SALABERT'S DAUGHTER.
Clementina descended the stairs in some anxiety, and on setting foot in
the street, breathed a sigh of relief. She went off at a brisk pace down
the Calle del Siete de Julia, across the Plaza Mayor, and on through the
Calle de Atocha. On reaching this, she suddenly remembered the youth who
had previously followed her, and turned her head in anxiety. No one.
There was nothing to alarm her. No one was in pursuit. At the door of
one of the best houses in the street she stopped, looked hastily and
stealthily both ways, and went in. A hardly perceptible sign of inquiry
to the porter, was answered by his hand to his cap. She flew to the back
staircase, to escape any unpleasant meeting no doubt, and ran up in such
a hurry that on reaching the second floor she was quite breathless, and
pressed one hand to her heart. With the other, she knocked twice at one
of the doors, which was instantly and noiselessly opened; she rushed in
as if the enemy were at her heels.
"Better late than never," said a young man who had opened it, and who
carefully shut it again.
He was a man of eight-and-twenty or thirty, above the middle height,
slightly built, with delicate and regular features, a colour in his
cheeks, a moustache curled up at the ends, a pointed chin-tuft, and
black hair carefully parted down the middle. He looked like a toy
soldier--that is to say, he was of the effeminate military type. His
face was not unlike those of the dolls on which tailors display
ready-made clothing, and was not less unpleasing and repulsive. He wore
a pearl-grey velvet morning jacket, elaborately braided, and slippers
of the same material and colour, with initials embroidered in gold. It
was evident at a glance that he was one of those men who care greatly
for the decoration of their person; who touch up every detail with as
much finish and attention as a sculptor bestows on a statue; who believe
that curling and gumming their moustaches is a sacred and bounden duty;
who accept the fact that the Supreme Creator has bestowed on them a
fascinating presence, and do their best to improve on His work.
"How late you are!" he exclaimed once more, fixing on her face a
conventional gaze of sad reproach.
The lady rewarded him with a gracious smile, saying at the same time in
a tone of raillery, "It is never too late if luck comes at last."
She took his hand and pressed it fondly; then, still holding it, she led
him along the passages to a small room which seemed to be the young
man's study. It was a luxurious den, artistically decorated; the walls
were hung with dark blue plush curtains, held up by rings on a bronze
rod under the cornice; there were arm-chairs of various shapes and
sizes, a writing-table in walnut-wood ornamented with wrought-iron, and
by the side of it a book-stand with a few books--about two dozen
perhaps. Suspended by silken cords from the ceiling, and against the
walls, were horse-trappings and several saddles, common and military,
with their stirrups hanging down; curbs of many ages and lands, whips,
fine woollen horse-cloths richly embroidered, gold and silver spurs, all
very handsome and in perfect order. The hippic tastes of the owner of
this "study" were no less evident in the corridor which led to it from
the door; everywhere there were portraits of horses saddled or stripped.
Even on the writing-table, the inkstand, paper-weights, and paper-knife
were decorated with horse-shoes stirrups, or whips. Through an arch with
columns, only half-closed by a handsome tapestry curtain representing a
youth in powder kneeling to a lady _a la Pompadour_, a handsome mahogany
bedstead with a canopy was visible.
On reaching this little room the lady let herself drop gracefully into a
pretty little lounging chair, and went on in a light jesting tone: "So
you are not glad to see me?"
"Very. But I should have been glad to see you sooner. I have been
waiting for you above an hour and a half."
"And what then? Is it such a sacrifice to wait an hour and a half for
the woman who adores you? Have you not read how Leander swam every
evening across the Hellespont to see his beloved? No, you have never
read that nor anything else. Well, I believe that knowledge would not
suit you. Books would spoil that pretty colour in your cheeks, and
undermine the strength and agility with which you ride and drive.
Besides, some men were born only to be handsome and strong and to amuse
themselves, and you are one of them."
"Come, come. It seems to me that you regard me as an idiot ignorant even
of my alphabet?" exclaimed the young man somewhat piqued and distressed,
as he stood in front of her.
"No, my dear, no!" she replied, laughing, and seizing one of his hands
she kissed it with a sudden impulse of tenderness. "Now you are
insulting me. Do you think I could love an idiot? Take this," she went
on, taking off her hat. "Put my hat on the bed with the greatest care.
Now come here, wretch that you are. You are so touchy that you forget
you began by being rude to me. An hour and a half! What then? Come
close; kneel down; wait till I pull your hair for you."
But the young man, instead of obeying her, drew up a smoking chair, and
perched himself on it in front of her.
"Do you know what kept me? Why that tiresome boy who followed me again."
And as she spoke she suddenly grew serious: a well-defined frown
puckered her pretty brows.
"It is insufferable," she went on. "I do not know what to do. Whenever I
stir, morning or evening, this shadow haunts me. I had to take refuge at
Mariana's; then, having gone there I had no choice but to stay a little
while. Papa came in, and to avoid his escorting me home I had to wait
till he went first. So you see."
"A pretty fellow is that boy!" exclaimed the man, with a laugh.
"Very much so! It would be very amusing if he found out where I come,
and every one were to hear of it, and it were to reach my husband's
ears. Laugh away, laugh away!"
"Why not? Who but you would think of objecting to so platonic an
admirer? Have you had any note from him? Has he ever spoken a word to
you?"
"That would not matter in the least. It is the persecution which jars on
my nerves. He is just such a boy as would be capable out of mere spite,
if he detected me entering this house, of writing an anonymous letter.
And you know the peculiar position in which I stand with regard to my
husband."
"There is not a chance of it. Those who write anonymous notes are not
admirers, but envious women. Shall I meet him face to face and give him
a fright?"
"How can you ask such a question!" exclaimed Clementina, indignantly.
"Listen Pepe, you are a man of feeling, and have plenty of intelligence,
but you sadly lack a little more delicacy to enable you to understand
certain things. You should give rather less time to your club and your
horses, and cultivate your mind a little."
"Is that your opinion?" cried Pepe, angered extremely by this reproof.
"Well, if you wish that I should not tell you such things, there are
others which you should not say."
Pepe Castro shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and rose from his chair.
He paced the room two or three times with an air of abstraction, and
stopped at last in front of a little picture which he took down to dust
it with his handkerchief. Clementina watched him with anger in her eyes.
She suddenly started to her feet as if moved by a spring; but then,
controlling her petulance, she quietly went into the adjoining room,
took her hat off the bed, and began to put it on in front of a
looking-glass, very deliberately, though the slight trembling of her
hands still betrayed the annoyance she was repressing.
"There," she presently exclaimed, in a tone of indifference, "I am
going. Do you want anything out?"
The young man turned round, and exclaimed with surprise: "Already!"
"Already," replied she with affected determination.
Castro went up to her, put his arm round her neck, and raising the red
veil with the other hand, kissed her on the temple.
"It is always the same," said he. "I get the broken head and you want to
wear the bandage."
"What is that you are saying?" she replied in some confusion. "I am
going because I have another visit to pay before dinner."
"Come Clementina, you cannot make believe, even if you wish it. You must
understand that I cannot listen to insults and laugh, and you insult me
at every moment."
