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 outward
pompous 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 former 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 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."
"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 awfully 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 _Velasquez_.... 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?... 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 dope, was going about with his
lordly airs, stiff and solemn in his extinct grandeur, like the corpse
of the legendary 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.
THE WINDFALL
"I, sir," said _Magdalena_, the bugler of the prison, "am no saint; I've
been jailed many times for robberies; some of them that really took
place and others that I was simply suspected of. Compared to you, who
are a gentleman, and are in prison for having written things in the
papers, I'm a mere wretch.... But take my word for it, this time I'm
here for good."
And raising one hand to his breast as he straightened his head with a
certain pride, he added, "Petty thefts, that's all.... I'm not brave; I
haven't shed a drop of blood."
At break of day, _Magdalena's_ bugle resounded through the spacious
yard, embroidering its reveille with scales and trills. During the day,
with the martial instrument hanging from his neck, or caressing it with
a corner of his smock so as to wipe off the vapor with which the
dampness of the prison covered it, he would go through the entire
edifice,--an ancient convent in whose refectories, granaries, and
garrets there were crowded, in perspiring confusion, almost a thousand
men.
He was the clock that governed the life and the activities of this mass
of male flesh perpetually seething with hatred. He made the round of the
cells to announce, with sonorous blasts, the arrival of the worthy
director, or a visit from the authorities; from the progress of the sun
along the white walls of the prison-yard he could tell the approach of
the visiting hours,--the best part of the day,--and with his tongue
stuck between his lips he would await orders impatiently, ready to burst
into the joyous signal that sent the flock of prisoners scampering over
the stairways in an anxious run toward the locutories, where a wretched
crowd of women and children buzzed in conversation; his insatiable
hunger kept him pacing back and forth in the vicinity of the old
kitchen, in which the enormous stews filled the atmosphere with a
nauseating odor, and he bemoaned the indifference of the chef, who was
always late in giving the order for the mess-call.
Those imprisoned for crimes of blood, heroes of the dagger who had
killed their man in a fierce brawl or in a dispute over a woman and who
formed an aristocracy that disdained the petty thieves, looked upon the
bugler as the butt for pranks with which to while away their boredom.
"Blow!" would come the command from some formidable fellow, proud of his
crimes and his courage.
And _Magdalena_ would draw himself up with military rigidity, close his
mouth and inflate his cheeks, momentarily expecting two blows, delivered
simultaneously by both hands, to expel the air from the ruddy globe of
his face. At other times these redoubtable personages tested the
strength of their arms upon _Magdalena's_ pate, which was bare with the
baldness of repugnant diseases, and they would howl with laughter at the
damage done to their fists by the protuberances of the hard skull. The
bugler lent himself to these tortures with the humility of a whipped
dog, and found a certain revenge in repeating, afterwards, those words
that were a solace to him:
"I'm good; I'm not a brave fellow. Petty thefts, that's all.... But as
to blood, not a single drop."
Visiting time brought his wife, the notorious _Peluchona_, a valiant
creature who inspired him with great fear. She was the mistress of one
of the most dangerous bandits in the jail. Daily she brought that fellow
food, procuring these dainties at the cost of all manner of vile labors.
The bugler, upon beholding her, would leave the lucutory, fearing the
arrogance of her bandit mate, who would take advantage of the occasion
to humiliate him before his former companion. Many times a certain
feeling of curiosity and tenderness got the better of his fear, and he
would advance timidly, looking beyond the thick bars for the head of a
child that came with _la Peluchona_.
"That's my son, sir," he said humbly. "My Tonico, who no longer knows me
or remembers me. They say that he doesn't resemble me at all. Perhaps
he's not mine.... You can imagine, with the life his mother has always
led, living near the garrisons, washing the soldiers' clothes!... But he
was born in my home; I held him in my arms when he was ill, and that's a
bond as close as ties of blood."
Then he would resume his timid lurking about the locutory, as if
preparing one of his robberies, to see his Tonico; and when he could see
him for a moment, the sight was enough to extinguish his helpless rage
before the full basket of lunch that the evil woman brought to her
lover.
_Magdalena's_ whole existence was summed up in two facts; he had robbed
and he had travelled much. The robberies were insignificant; clothes or
money snatched in the street, because he lacked courage for greater
deeds. His travels had been compulsory,--always on foot, over the roads
of Spain, marching in a chain gang of convicts, between the polished or
white three-cornered hats that guarded the prisoners.
