THE DISCOVERY
When the count went back to the drawing-room, he found the young people
preparing for a _rigodon_ (a country dance). The seat at the piano was
occupied by one of the daughters of the _Pensioner_; for such was the
name given in the town to Don Cristobal Mateo, as he was an old
government official, who, after serving many years in the Philippines,
had retired some time ago on an income of 30,000 reales.[H]
He had a military bearing and quite a martial aspect, with his white
moustache, large rolling eyes, thick eyebrows, and powerful hands.
Nevertheless, there was not a kinder man in the Spanish dominions. His
career had been cast in Exchequer offices, and he always expressed
strong opinions against the power of the army. He maintained that the
blood-suckers of the State were not those employed in civil functions,
but the army and navy. The fact was demonstrated by the production of
figures and notes on the subject, when he would quite lose himself in
bureaucratic divagations. He said that war was caused by the thirst for
blood emanating from the superfluous energy of the nation. This was a
phrase he had read in the _Boletin de Contribuciones Indirectas_ and
appropriated as his own with marked effect. He said soldiers were
vagrants, and his aversion to all uniforms and epaulettes was extreme.
When the Corporation of Lancia talked of applying to the government for
a regiment to garrison the city, he, as councillor, opposed the measure
most resolutely.
What was the good of bringing a lot of spongers into the neighbourhood?
Instead of having the comfort of being at some distance from a regiment,
they would have all the disadvantages of harbouring one. Everything
would get dear, for the colonels and officers liked to live well and
have the best of everything, "after all the hard work they did to earn
it," he added, ironically. Then they were all gamblers, and their bad
example would contaminate the youths of the place, who never indulged in
such licence except on times of holiday making. As they were such an
idle lot (Don Cristobal firmly believed that a soldier had nothing to
do), one could imagine what a set of rogues they were! In short, the
regiment would be a corrupting element and a source of disturbance in
the place. So Mateo got his way, not merely because it was his way, but
because the Minister of War did not consider it necessary to send
soldiers to Lancia, considering the peaceable condition of the
inhabitants.
With his income of 30,000 reales, the Pensioner might have lived very
comfortably in such a cheap place, if his daughters had not been
possessed with the silly fancy of preferring the hats of Madrid to those
that were made by the milliner of the Calle de Joaquin, and eight-button
gloves to four-button ones. Such superior tastes gave rise in the
Pensioner's house to many an upset, with all its accompanying tears,
hysterics, regrets, disinclination for food, &c. In these terrible
conflicts it must be confessed that Don Cristobal did not always comport
himself with the dignity, firmness and courage befitting his large
moustachios and strongly marked eyebrows. Certainly he was always alone
in the fray. Never by any chance did one of his girls side with him,
unless it was on a question apart from the domestic arrangement of the
house, when some of the daughters joined with papa against the others.
But whenever a problem of economy came to the fore, the Pensioner was
sure to have all four children against him. Then Don Cristobal, like an
experienced general, tried every means to rout the enemy, or to
capitulate under fair terms.
One day the girls were suddenly seized with a fancy for morocco-leather
shoes like those of some young lady in the town, who proved to be
Fernanda Estrada-Rosa. Then Don Cristobal became pensive and turned the
matter over in his mind, with the result of casually mentioning, in the
course of conversation at supper, that he had heard at _la Innovadora_
(the best bootmaker's) that morocco boots were considered very dangerous
in Lancia on account of the damp; and that Don Nicanor, a local doctor
happening to be there at the time, observed that morocco was fatal in
such a cold rainy climate; in fact, catarrhs, sometimes developing to
galloping consumption, were frequently caught from cold feet. But long
before the poor old man finished his diatribe against morocco, his
daughters burst in with such ironical laughter, and sarcastic speeches
that he was quite crushed.
Another time the girls were bent upon having parasols from Madrid like
Amalia's. Don Cristobal held out for some time until finally, having the
worst of it, he had to give in. But fertile in resources like Ulysses,
he conceived a plan by which the expense would be halved. He went to
Amalia, and begged her to lend him her parasol for two or three days, so
that one of the local milliners could make him four others exactly
similar; and this, at his request, the Senora de Quinones promised to
keep a solemn secret. But the poor parasols were not up to the mark, and
when they arrived properly packed through the post, and ran the gauntlet
of the sharp, anxious eyes of his four daughters, the old man was soon
called to task for the poorness of the trimmings and the coarseness of
the work.
"These parasols were not made at Madrid!" said Micaela in a tone of
decision, for she was the sharpest of the four.
"For goodness' sake, don't be so absurd! Where then do they come from?"
returned Don Cristobal with assumed surprise, whilst he felt the colour
mount to his face.
