time in this strain, pouring out from his
over-flowing fancy the love and the superstitions which held him in
thrall.
"Indeed, I too have unchanging confidence, as you say," said
Mariquilla. "I am often afraid that you will be killed; but I know
not what voices I hear in the depths of my soul telling me that they
will not kill you. It may be because I pray so much, pleading with
God to preserve your life among all these horrors and in battle. I
do not know. At night when I go to rest, thinking of the bombs that
have fallen, and those that are falling, and those that will fall, I
go to sleep and dream of battle, and never cease hearing the noise of
cannon. I am very restless, and Guedita, who sleeps near me, says that
I talk in my sleep, saying a thousand mad things. I must certainly say
something, for I am always dreaming. I see you on the wall. I talk
with you, and you answer me. The balls do not touch you; and it seems
to me it is because of the prayers I say for you, waking and sleeping.
A few nights ago I dreamed that I went with other girls to take care
of the wounded, and that we were taking care of a great many, almost
bringing them back to life by what we were doing for them. I dreamed
that when I came back to the house I found you here with your father,
an old man, who was smiling and talking with mine, both seated upon
the sofa in the sala. Then I dreamed that your father smiled at me,
and began to ask me questions. Sometimes I dream sad things. When I
am awake I listen, and if I do not hear the noise of the bombardment,
I ask if it can be that the French have raised the siege. If I hear a
cannonading, I look at the image of the Virgin del Pilar which is in
my room, and I question it in thought, and it answers me that you are
not dead, without my knowing how the answer is given. I spend the day
thinking about the ramparts, and I wait at the window to hear what the
soldiers say who pass by in the street. Sometimes I feel tempted to
ask them if they have seen you. Night comes; I see you again, and I
am, oh, so contented! The next day Guedita and I occupy ourselves in
cooking something good, unknown to my father. If it is successful, we
save it for you; if it is not quite so nice, that little friar called
Father Busto takes it to the wounded and sick. He comes after dark
to get it, on the pretext of visiting Doña Guedita, of whom he is a
kinsman. We ask him how goes the battle, and he tells us all about it,
that the troops are performing deeds of great valor, and the French
will be obliged to retire in good time. This news that all goes well
makes us wild with joy. The noise of the bombs saddens us afterwards,
but praying we recover our tranquillity. Alone in our room at night, we
make lint and bandages which Father Busto also takes secretly, as if
they were stolen goods. If we hear my father's steps, we hide it all
quickly, and put out the light, because if he should find out what we
are doing he would be very angry."
Mariquilla smiled almost gayly as she told of her fears and joys with
divine simplicity. The peculiar charm of her voice is indescribable.
Her words, like the vibration of crystal notes, left a harmonious
echo in the soul. As she ceased speaking, the first splendors of dawn
illuminated her face.
"The day is breaking, Mariquilla," said Augustine, "and we must go.
To-day we are going to defend Las Tenerias. This will be a dreadful
day, and many will be killed. But the Virgin del Pilar will protect us,
and we shall live to rejoice in victory. Mariquilla, the balls will
not touch me."
"Do not go yet," replied the daughter of Candiola. "Day is coming, it
is true; but they do not need you yet upon the walls."
The bell in the tower sounded.
"Look how those birds cruise about in the heavens, announcing the
dawn," said Augustine, with bitter irony.
One, two, three bombs traversed the sky, as yet faintly illumined.
"How frightful!" cried Mariquilla, yielding to the embrace of Montoria.
"Will God keep us to-day as He preserved us yesterday?"
"We must go to the walls," I cried, rising quickly. "Do you not hear
all the drums and bells sounding the call to arms?"
Mariquilla, in indescribable panic, was weeping and trying to detain
Montoria. I was resolved on going at once, and endeavored to take him
away with me. The noise of the drums and the bells in the belfries
of the city were sounding the call to arms. And if we did not rush
instantly into the lines, we ran the risk of being shot or arrested.
"I must go, I must go, Mariquilla," said my friend, with profound
emotion. "Are you afraid? No, this house is sacred because you live in
it, and will be respected by the enemy's fire. God will not visit your
father's cruelty upon your sacred head."
The Doña Guedita appeared abruptly, saying that her master was up and
dressing hastily. Then Mariquilla herself hurried us to the foot of the
garden, ordering us to go at once. Augustine was in anguish, and at the
gate, hesitated and stepped backward as if to return to the side of the
unhappy girl, who, half dead of fright, her hands folded in prayer, was
weeping, seeing us go from where she stood in the shade of the cypress
which had sheltered us. At the moment when we opened the gate, a cry
was heard from the upper part of the house, and we saw Candiola, who,
half-dressed, was leaning out in a threatening attitude. Augustine
wished to turn back; but I forced him forward, and we went.
"To the lines! To the lines, at once!" I cried. "They will degrade us,
Augustine! Leave your future father-in-law to deal with your future
wife for the present."
We ran swiftly into the Coso, where we saw that innumerable bombs were
being hurled upon the unhappy city. Everybody ran as fast as possible
to the various positions of defence,--some to Las Tenerias, some to
the Portillo, some to Santa Engracia or to the Trinitarios. As we
arrived at the arch of Cineja, we stumbled upon Don José de Montoria,
who, followed by some of his friends, was running towards the Almudi.
In the same moment a terrible crash behind us proclaimed that one
of the enemy's projectiles had fallen upon a neighboring residence.
Augustine, hearing this, turned back, longing to return to the place
from whence we came.
"Where are you going, porra!" cried his father, detaining him. "To the
Tenerias! Make haste! To the Tenerias!"
The people who were coming and going knew the place of the disaster,
and we heard them saying,--
"Three bombs have fallen close to the house of Candiola."
"The angels of heaven certainly aimed those guns," laughed Don José de
Montoria, noisily. "We shall see how the Mallorcan Jew keeps them off,
if he is still alive till he puts his money in a place of safety."
"Let us run and rescue those unfortunate beings!" cried Augustine, with
emotion.
"To the lines, cowards!" said his father, holding him with an iron
hand. "That is the work of women; men must die in the breach."
It was necessary to make haste to our places, and we went, or rather we
were carried by the impetuous surge of the people running to defend the
suburb of Las Tenerias.