After having been a "pupil" among the buglers of a regiment, he had
launched upon his life of continuous imprisonment, punctuated by brief
periods of freedom, in which he lost his bearings, not knowing what to
do with himself and wishing to return as soon as possible to jail. It
was the perpetual chain, but finished link by link, as he used to say.
The police never organized a round-up of dangerous persons but what
_Magdalena_ was found among them,--a timorous rat whose name the papers
mentioned like that of a terrible criminal. He was always included in
the trail of vagrant suspects who, without being charged with any
specific crime, were sent from province to province by the authorities,
in the hope that they would die of hunger along the roads, and thus he
had covered the whole peninsula on foot, from Cádiz to Santander, from
Valencia to La Coruna. With what enthusiasm he recalled his travels! He
spoke of them as if they were joyous excursions, just like a wandering
charity-student of the old _Tuna_ converting his tales into courses in
picturesque geography. With hungry delight he recollected the abundant
milk of Galicia, the red sausages of Extramadura, the Castilian bread,
the Basque apples, the wines and ciders of all the districts he had
traversed, with his luggage on his shoulder. Guards were changed every
day,--some of them kind or indifferent, others ill-humored and cruel,
who made all the prisoners fear a couple of shots fired beyond the ruts
of the road, followed by the papers justifying the killing as having
been caused by an attempt at flight. With a certain nostalgia he evoked
the memory of mountains covered with snow or reddened and striped by the
sun; the slow procession along the white road that was lost in the
horizon, like an endless ribbon; the highlands, under the trees, in the
hot noon hours; the storms that assailed them upon the highways;
inundated ravines that forced them to camp out in the open; the arrival,
late at night, at certain town prisons, old convents or abandoned
churches, in which every man hunted up a dry corner, protected from
draughts, where he could stretch his mat; the endless journey with all
the long halts in spots where life was so monotonous that the presence
of a group of prisoners was an event; the urchins would come running up
to the bars to speak with them, while the girls, impelled by morbid
curiosity, would approach within a short distance, to hear their songs
and their obscene language.
"Some mighty interesting travels, sir," continued the robber. "For those
of us who had good health and didn't drop by the roadside it was the
same as a strolling band of students. Now and then a drubbing, but who
pays any attention to such things!... They don't have these
_conductions_ now; prisoners are transported by railroad, caged up in
the cars. Besides I am held for a criminal offense, and I must live
inside the walls ... jailed for good."
And again he began to lament his bad luck, relating the final deed that
had landed him in jail.
It was a suffocating Sunday in July; an afternoon in which the streets
of Valencia seemed to be deserted, under the burning sun and a wind like
a furnace blast that came from the baked plains of the interior.
Everybody was at the bull-fight or at the sea-shore. _Magdalena_ was
approached by his friend _Chamorra_, an old prison traveling companion,
who exercised a certain influence over him. That _Chamorra_ was a bad
soul! A thief, but of the sort that go the limit, not recoiling before
the necessity of shedding blood and with his knife always handy beside
his skeleton-keys. It was a matter of cleaning out a certain house, upon
which this fearful fellow had set his eye. _Magdalena_ modestly excused
himself. He wasn't made for such things; he couldn't go so far. As for
gliding up to a roof and pulling down the clothes that had been hung out
to dry, or snatching a woman's purse with a quick pull and making off
with it ... all right. But to break into a house, and face the mystery
of a dwelling, in which the people might be at home?...
But _Chamorra's_ threatening look inspired him with greater fear than
did the anticipation of such an encounter, and he finally consented.
Very well; he would go as an assistant,--to carry the spoils, but ready
to flee at the slightest alarm. And he refused to accept an old
jack-knife that his companion offered him. He was consistent.
"Petty thefts aplenty; but as to blood, not a single drop."
Late in the afternoon they entered the narrow vestibule of a house that
had no janitor, and whose inhabitants were all away. _Chamorra_ knew his
victim; a comfortably fixed artisan who must have a neat little pile
saved up. He was surely at the beach with his wife or at the bull-fight.
Above, the door of the apartment yielded easily, and the two companions
began to work in the gloom of the shuttered windows.
_Chamorra_ forced the locks of two chiffoniers and a closet. There was
silver coin, copper coin, several bank-notes rolled up at the bottom of
a fan-case, the wedding-jewelry, a clock. Not a bad haul. His anxious
looks wandered over the place, seeking to make off with everything that
could be carried. He lamented the uselessness of _Magdalena_, who,
restless with fear and with his arms hanging limp at his sides, was
pacing to and fro without knowing what to do.