"I don't know, but I am perfectly sure they were not made in Madrid."
And the four nymphs turned them over, felt them with their experienced
fingers, and studied and analysed them so minutely, that their father
was plunged into a fearful state of suspense. They exchanged significant
glances, smiled scornfully, and spoke in whispers. In the meanwhile the
Pensioner was a martyr to such an extreme state of nervous anxiety that
his very moustachios were affected.
At last the fanciful beings left the purchases in scornful disdain upon
the drawing-room chairs, and ran and locked themselves in Jovita's room,
where they remained half an hour in secret conclave, whilst Don
Cristobal waited in anxious trepidation, as he walked up and down the
corridor like a criminal expecting his sentence.
At last the door opened, and the guilty creature stood awaiting the
verdict of the judges. But they maintained a cautious reserve, whilst an
enigmatical smile wreathed their white lips. Then two of them put on
their mantillas and gloves, and darted into the street, to return in a
short time to the domestic hearth with blazing eyes, agitated faces, and
in a tremor of indignation.
The pen is powerless to portray the subsequent scene in the Pensioner's
peaceful dwelling. What cries of rage! what bitter sarcasm! what
hysterical laughter! what wringing of hands! what banging of chairs! and
what exclamations of woe! And in the midst of such a scene, terrible
enough to strike terror into the heart of the most serene, the four
parasols, the innocent cause of all the fray, lay on the ground in
ignominious ruin.
With the exception of these periodical disturbances which upset the
somewhat weak nerves of the Pensioner, his existence was very calm and
peaceful, for the numberless, but valuable, little attentions which make
life pleasant were never wanting. His daughters were careful about
having everything in order, and in its place. His shirts and
underclothing were kept in perfect order, his cravats, made from old
material, looked as fresh as if straight from the hosiers, his slippers
were always ready when he came home, the water put for his foot-bath on
Saturdays, his cigar before going to bed, his glass of water with lemon
for his morning draught, &c., all went on with the sweet and regular
mechanism so pleasing to the aged.
It was true that with four daughters it did not represent much trouble,
especially if they were not under the dominion of some fancy or desire.
But the sight of some new-fashioned hat, the news of the arrival of a
dramatic company, or the announcement of some party at the Casino, would
be enough to cause the wildest excitement, in which every other
consideration went to the wall, and they were seen flying off to the
dressmaker, glove-shop, and perfumer. As these wild freaks of fancy did
not harmonise very well with the prosaic details of existence, a slight
disorganisation ensued; but Don Cristobal bore these disturbances with
composure. After a short time of chaos, order returned, and his life
resumed its usual peaceful course. The names of these daughters, in
order of age, were as follows: Jovita, Micaela, Socorro, and Emilita. In
appearance, they were four insignificant beings, neither beautiful nor
ugly, graceful nor ungraceful, young nor old, sad nor vivacious. There
was nothing remarkable in any one of them, and yet by the domestic
hearth the character of each was quite distinct. Jovita was sentimental
and reserved, Michaela was quick tempered, and Emilita was the liveliest
of the party. Don Cristobal was greatly exercised on two subjects, one
was the reduction of the army and the other was the marriage of his
four daughters, or at least two of them. The first project was in a fair
way to success, for political opinion inclined in its favour, but as for
the other, I am sorry to say that there seemed no likelihood of its
realisation. In spite of sacrificing many comforts to dress expenses,
and frequenting the promenades, and the Quinones' balls with a
regularity deserving success, the precious gifts of Hymen were not
attained.
When some imprudent fellow ventured to pay them any attention he was
told that they would be quite grieved to marry in their father's life,
for it seemed cruel to think of abandoning a poor old man, who loved
them so dearly, and had sacrificed so much for them; and these
protestations were followed by the warmest eulogy on their father's
character.
But the Pensioner was quite anxious to repudiate these too filial
sentiments, and his desire of experiencing the cruelty of being
abandoned was so evident that it was quite a joke. As if the daughters
did not make themselves sufficiently ridiculous, Mateo made the
situation worse by throwing them at the heads of all the marriageable
young men of the town.
But the praises sung by the old man on the cleverness, economy, and good
management of his daughters, were all without effect. Directly a
stranger arrived at Lancia, Don Cristobal took care to strike up an
acquaintance with him. He invited him to coffee at his house, took him
to his box at the theatre, showed him the beauties of the surrounding
country, went with him to see the reliques of the cathedral, visited the
natural history museum, and, in short, did all the honours of the place.