"I really do not understand you; I do not know what insults or make
believe you allude to," she replied, with affected innocence.
Pepe tried coaxingly to take her hat off again, but she repelled him
with an imperious gesture. He then put his arm round her waist and led
her to the sofa; he sat down and taking her hands kissed them again and
again with passionate affection. She stood upright and would not be
softened. However, he was so vehement and so humble in his endearments,
that at last she snatched away her hands and exclaimed, half laughing,
but still half vexed:
"Have done, have done: I am tired of your whining--like a Newfoundland
dog! You are abject. I would be torn in pieces before I would humiliate
myself like that."
She took her hat off, and went herself to place it on the bed.
"When a man is as much in love as I am," replied the youth somewhat
abashed, "he does not regard anything as a humiliation."
"Really and truly, boy?" said she, smiling and taking him by the chin
with her slender pink fingers; "I do not believe it. You are not the
stuff that lovers are made of. Well, I will put you to the proof. If I
told you to do a thing that might cost you your life, or, which is
worse, your honour--a few years in prison--would you do it?"
"I should think so!"
"Well then--well then, I want you to kill my husband."
"How barbarous!" he exclaimed in dismay, opening his eyes very wide.
The lady looked at him steadily for a few minutes with scrutinising,
sarcastic eyes. Then with a sharp laugh, she exclaimed:
"You see, miserable man, you see! You are a fine gentleman of Madrid, a
member of the _Savage Club_. Neither for me nor any other woman would
you exchange your dress-coat and white waistcoat for a prison uniform."
"You have such strange ideas."
"Well, well. Go on in the way which your pusillanimous nature points out
to you, and do not get into mischief. You will understand that I only
spoke in jest; but it has confirmed me in the opinion I had already
formed."
"But if you have so poor an opinion of my devotion, I do not know why
you should love me," said the young man, again somewhat piqued.
"Why I love you? For the same reason for which I do everything--Caprice.
I saw you one day in the Park of the Retiro, breaking in a horse
splendidly, and I took a fancy to you. Then, two months later, I saw you
at the fencing gallery at Biarritz, crossing foils with a Russian, and
that finally bewitched me. I got you introduced to me, I did my best to
please you--I did in fact please you--and here we are."
Pepe made up his mind to endure with patience her half cynical tone of
raillery, and by dint of talking she presently dropped it. Clementina
when she was content, was affectionate and gay, and ready to yield to
impulses of generosity; her face, as singular as it was beautiful, never
indeed softened to sweetness, but it had a kind, maternal expression
which was very attractive. But if her nerves were irritated, and her
opinions or wishes were crossed, the under-current of pride, obstinacy
and even cruelty, which lay beneath, came to the surface, and her blue
eyes shot flashes of fierce sarcasm or fury.
Pepe Castro, who was neither illustrious nor clever, had nevertheless
the art of amusing her with the gossip of society, and innuendoes
against those persons for whom she had a marked antipathy. The means
were coarse but the effect was excellent. The Condesa de T----, a lady
whom Clementina hated mortally for some displeasure she had once done
her, was desperately hard up; she had gone to borrow of Z---- the old
banker, who had granted the loan, but at a percentage which had made the
lady stare. The Marques de L----, and his wife, for whom also she had an
aversion, had, before he was in office, given entertainments to the
electors at their country house, with splendid banquets; but as soon as
he was made Minister, though they still gave parties there was no
_buffet_. Julita R----, a very pretty girl who, again, was no favourite
with the haughty lady, had been turned out of doors by the M---- s for
having been found in their son's room--a lad of fifteen. This and much
more of the same kind fell from the lips of the generous youth, with a
scornful humour which put the fair one into a better temper. This was
Pepe Castro's sole talent of an intellectual character; his other
accomplishments were purely physical.
The clouds had cleared from Clementina's brow. She was now loquacious,
smiling, and lavish of caresses; during the hour she remained with her
lover, he was amply indemnified for the stabs she had given him on first
arriving, as happy as their _tete-a-tete_ could make him.
It had already long since become dusk. The youth lighted the two lamps
on the chimney-piece, without calling the servant--his only servant, and
the only living soul with him in his rooms.
Pepe Castro was the son of a noble house of Arragon; his elder brother
bore a well-known title, and his sister had married into a family of
rank. He had been educated at Madrid; at the age of twenty he lost his
father. For a time he lived with his elder brother, but it was not long
before they quarrelled, since the elder, who was economical to avarice,
could not endure Pepe's wasteful extravagance. He then tried living
under his sister's roof, but at the end of a few months incompatibility
of temper between himself and his brother-in-law led to such violent
disputes, that it was said in the Madrid clubs and drawing-rooms that
they had cuffed and cudgelled each other soundly; a duel was only
prevented by the interference of some of the more respectable members of
the family. Then, after living for some time at an hotel, he decided on
furnishing rooms. He engaged a servant, had his breakfast brought in
from an eating-house, and dined sometimes at Lhardy's and sometimes with
one or another of his numerous friends. His stables were in the
immediate neighbourhood, Calle de las Urosa, and were not ill-furnished:
two saddle horses, one English and one cross-bred; two teams, one
foreign and one Spanish; a Berline, a cart, a mail-phaeton, and a break;
it was a channel through which his fortune was rapidly running away,
though it was not the principal one. He had, in fact, left the greater
portion on the gaming-tables at the club, and by no means a small part
bad been grabbed by certain smart damsels, whom he had promoted in a few
hours to the rank of fashionable courtesans. This, however, was a fact
he always denied, thinking it might diminish his prestige as a
lady-killer; but it is nevertheless a fact, like everything else herein
set down.
All this is as much as to say that Pepe Castro was at this moment a
ruined man; nevertheless, he went on living in the same comfort and
style. His losses and his borrowing cost him a great deal: loans from
his brother on the mortgage of estate he could not sell, post-obits to
merciless usurers on his prospects from an old and infirm uncle,
accepted for three times their cash value; jewels given him by his
sister, who could not give him money; exorbitant charges run up by the
importers of carriages and horses; bills with the tailor, the perfumer;
with Lhardy, the restaurant-keeper, with every one in short.
It seemed impossible that a man could live easy in such a tangle of
toils and nets. And nevertheless, our young gentleman enjoyed the same
beautiful serenity of mind and lightness of heart as many others of his
comrades and acquaintances, who, as we shall have occasion to see, were
no less ruined, though less fascinating.
"I have a surprise in store for you," said Clementina, as she again put
on her hat and tidied her hair in front of the glass.
The handsome puppy sniffed the air, like a hound that scents game, and
he went up to Clementina.
"If it is a pleasant one let me see it."
"Yes, and no less if it is an unpleasant one, rude boy. Everything I can
do ought to be pleasant to you."
"No doubt, no doubt.--Let me see," he went on, trying to conceal his
eagerness.
"Very well; bring me my muff."
Castro flew to obey. Clementina, when she had it in her hands, sat down
on the sofa with an affectation of calm, and flourishing it in the air,
she exclaimed: "Now you will not guess what I have in this muff?"