"Take the quilts," ordered _Chamorra_, "we're sure to get something for
the wool." And _Magdalena_, eager to finish the job as soon as possible,
penetrated into the dark alcove, gropingly passing a rope underneath the
quilts and the bed-sheets. Then, aided by his friend, he hurriedly made
a bundle of everything, casting the voluminous burden upon his
shoulders.
They left without being detected, and walked off in the direction of the
outskirts of the town, toward a shanty of Arrancapinos, where _Chamorra_
had his haunt. The latter walked ahead, ready to run at the first sign
of danger; _Magdalena_ followed, trotting along, almost hidden beneath
the tremendous load, fearing to feel at any moment the hand of the
police upon his neck.
Upon examining the proceeds of the robbery in the remote corral,
_Chamorra_ exhibited the arrogance of a lion, granting his accomplice a
few copper coins. This must be enough for the moment. He did this for
_Magdalena's_ own good, as _Magdalena_ was such a spendthrift. Later he
would give more.
Then they untied the bundle of quilts, and _Chamorra_ bent over, his
hands on his hips, exploding with laughter. What a find!... What a
present!
_Magdalena_ likewise burst into guffaws, for the first time that
afternoon. Upon the bed-clothes lay an infant, dressed only in a little
shirt, its eyes shut and its face purple from suffocation, but moving
its chest with difficulty at feeling the first caress of fresh air.
_Magdalena_ recalled the vague sensation he had experienced during his
journey hither,--that of something alive moving inside the thick load on
his back. A weak, suffocated whining pursued him in his flight.... The
mother had left the little one asleep in the cool darkness of the
alcove, and they, without knowing it, had carried it off together with
the bed-clothes.
_Magdalena's_ frightened eyes now looked questioningly at his companion.
What were they to do with the child?... But that evil soul was laughing
away like a very demon.
"It's yours; I present it to you.... Eat it with potatoes."
And he went off with all the spoils. _Magdalena_ was left standing in
doubt, while he cradled the child in his arms. The poor little thing!...
It looked just like his own Tono, when he was ill and leaned his little
head upon his father's bosom, while the parent wept, fearing for the
child's life. The same little soft, pink feet; the same downy flesh,
with skin as soft as silk.... The infant had ceased to cry, looking with
surprised eyes at the robber, who was caressing it like a nurse.
"Lullaby, my poor little thing! There, there, my little king ... child
Jesus! Look at me. I'm your uncle."
But _Magdalena_ stopped laughing, thinking of the mother, of her
desperate grief when she would return to the house. The loss of her
little fortune would be her least concern. The child! Where was she to
find her child?... He knew what mothers were like. _Peluchona_ was the
worst of women, yet he had seen even her weep and moan before her little
one in danger.
He gazed toward the sun, which was beginning to sink in a majestic
summer sunset. There was still time to take the infant back to the house
before its parents would return. And if he should encounter them, he
would lie, saying that he found the infant in the middle of the street;
he would extricate himself as well as he could. Forward; he had never
felt so brave.
Carrying the infant in his arms he walked at ease through the very
streets over which he had lately hastened with the anxious gait of fear.
He mounted the staircase without encountering anybody. Above, the same
solitude. The door was still open, the bolt forced. Within, the
disordered rooms, the broken furniture, the drawers upon the floor, the
overturned chairs and clothes strewn about, filled him with a sensation
of terror similar to that which assails the assassin who returns to
contemplate the corpse of his victim some time after the crime.
He gave a last fond kiss to the child and left it upon the bed.
"Good-bye, my pet!"
But as he approached the head of the staircase he heard footsteps, and
in the rectangle of light that entered through the open door there
bulked the silhouette of a corpulent man. At the same time there rang
out the shrill shriek of a female voice, trembling with fright:
"Robbers!... Help!"
_Magdalena_ tried to escape, opening a passage for himself with his head
lowered, like a cornered rat; but he felt himself seized by a pair of
Cyclopean arms, accustomed to beating iron, and with a mighty thrust he
was sent rolling down the stairs.
On his face there were still signs of the bruises he had received from
contact with the steps, and from the blows rained upon him by the
infuriated neighbors.
"In sum, sir. Breaking and entering. I'll get out in heaven knows how
many years.... All for being kind-hearted. To make matters worse, they
don't even give me any consideration, looking upon me as a clever
criminal. Everybody knows that the real thief was _Chamorra_ whom I
haven't seen since.... And they ridicule me for a silly fool."
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.