Her eyes were bright with glee and pride at the same time. Castro's
sparkled with anxiety; the colour mounted to his cheeks, and he replied
in a tone between assertion and inquiry:
"Fifteen thousand pesetas."[C]
The lady's triumphant expression instantly changed to one of wrath and
disgust.
"Go--go away--Pig!" she furiously cried, giving him a hard box on the
ear with the handsome muff. "You think of nothing but money. You have
not a grain of delicacy."
"I thought----" The change in Pepe's face was no less marked; it was
more gloomy than night.
"Of money, yes; I tell you so. Well then, no. Nothing of the kind.
Nothing but a little tie-pin, which--fool that I am--I bought at
Marbini's as I came along, to show you that I am always thinking of
you."
"And I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my sweet pigeon," said the
young man, making a supreme effort to recover from his sudden dejection,
and producing, as a result, a forced and bitter smile. "Why do you fly
into such pets? Give it me. But I know what a bad opinion you have of
me."
Clementina would not give him her present. Pepe begged for it humbly;
still there was in his entreaties a shade of coldness, which to the keen
intuition of a woman, betrayed very plainly the disappointment at the
bottom of his soul.
"No, no! My poor little pin that you despise so--I can see it in your
face. It shall go into the box where I keep memorials of the dead."
She rose from her seat and pulled down her veil. Pepe was pressing in
his endeavours to be attentive, and to mollify her wrath. At last, when
she had almost reached the door, she suddenly turned about and drew out
of her muff a neat little jewel-box, which she gave to her lover,
looking him straight in the face meanwhile.
The young man's eyes opened, resting on the box with an expression of
delight; then they met those of his mistress. They gazed at each other
for a minute, she with a look of mischievous triumph, he with gratitude
and suppressed joy.
"I always said so! No one in the world knows what love means, but you,
my darling. Come here; let me thank you, let me worship you on my
knees."
He dragged her to the sofa, made her sit down, and falling on his knees,
kissed her gloved hands with rapture.
"Mercy, what madness!" cried the lady quite bewildered. "What a
whirlwind round a trifle."
"It is not for the money, my darling, not for the money; but because you
have such an original way of doing things. Because you are such a trump,
such an angel!" He clasped her knees, he grovelled before her, and
kissed her feet--or, to be exact, her boots.
"What an abject thing you are, Pepe!" said she, laughing.
"I don't care what you call me; I am yours, your slave till death. I owe
you not only happiness, but honour. You cannot think what I have gone
through these two days, over that cursed debt!" he said, in a voice of
genuine emotion.
"And will you go and gamble any more, eh? Gamble, and lose it all, you
wretch," said she, tumbling his hair and spoiling the beautiful parting
down the middle.
"No--I swear it on my word of honour."
"On your word, and on your money, wretched man? Well, I am off," she
added, with a fond little pat, and she went to look at the clock on the
chimney-piece. "Mercy! How late it is--I must fly. Good-bye."
She ran to the door, waving her hand to her lover, without looking at
him. He could only clutch it, and kiss the tips of her fingers.
He rushed to open the door for her, but her hand was already on the
lock; indeed, she was in a fury, because her feeble efforts would not
turn it.
"By-bye--till Saturday!" said she, in a whisper.
"Till the day after to-morrow."
"No, no--till Saturday."
She ran downstairs with the same cautious haste as she had used in
coming up, nodded imperceptibly to the porter, and went out. She walked
as far as the Plaza del Angel; there she took a hackney coach to drive
home.
* * * * *
It was now past six; the lights in the shops had been blazing for an
hour or more. She sat as far back in the corner as she could and gazed
without interest or curiosity at the streets she passed through. Her
face had resumed its characteristic expression of scornful haughtiness,
qualified by a certain degree of disdain and absent-mindedness.
Her refined elegance, her arrogant mien, and, above all, the severe
majesty of her exceptional beauty stamped Clementina beyond question as
one of the most _distinguees_ women of Madrid. At the same time, though
she was recognised as such, figuring in all the drawing-rooms of the
aristocracy, in all the lists of fashionable persons which the papers
publish on the day after a ball, a race, or any other entertainment, by
birth-right she was far from belonging to such a set. Her origin could
not have been more humble. Her mother had been an Irish girl, the
mistress of a cooper, who had landed at Valencia in search of work. Her
name was Rosa Coote; she was extraordinarily handsome, and would have
been even more so if she had cared for dressing or adorning her person;
but the squalor in which the illicit home was kept had made her
neglectful and dirty. The Valencia waif and the handsome Irish girl came
to an understanding behind the cooper's back. Salabert was quite young
and a brisk youth; he was not, like the girl's present protector, a
victim to drunkenness. Rosa abandoned her former lover to go off with
him. Within a few months, Salabert, who saw an opening for going to Cuba
as steward on board a steamboat, in his turn deserted her. The
Irishwoman, expecting then the birth of the offspring of this
connection, wandered about for some time without any protector or means
of living till she became acquainted with a carpenter, who ultimately
made her his lawful wife. Clementina grew up as an intruder in this new
home. Her mother was a violent and irascible creature, with bursts of
tenderness which she kept exclusively for her legitimate children.
Clementina she seemed to hate, and avenged on her her father's offence
with cruel injustice.
A fearful childhood was that of Clementina.
If some details of it could but have been known in Madrid; if, only in
some brief vision, the scenes through which this proudest and most
arrogant of dames had passed could have been placed before the eyes of
her fashionable acquaintance, who would have envied her? What tortures,
what refinement of cruelty! At the age of four or five she was made the
watchful nurse of two brothers younger than herself, and if she
neglected the smallest particular of her duties the punishment followed
at once, but not such punishment as was due--a slap, or her ears pulled.
No, it was premeditated to hurt her as much and as long as possible;
after flogging her with a strap the wounds were washed with vinegar, she
was made to tread for hours on hard peas, to wear shoes that pinched her
feet, to go without water, she was thrashed with nettles.
More than once, on hearing the hapless child's outcries, the neighbours
had intervened and had remonstrated with the unnatural mother. But
nothing ever came of it beyond a noisy discussion, in which the
passionate Irishwoman, in sputtering Valencian, poured out her wrath on
the gossips of the quarter, and afterwards vented her fury on the cause
of the squabble. She was always declaring that she would send the child
to the workhouse, but this was opposed by the carpenter, who prided
himself on being a kind-hearted and merciful man, and who sometimes
interfered to mitigate her punishment, though he generally left it to
his wife "to correct her daughter," as he said to the neighbours who
blamed him. His educational notions clashed with his more kindly
instincts, and when they got the upper hand, alas, for the poor little
girl!
Certain details of these horrible torments were sickening. On one
occasion Clementina had been to the well and broken the pitcher. It was
the third within a month. The child dared not go home, and sought refuge
with a neighbour. The woman took her to her mother, but did not leave
her till she had extorted a promise that she should not be punished. And
in point of fact her mother did not punish her by any ordinary process
of chastisement; her cries might have led to a disturbance. She formed
the diabolical idea of holding the girl's head over a foul sink, till
she was half asphyxiated and fainted away. The worst days for the
wretched child were when she had dropped asleep at her prayers. The
cruel Irishwoman was a bigot, and this offence she never forgave. On one
occasion, she beat her so mercilessly for repeating her prayers half
asleep before going to bed, that the carpenter, who was peacefully
eating his supper in the kitchen, heard her cries, and went up to the
bedroom, where he rescued her from her mother, who would otherwise
perhaps have been the death of her.
This course of incredible cruelties ended at last in one which led to
the interference of justice. The unnatural mother, at her wit's end how
to torture the girl, burnt her legs with a candle. A neighbour happening
to hear of it told others, and the scandal in the quarter produced a
stir; they appealed to justice, informed against the Irishwoman, and the
crime being proved, she was condemned to six months' imprisonment, while
the girl was placed in an asylum.
About a year later Salabert came to Valencia, not yet a potentate, but
with some money. On hearing what had occurred he went to see his
daughter at the school for poor girls, whence he removed her to one
where he paid for her education, and at long intervals went to see her.
His generous deed was highly lauded, and he knew how to make it tell,
setting himself up in the eyes of those who knew him as a living model
of paternal devotion, in shining contrast to the brutality of his
deserted mistress.
Not long after, he married, and settled in Madrid. His wife was the
daughter of a dealer in iron bedsteads and spring mattresses, in the
Calle Mayor. She was plain and sickly, but gentle and affectionate, with
fifty thousand dollars for her portion. At the end of three or four
years of married life, finding her health increasingly delicate, Dona
Carmen lost all hope of having any children, and knowing that her
husband had an illegitimate daughter in a Convent at Valencia, she
proposed, with rare generosity, to have her at home and treat her as
their child. Salabert accepted gladly; he went to fetch Clementina, and
thenceforward a complete change came over the girl's fate.
She was at this time aged fourteen, and already a marvel of beauty, a
happy combination of the refined and delicate northern type with the
severer beauty of the Valencian women. Undeveloped as yet, in
consequence of the cruel experiences of her childhood followed by the
quiet routine of a convent, under this change of climate and mode of
life she acquired in two or three years the commanding stature and
majestic proportions we have seen. Her moral nature left much more to be
desired. Her temper was irritable, obstinate, scornful, and gloomy.
Whether she was born with these characteristics or they were the result
of the misery and sufferings of her wretched infancy it would be hard to
decide. In the convent, where she was never ill-treated, she was not
much loved by her teachers or her companions; her character was
suspicious, and her heart devoid of tenderness. Her companions' troubles
not only did not touch her; but brought a cruel smile to her lips, which
filled them with aversion. Then, from time to time, she had fits of
fury, which made her both feared and hated. On one occasion, when a
young girl had spoken to her in offensive terms, she had clutched her by
the throat and nearly strangled her. And it was quite impossible
afterwards to induce her to beg pardon, as the mother superior required
her to do; she preferred a month of solitary confinement rather than
humble herself.
The first months of her life in her father's house were a period of
trial for kind Dona Carmen. Instead of a bright young creature, grateful
for the immense favour she had done her, she found herself confronted
with a little heartless savage, devoid of affection or docility,
extravagant and capricious to the last degree, who never laughed
heartily excepting when a servant had an accident, or a groom was kicked
by a horse. But the good woman did not lose courage. With the unfailing
instinct of a generous heart she understood that if no love could spring
from the soil it was because nothing had been sown in it but the seeds
of hate. The softer affections exist in every human soul, as
electricity exists in every body; but to detect them, to rouse a
response, they must be treated for a length of time with a strong
current of kindness. This was what Dona Carmen did to her stepdaughter.
For six months she kept her in a warm atmosphere of affection, a close
net of delicate thoughtfulness, and unfailing proofs of lively and
loving interest. At last Clementina, who had begun by being first
disdainful and then indifferent, who would pass hours together locked in
her own room and never go near her stepmother but when she was sent for,
who never had made any advances, but lived in absolute reserve, suddenly
succumbed, feeling the vital and mysterious throb which binds human
beings to each other, as it does all the bodies of the created universe.
The change was strange and violent, like everything else in that
strangely compounded temperament. At the most unlooked-for moment she
fell on her knees before Dona Carmen, professing such deep respect, such
passionate affection, that the good woman was amazed, and had great
difficulty in believing in her sincerity. The revelation of
lovingkindness had burst at length on the girl's soul; her icy heart had
melted under the motherly warmth of the large-hearted woman; the divine
essence of love henceforth had a home where hitherto the essence of
Satan alone had dwelt.
It was a perfect miracle. Instead of spending her life in her room, she
would never leave her stepmother's; she now called her "Mamma" with a
fervour, a joy, a determination, such as are only to be seen in the
devout when they appeal to the Virgin. And Clementina's feeling for her
father's wife was in truth devotion. Amazed to find that so gentle, so
tender a being could exist in this world, she was never tired of gazing
at her, as though she had dropped from heaven. She would read her
thoughts in her eyes, anticipate her smallest wishes, let no one serve
her but herself; and, like every lover, insisted on the exclusive
possession of the object of her affection. The slightest sign of
disapproval on Dona Carmen's part was enough to disconcert her and
plunge her into the deepest grief. The haughty creature, who had made
herself generally odious, would humble herself with intense satisfaction
before her stepmother. It was the humiliation of the mystic prostrated
by an irresistible spiritual impulse. When she felt the good woman's
hand caress her face she fancied it was the touch of God Himself, and
hardly dared to touch those thin, transparent fingers with her lips.
But it was only to her stepmother that she had so entirely changed. To
all else, including her father, she still displayed the same scornful
coldness, the same proud and obstinate temper. If now and again she
seemed sweeter and more tractable, it was due, not to her own will, but
to some express command of Dona Carmen's; and as soon as this command
was at an end, or forgotten, she was the same malevolent being once
more. The servants hated her for the insufferable pride which she showed
as soon as she realised her position as her father's heiress, and for
her total lack of compassion if they did wrong.
The greatest sufferer was the English governess whom her father had
engaged for her. She was an elderly woman, but she had a mania for
dressing and tricking herself out like a girl. This harmless weakness
was so constantly the theme of Clementina's mockery, that only necessity
could have made the poor woman endure it. All the secrets of her toilet
were mercilessly revealed for the amusement of the servants, and her
physical defects, mimicked by the young lady's waiting-maid, were the
laughing-stock of the kitchen. On a certain grand occasion, a day when
there was a dinner-party, Clementina hid the old maid's false teeth,
which she had left on the dressing-table after washing them. Her
discomfiture may be imagined. But she took an innocent revenge by
calling her "_Senorita Capricho_" and setting her as an exercise to
translate from English into French certain maxims and aphorisms of
scorching application, as: "Pride is the leprosy of the soul; a proud
girl is a leper whom all should avoid with horror." "Those who do not
respect their seniors can never hope to be respected," and the like.
Clementina laughed at these innuendoes; sometimes she would even dare to
substitute some phrase of her own for that of her governess. Where she
should have translated: "There is nothing so odious and contemptible as
haughtiness in the young," she would write: "There is nothing so
ridiculous and laughable as presumption in the old." Miss, as she was
called, took offence, and complained to Dona Carmen, who would appeal to
her stepdaughter, reproving her gently, and Clementina, seeing her
grieved and annoyed, would smoothe her brow and kiss her lovingly. And
all was well till next time. In fact Miss Anna and the servants were no
doubt in the right when they said that the Senora would be the ruin of
the girl. Dona Carmen, living in fearful solitude of soul, was so
captivated and gratified by the warm affection her stepdaughter was
always ready to lavish on her that she had no eyes for her faults, and
even if she had, would not have found the courage to correct them.
At eighteen Clementina was one of the loveliest and wealthiest women of
Madrid. Her father's fortune grew like the scum of yeast. He was
regarded as one of the great bankers of the city, and was not known to
have any other heir, nor was it likely that he would have one. The young
aristocrats of family or wealth--the best known members of the _Savage
Club_--began to flutter about her with the most pressing and eager
attentions. If she appeared at a party a group of men fenced her round;
if she went to church, another and a larger party stood in a row
awaiting her exit; if she drove out in the Castellana Avenue, a
cavalcade of admirers galloped beside her carriage as a guard of honour;
at the theatre pairs of opera-glasses were invariably fixed upon her.
The name of Clementina Salabert was to be heard in all the conversations
of the gilded youth of Madrid, to be seen in print in every drawing-room
chronicle, and was registered in the capital as that of one of the
brightest stars of the firmament of fashion. She took up and dropped one
lover after another without a thought, thus earning the reputation of a
flirt and feather-brain. But this never interferes with a girl's chance
of adorers; on the contrary, the self-love of men prompts them to pay
great attentions to women of that stamp, in the hope, born of vanity, of
being the nail to fix the weather-cock. Nor did she suffer any serious
damage from a coarse and malignant rumour which, all through Madrid,
connected her in a strange friendship with a young and famous
bull-fighter. In this affair Dona Carmen's simplicity and weakness
played a leading part. Not only did the good lady allow the man to visit
at her house, and sit at her table, but she even accompanied the pair in
public on more than one occasion. This, and her having cheered him at
the death of several bulls, gave scandal--as busy in the capital as in
the provinces--sufficient pretext for an attack on the envied beauty.
But as it could bring forward nothing but bold suspicion and vague
conjecture, and as, on the other side, there were positive facts which
far outweighed them, the calumny did not diminish the number of her
adorers. Its only use was as an outlet for the bile of some rejected
one.
At this age, and often after, Clementina's manners betrayed a strong
infusion of Bohemianism--of the free and easy airs and sarcastic
coolness of the adventuresses of Madrid. A similar tendency may be
observed, in a more or less exaggerated form, in all the upper circles
of Madrid Society; it is a mark which distinguishes it from that of
other countries. And in this tendency, which is everywhere conspicuous
from the palace to the hovel, there is some good; it is not wholly evil.
In the first place it implies a protest against the perpetual falsehood
which the increasing refinement and complication of social formalities
inevitably entail. Propriety of conduct and moderation of language are
highly praiseworthy no doubt, but in an exaggerated form they result in
the cold courtesy of a _diplomate_ at a foreign Court. Men and women,
crushed under the weight of so much formality, become artificial beings,
puppets, whose acts and words are all set forth in a programme. To
exclude liberty and familiarity from society is to undermine human
nature; to prohibit frankness of speech is to destroy the charm which
ought to exist in all human intercourse.
Moreover, an instinct of equality underlies this assertion of freedom,
and cannot fail to make it attractive to every lover of Nature and
truth. A lady is not a bundle of fine clothes, of foregone conclusions
and ready-made phrases; she is, above all else, a woman in whom culture
has, or ought to have, tempered impetuosity of character and impulses of
vanity, but not to have impaired the genuineness of Nature by
transforming her in society into a cold dry doll, devoid of grace and
originality. It must not be supposed that the perfect refinement and
elegance proper to the scenes where the upper classes meet are unknown
in Madrid. They are constantly observed by almost every Spanish woman of
family; but, happily, they are united with the vivacity, grace, and
spontaneity of the Spanish race, making our fair ones, in the opinion of
impartial observers, the most accomplished, gracious, and agreeable
women in Europe--excepting, perhaps, the French.
Clementina had a somewhat exaggerated taste for this freedom of word and
action. She had acquired it no one knows how--by contagion in the
atmosphere perhaps--since women in her position are not in the habit of
spending their time with the commoner sort. She had had a waiting maid,
born and brought up in Maravillas, and it was from her, in her moments
of excitement, that Clementina picked up the greater part of her slang
and sayings. Then came her friendship with the _torero_ above-mentioned;
an acquaintance with various young men who cultivated that style; the
lower class of theatres, where the manners and customs of the lower
classes of the Madrid populace are set on the stage--not without grace;
and her intimacy with Pepe Frias, and some other fast women of fashion,
finally gave her the full Bohemian flavour. She was an enthusiast for
bull-fights. It was a perfect marvel if she missed one, sitting in her
private box with the orthodox white mantilla and red carnations. And she
would discuss the chances, and fulminate criticisms, and bestow
applause; and was regarded by the _habitues_ as a keen and eager
connoisseur. The national sport, exciting and bloody, was quite after
her mind, violent and indomitable as she was by nature. When she saw
other women covering their eyes or showing weakness over the fortunes of
the arena, she laughed sardonically, as doubting the genuineness of
their horror.
Among the many adorers and suitors who successively and rapidly rose and
fell in her favour, there was one who succeeded in securing her notice,
at any rate, for a rather longer time than the rest. His name was Tomas
Osorio. He was a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, rich, small and
delicate, with a pleasing face and a lively, determined temper. Either
of deliberate purpose, or from genuine independence of character, he
made a deeper impression than his peers. When he first paid attention to
her he did not cringe nor completely abdicate his own will. In some
differences on important points in the course of his long courtship--for
it lasted not less than two years--he firmly maintained his dignity. He
was, like her, irritable, haughty and scornful; purse-proud too, and
with a spiteful wit which stood him in good stead with women. Thanks to
these qualities, Clementina did not tire of him so soon as of the rest.
But at the end of the two years, within a few days of the marriage, it
was broken off in a very public and almost scandalous manner. All Madrid
was talking of it, and commentary was endless. The conclusion arrived at
was that it was the gentleman who had taken the first steps towards the
rupture, and this report, whether true or false, reached Clementina's
ears, and was such a stab to her pride that she was almost ill with
rage.
Another year went by. She had other suitors, off and on, and Osorio, on
his part, courted other damsels. But in both, notwithstanding, the
memory of the past survived. She was burning for revenge. So long as
that man was going about the world, so perfectly content as he seemed,
she felt herself humiliated. He, on the contrary, in spite of his
affected indifference, was still consumed by love, or rather by desire.
Clementina had captivated his senses, had pierced his flesh, and, do
what he would, he could not extract the dart. She was always in his
thoughts, always before his eyes, provoking his passion. The longer the
time that elapsed the fiercer the fire burned within him, and the
greater were the effort and the anguish of keeping up a haughty and
indifferent demeanour when they happened to meet. Clementina, with a
penetration common in women, had no difficulty in guessing that her
former love still cherished a secret passion for her, and felt a
malicious joy. Thenceforward she dressed and adorned herself for him
alone--to bewitch him, to fascinate him, to make him drain the bitter
cup of jealousy.
From this moment dated her fame as an elegant woman. Clementina was
indeed, in this matter, a great artist. She knew how to dress so that
her clothes should never by their colour or quality attract attention to
the prejudice of her face. Understanding that what a woman wears should
be not a uniform, but an adornment to set off the perfections which
nature has bestowed upon her, she was no blind slave of fashion; when
she thought it unbecoming to her beauty she boldly defied it or modified
it. She avoided glaring hues, a profusion of trimmings, and elaborate
styles of hair-dressing; she regarded and treated her person as a
statue. Hence a certain tendency, constantly evident in her costume,
towards drapery, and amplitude of flowing folds. Her fine, majestic
figure gained greatly by this style of dress, which, though it became
rather pronounced after her marriage, was never exaggerated beyond the
limits of good taste. She was fond of wearing white, and this, with a
simple manner of dressing her hair like that of the Milo Venus, made her
appear in the drawing-rooms of Madrid like a beautiful Greek statue. One
thing she did which, though highly censurable from a moral point of
view, is not so as a matter of art. She wore her dresses very low. Her
bust was superb; it might have been moulded by the Graces to turn the
head of a god. The vain desire to display her beauty, unchecked by the
wholesome control of a mother, led her on more than one occasion to
incur the severest comments of society. Poor Dona Carmen, besides
knowing nothing of social custom, was so lenient to her stepdaughter's
fancies and caprices, that she accepted them as quite reasonable, and as
undoubted evidence of her indisputable elegance and taste.
However, her vanity brought its own punishment. On one occasion when she
made her appearance at a ball given by the Alcudias, the Marquesa said
as she greeted her:
"Very pretty, very nice, Clementina. Your dress is lovely; but it is too
low, my dear. Come with me and let us set it right."
She took the girl up to her room and, with motherly kindness, arranged
some gauzy material to cover what really ought not to be displayed.
Clementina managed to conceal her mortification, ascribing the fault to
the dressmaker; but she felt so humiliated by the lecture, and the
pitying smile which accompanied it, that she never again could endure to
see the prudish Marquesa.
Under this constant fanning Osorio's flame waxed fiercer and fiercer,
and he could no longer keep it to himself. At last he confided in his
sister, who was fairly intimate with the young lady; he begged her to
sound the way, and ascertain whether he might once more make advances
without fear of a rebuff. Mariana undertook the commission. Clementina
heard her with ill-disguised triumph, but sat demure until Senora de
Calderon had poured out all her story, and assured her that Tomas was
burning with devotion. Then she replied ambiguously, and with laughter:
"She would think it over. She was deeply aggrieved by the reports that
had been spread as to their rupture, but at any rate, he was not to give
up all hope."
She did reflect seriously as to the means of satisfying the demands of
her wounded pride, and at the end of a few days she announced to Mariana
her ultimatum. If she was to consent to give her hand to Osorio, he must
beg it of her parents on his knees, in the presence of such witnesses
as she might choose.
Such a preposterous idea would never have occurred to any Spanish woman
of pure race, and only the admixture of British blood could have led her
to conceive of such a monstrous refinement of arrogance.
When Osorio was informed of the conditions imposed by his ex-_fiancee_
he flew into a violent rage, and swore defiantly that he would be cut in
pieces before he would suffer such degradation. The matter dropped, and
things went on as before. But as, in spite of his utmost efforts, the
serpent of desire gnawed at his heart with increasing virulence, the
poor wretch at the end of two months had fallen into utter dejection; he
was really dying of love; he could not tear himself from Madrid, and
once more he besought his sister to open negotiations. Clementina, quite
sure of having him in her power, was inflexible; either he must pass
beneath these strange Caudine forks, or there was no hope.
And Osorio submitted.
What could he do?--The extraordinary ceremony was carried out one
evening at the lady's residence. On reaching the house Osorio found
assembled about a score of women whom Clementina had chosen from among
the most envious of her acquaintances, or those who had been most
malignant as to the cause of their former quarrel. He adopted the best
conduct he possibly could in such a case: grave and solemn, with a
certain ease of language and manner, betraying a suspicion of irony, as
if he were performing a comedy for the benefit of a crazy person. He
gave a brief preliminary sketch of their former engagement; confessed
himself to blame; praised Clementina in extravagant terms--with so
little moderation indeed that he seemed to be speaking
sarcastically--and professed himself unworthy to aspire to her hand.
Finally declaring that as she was so worthy to be adored, and the joy of
winning her so great, he thought it but a small thing to ask her of her
parents on his knees. At the same time he fell on one knee. Dona Carmen
hastened to raise him, and embraced him effusively. Clementina even
pressed his hand, better pleased by the grace and dignity with which he
had got through the ordeal, than gratified in her conceit. In truth, on
this occasion she felt for him, what she never felt again, a tiny spark
of love. If any one suffered humiliation from this scene it was she
herself, from the light and easy dignity with which her lover carried it
off. But this was a trifle; a woman enjoys nothing more keenly and
deeply than the superiority of the man who mollifies her. Clementina was
happy that evening.
But though Osorio had come so well out of the ordeal, he never forgave
her the intention to humiliate him; he was as proud as she. The insane
passion she had inspired for a time smothered every other. His honeymoon
was as brief as it was delicious. The shock of two such characters, both
equally obstinate and proud, was inevitable. It soon came in the form of
a series of petty annoyances which instantly extinguished the feeble
sparks of affection which her husband had struck in the young wife's
heart. In him passion survived longer. The knowledge each had of the
other made them cautious, for fear of a more formidable collision which
must have led to disaster. But this too came at last. Report said that
Osorio, tired of his wife's indifference and scorn, had insulted her
beyond forgiveness. Whether or no the story as it was told was true in
all its details, their union at any rate was practically at an end for
ever. Osorio forfeited his own right to interfere with his wife on the
score of conduct, and could only look on while Clementina unblushingly
and confessedly accepted the attentions of every man who offered them.
He certainly, to parry the ridicule to which he was thus exposed, threw
himself into excesses of dissipation, raising women from the lowest
ranks to figure as his mistresses.
At home the husband and wife spoke no more to each other than was
absolutely necessary. To escape the discomfort of a _tete-a-tete_ at
table, they always had some guest. In public they made a show of the
most natural and friendly relations; Osorio would sometimes go late to
fetch his wife from the theatre or party to which she had been. But
every one understood the facts of the case. Clementina, as a rule, would
go out on her lover's arm; they would stand talking in the lobby in the
sight of all the world, while waiting for the carriage; she stepped in;
before it drove off they would yet exchange a few confidential and
incoherent remarks interrupted by gay laughter. Morality--fashionable
morality--was satisfied, so long as the lover did not drive off in the
same carriage, though a few minutes later they might meet again at some
rendezvous.
When Clementina reached home it was half-past six o'clock. The driver
whistled; the porter came out of his lodge and opened the gate first,
and then the door of the hackney coach. He paid the man. The lady,
without uttering a syllable, went through the garden, which though small
was exquisitely kept, and up the outside steps of white marble, screened
by a verandah, which extended across half the front of the house. The
house itself was not very large, but handsome and artistic, of white
stone and fine brickwork. It had been built by Osorio about four or five
years since. As the plans had been fully discussed and considered, the
rooms were well arranged, and this made it more comfortable than his
brother-in-law's, though that was three or four times as large.
She asked a servant in the anteroom: "Where is Estefania?"
"It is some time since I last saw her, Senora."
She crossed a magnificent hall, lighted by two large lamps with polished
vases borne by bronze statues, went along the corridor, and up the
stairs leading to the first floor, meeting no one on her way. At the
door of the drawing-room leading to her boudoir, she met Fernando, a
page of fourteen in a smart livery.
"Estefania?" she asked.
"She must be in the kitchen."
"Tell her to come up at once."
She entered the boudoir, and going up to a long mirror resting on two
pillar-feet of gilt wood, she took off her hat. The room was a small
one, hung with blue satin bordered with wreaths in _carton-pierre_. On
the chimney-piece, covered also with blue satin, stood a clock and two
fine candelabra, the work of a silversmith of the last century. The
carpet was white with a blue border; in the middle of the room there was
a _causeuse_ upholstered in gold colour, the armchairs were gilt, two
large feather pillows lay on the floor. In one corner was the mirror, in
another a _Pompadour_ writing-table of inlaid wood; in the other two
were columns covered with velvet, to support the lamps which now lighted
the room. On one side this room opened into Clementina's drawing-room,
and then into her bedroom. On the other side, a door led into a small
drawing-room, where she was at home to her friends on Tuesday
afternoons, and where cards were played at night by an intimate circle.
Only a few very confidential friends were ever admitted to her boudoir,
calling at the hours when she was "Not at home." Here those long and
secret colloquies were held which women so greatly relish, in which they
pour out their whole mind, with swift transition from the profoundest
depths to the frivolities of the day and details of dress and fashion.
Within a few seconds of her taking off her hat Estefania came in. She
was a pale young girl, with pretty black eyes; dressed suitably to her
rank but with care and finish; over her skirt she wore a holland apron
trimmed with white edging.
"You might have been ready for me, child. Where had you hidden
yourself?" said her mistress, in a tone at once cross and indifferent.
"I was in the kitchen. I went to put a few stitches into Teresa's skirt;
she had torn it on a nail," replied the girl, with affected servility.
Clementina made no reply, absorbed, no doubt, in thought. Standing in
front of the mirror to take off her cloak, she gazed at herself with the
perennial interest which a pretty woman feels in her own face.
"Did you go to Escobar's?" she asked at length.
"Yes, Senora."
"And what did he say?"
"That he has no silk so thick of that colour, but that he would send for
it if the Senora wishes."
"Turura! That journey won't kill him! And to the milliner's?"
"Yes, they will send the caps on Saturday."
"Did you inquire after Father Miguel?"
"No, I had not time. It is such a long way."
"A long way! Why, did you not go in the carriage?"
"No, Senora. Juanito said that the mare was not shod."
"Then why did he not put in one of the Normandy horses?"
"I do not know. Whenever you tell me to take the carriage he finds some
excuse."
"So it seems. Never mind, child; I will see to it. What next, Senor
Juanito, with your masterful airs?"
But as she glanced up at the maid's face in the glass she thought she
noticed something strange about her eyes, and turned round to see her
better. In fact, Estefania's eyes were red with weeping.
"You have been crying, child?"
"I--no, Senora, no."
The denial was evidently a subterfuge. The lady had not to press her
much to make her confess even the cause of her tears.
"The head cook, Senora," she whimpered out, "who used to take my
part--when I say anything he bursts out laughing or says something rude,
and the others, of course, as they are jealous because you are good to
me, and to flatter the cook--the others laugh too; and because I said I
should tell you, he said all manner of horrid things, and turned me out
of the kitchen."
"Turned you out! And who is he to turn you out?" exclaimed her mistress
vehemently. "Tell him to come here. I must give him a rowing, as well as
Juanito, it seems! If we do not take care, the servants will rule this
house instead of the masters."
"Senora, I dare not. If you would send Fernando!"
"Do as you please, but bring him here."
She had worked herself up into high wrath at the girl's story. Estefania
was her favourite, whom she petted above all the other servants, and
made the confidant of many of her secrets. The girl's fawning and
flattery had won her heart so completely that, without being aware of
it, she had allowed a large part of her will to go with it. It was, in
fact, Estefania who ruled the house, since she ruled its mistress. The
servant who could not win her good graces might prepare sooner or later
to lose his place. And what happened was the necessary result in all
such cases: the mistress's favourite was hated by all the rest of the
household, not only from envy--the disgraceful passion which exists, in
a greater or less degree, in every human being--but also because the
nature that is hypocritical and time-serving to superiors, is inevitably
haughty and malevolent to inferiors.
The _chef_, on being called by Fernando, to whom Estefania gave the
message, soon made his appearance at the door of the boudoir wearing the
insignia of his office, to wit, a clean apron and cap, both as white as
snow. He was a man of about thirty, with a fresh and not bad-looking
face, and large black whiskers. The frown on his brow and the anxious
expression in his eyes betrayed that he knew why he had been sent for.
Clementina had seated herself on the ottoman. Estefania withdrew into a
corner, and when the cook came in she fixed her eyes on the floor.
"I hear, Cayetano, that after behaving very rudely to my maid, you
turned her out of the kitchen. I have, therefore, sent for you to tell
you that I will not allow any servant to behave badly to another; nor
are you permitted to turn any one out so long as you are in my house."
"Senora, I did nothing to her. It is she who treats us all
badly--teasing one and nagging at another, till there is no peace," the
cook replied, with a strong Gallician accent.
"Well, even if she teases one and nags at another, you have not any
right to insult her. She is to tell me, and there is an end of it,"
replied his mistress sharply, and mimicking his accent.
"But you see----"
"I see nothing. You hear what I say; there is an end of it," and she
waved her hand imperiously.
The cook, with his face scarlet and quivering with rage, stood without
stirring for a few seconds. Then, before he withdrew, he boldly fixed
his wrathful gaze on the girl, who kept her eyes on the carpet with a
bland hypocrisy which betrayed the triumph of her self-importance.
"Tell-tale!" he said, spitting out the words rather than speaking them.
The lady rose from her seat, and, bursting with rage at this want of
respect, she exclaimed:
"How dare you insult her before my face? Go, instantly. Get out of my
sight!"
"Senora, what I say is, that the fault is hers."
"So much the better. Go!"
"We will all go--out of the house, Senora. We can none of us put up with
that impudent minx!"
"You go forthwith, as though you had never come! You may find yourself
another place, for I will never allow any servant to get the upper hand
of me."
The cook, in some dismay at this prompt dismissal, again stood rooted to
the spot; but, suddenly recovering himself, he turned on his heel,
saying with dignity:
"Very well, Senora, I will."
But when he was gone Clementina still muttered: "An insolent fellow is
that Gallician! I don't believe any one but I gets such servants!"
Then, suddenly pacified by a new idea, she said:
"Come, now, I must dress; it is getting late."
She went into her dressing-room, followed by Estefania, who, contrary to
what might have been expected, looked grave and gloomy. Clementina
hurriedly began to remove her walking-dress and change it for a simple
dinner-dress, such as she wore at home to receive a few friends in the
evening--always very light in hue, and cut open at the throat, though
with long sleeves. At a sign from the mistress the maid brought out a
"crushed-strawberry" pink dress from the large wardrobe with mirrors,
which lined all one side of the room. Before putting it on she arranged
her hair, and exchanged her bronze kid boots for shoes to match the
dress. The pale girl meanwhile never opened her lips; her face grew
every moment sadder and more anxious. At last, on her knees to put on
her mistress's shoes, she raised beseeching eyes to her face and said
timidly:
"Senora, may I entreat you--not to send Cayetano away?"
Clementina looked at her in amazement.
"Is that it? After you yourself----"
"The thing is," said Estefania, turning as red as her complexion would
allow, "if you send him away the others will take offence."
"And what does that matter?"
But the girl insisted very earnestly with urgent and persuasive
entreaties. For a time the lady refused, but as the matter was
unimportant, and she perceived, not without surprise, the interest and
even anxiety of her favourite for the cook's reprieve, she presently
yielded, desiring Estefania to make the necessary explanations. On this
the girl's face immediately cleared; she was as bright as a bird, and
began to help her mistress to dress very deftly and briskly.
Two taps at the door made them both start.
"Who is there?" called the lady.
"Are you dressing, Clementina?" was asked from outside.
It was her husband's voice. Her surprise was not the less; Osorio very
rarely came to her rooms when she was alone.
"Yes, I am dressing. Is there any one downstairs?"
"As usual--Lola, Pascuala and Bonifacio. I want to speak to you. I will
wait for you here in the drawing-room."
"Very well; I will come."
Until her toilet was complete Clementina spoke no more; her expression
was one of gloomy anticipation, which her maid could not fail to
observe. Her fingers, as she gave the last touches to the folds of her
skirt, trembled a little, like those of a young lady dressing for her
first ball.
Osorio was, in fact, waiting for her in the little drawing-room beyond
the boudoir. He was lounging at his ease in an arm-chair, but, on seeing
his wife, he rose, and dropped the end of the cigar he was smoking into
the spittoon. Clementina saw that he was paler than usual. He was the
same neat and dapper little man, with a bad complexion, as when he had
married; but in the course of these twelve years his temper had been
greatly spoiled. He had many wrinkles on his face, his hair and beard
were streaked with grey, and his eyes had lost their brightness. He
closed the door which his wife had left open, and going up to her said,
with affected ease: "My cashier handed me to-day a cheque from you, for
fifteen thousand pesetas. Here it is."
He took out his pocket-book, and from it a half-sheet of scented satin
paper which he held out to her. She looked at it for a moment with a
grave and gloomy face, but did not wince. She said not a word.
"A fortnight ago he gave me one for nine thousand. Here it is." The same
proceedings, the same silence.
"Last month there were three: one for six thousand, one for eleven
thousand, and one for four thousand. Here they are."
Osorio flourished the handful of papers before his wife's eyes; then, as
this did not unlock her lips, he asked: "Do you acknowledge it?"
"Acknowledge what?" she said, shortly.
"That these documents are correct."
"They are, no doubt, if they bear my signature. I have a bad memory,
especially for money matters."
"A happy gift," he replied with an ironical smile, as he went through
the papers in his pocket-book. "I, too, have often tried to forget them.
Unfortunately my cashier makes it his business to refresh my memory.
Well," he went on as his wife said no more, "I came up solely to ask you
a question--namely: Do you suppose that things can go on like this?"
"I do not understand."
"I will explain. Do you suppose that you can go on drawing on my account
every few days such sums as these?"
Clementina, who had been pale at first, had coloured crimson.
"You know better than I."
"Why better? You ought to know the amount of your fortune."
"Well, but I do not know," she replied, sharply.
"Nothing can be more simple. The six hundred thousand dollars which your
father paid over when we were married, being invested in real estate,
produce, as you may see by the books, about twenty-two thousand dollars
a year. The expenses of the house, without counting my private outlay,
amounts to about three times as much. You can surely draw your own
conclusions."
"If you are vexed at your money being spent you can sell the houses,"
said Clementina with scornful brevity, her colour fading to paleness
again.
"But if they were sold I should none the less be responsible for the
whole value. You know that?"
"I will sign you any paper you like, saying that I hold you responsible
for nothing."
"That is not enough, my dear. The law will never release me from
responsibility for your fortune, so long as I have any money. Moreover,
if you spend it in pleasure"--and he emphasised the word--"it may be all
very well for you, but deplorable for me, because I shall still be
compelled to supply you with--necessaries."
"To keep me, in short?" she said with a bitter intonation.
"I wished to avoid the word; but it is no doubt exact."
Osorio spoke in an impertinent and patronising tone, which piqued his
wife's pride in every possible way. Ever since the violent differences
which had led to their separation under the same roof, they had had no
such important interview as this. When, in the course of daily life,
they came into collision, matters were smoothed over with a short
explanation, in which both parties, without compromising their pride,
used some prudence for fear of a scandal. But the present question
touched Osorio in a vital part. To a banker money is the chief fact in
life.
His personal pride, too, had suffered greatly in the last few years,
though he had not confessed it. It was not enough to feign indifference
and disdain of his wife's misconduct; it was not enough to pay her back
in her own coin, by flaunting his mistresses in her face and making a
parade of them in public. Both fought with the same weapons, but a woman
can inflict with them far deeper wounds than a man. The misery he
suffered from his wife's disreputable life did not diminish as time went
on; the gulf which parted them grew wider and deeper. And so revenge was
ready to seize this opportunity by the forelock.
Clementina looked him in the face for a moment. Then, shrugging her
shoulders and with a contemptuous curl of her lips, she turned on her
heel and was about to leave the room. Osorio stepped forward between her
and the door.
"Before you go you must understand that the cashier has my orders to pay
you no cheques that do not bear my signature."
"I understand."
"For your regular expenses I will allow a fixed sum on which we will
agree. But I can have no more surprises on the cash-box."
Clementina, who had been about to quit the room by the ante-chamber,
turned to go to her boudoir. Before leaving the room she held the
curtain a moment in her hand, and facing her husband she said, with
concentrated rage, "In that you are as mean a cur as your
brother-in-law, only he never made believe, like you, to be generous."
She dropped the curtain, and slammed the door in his face.
Osorio made as though to follow her; but he instantly stopped short and
yelled, rather than spoke, so she might hear him:
"Oh, yes! I am a mean cur, because I do not choose to maintain a crew of
hungry puppies. I leave that to the hags who choose to pet them!"
This brutal speech seemed to have eased his mind, for his lips wore a
smile of triumphant sarcasm.
Five minutes later they were both in the dining-room, laughing and
jesting with a small party of guests.