People smiled at the little play which had been acted so many times
without success, for Jovita was the only one who arrived at the dignity
of having a lover for three or four years, which fact made her feel far
superior to her sisters. The young man had been a foreign student who
had courted her during the latter courses of his studies; but when they
were over, he returned to his country, and, forgetting his engagement to
Jovita, he there married a lady of property. The others never even
attained to this degree of love-making, they never got farther than
fancies, or flirtations of a fortnight's duration. Trifling attentions
were paid, but nothing serious ensued.
By degrees the girls assumed a colder demeanour, for although they had
not given up hope, they were tired, and the one all-absorbing idea made
a line of care on their brows. But Cristobal did not think of giving in.
He firmly believed in the husbands of his daughters, and he propounded
the fact with as much assurance as the prophets of the Old Testament
announced the coming of the Messias.
"When my daughters marry," he would say, "instead of spending the summer
in Sarrio, where the etiquette is as strict as in Lancia, I shall go to
Rodillero to breathe the fresh air and fish for perch. Listen to me,
Micaela; don't be so sharp, woman. You will find a husband won't put up
with those frivolous ways; he will expect to be answered in a proper
manner."
"My husband will have to put up with what he can get," returned the pert
girl, with a disdainful toss of her head.
"And if he gets tired of that?" asked Emilita, mischievously.
"He will have double work then, for he will get tired, and get tired of
getting tired."
"And suppose he took the stick to you?"
"He would have to be careful, for I should be quite equal to poisoning
him."
"Goodness! what a horror!" exclaimed the three nereids, laughing.
So that hypothetical husband, that abstract being, figured as constantly
in conversation as if he were of flesh and blood, and lived in the next
house.
The daughter now playing the piano was Emilita, the most musical of the
four sisters. The other three were standing, each hanging on the arm of
a young man.
The count crossed the room to Fernanda-Rosa, who was arm-in-arm with a
girl friend. She did not seem to care for the dancing, albeit she was a
young lady renowned in the town for her beauty, elegance, and fortune.
She was the only daughter of Don Juan Estrada-Rosa, the richest banker
and merchant of the province. Tall, moderately stout, with a dark
complexion, regular, striking features, large, very black, scornful
looking eyes, and a graceful figure, embellished by the elegant
toilettes, that were the despair and envy of all the girls of the town,
she did not look as if she belonged to the place, but as if she had been
transported from one of the most aristocratic court _salons_.
"How charming you are looking, Fernanda!" exclaimed the count, in a low
voice, with a bow of admiration.
The beauty scarcely deigned to smile, but made a little scornful pout.
"How do you do, Luis?" she said, giving him her hand with marked
displeasure.
"Not so well as you are, but I am pretty well."
"Only pretty well? I am sorry. I am perfectly well--you have not
forgotten me, then?" she returned in the same displeased tone, without
looking him in the face.
"Why, no, how could one forget the star Sirius?"
"I do not understand astronomy."
"Sirius is the most brilliant star in the heavens, everybody knows
that."
"Well then I did not know it. You see how ignorant I am."
"I certainly do not; but you have modesty united to beauty and talent."
"No, I know I have no talent, but you do not like to tell me so."
"My girl, I have but just told you the contrary."
There was a touch of bitterness in the displeased tone of Fernanda,
whilst that of the count was calm and ceremonious, although slightly
dashed with irony.
"Very well, then I have misunderstood you."
"That is what you always do."
"Caramba, how polite!" exclaimed the young girl, growing pale.
"You always think something disagreeable is meant," quickly added the
count, as he saw by the change in her face what idea had crossed her
mind.
"Many thanks. I take your words for what they are worth."
"You will be wrong in not thinking them sincere. Besides, there is no
need my telling you how worthy you are of admiration, for everybody
knows it."
"Thank you; thank you! So you are tired of playing?"
"My teeth hurt me a little."
"Have them out."
"All of them?"
"Those that hurt you, man. Ave Maria!"
"With what indifference you say it. I suppose nothing would affect you?"
"I am always affected by the sufferings of a neighbour."
"A neighbour! What a horror! I had not heard that I was put in the
category of neighbour."
"What do you want, sir? Honours come when least expected."
In spite of the vexed, almost aggressive, tone of her voice, Fernanda
did not move away, but stood holding the arm of the little friend, who
never opened her lips. The rich heiress was evidently very nervous. She
gave little taps on the ground with her foot, crushed up her
handkerchief in her hand, her lips trembled almost imperceptibly, and
round her dark Arab-looking eyes there was a paler circle than usual.
The argument evidently interested her.
Her engagement with the Conde de Onis had lasted longer than any
previous one.
When Fernanda first appeared in society, and earlier still, when she was
a little maiden going to school with a servant, her figure, her
elegance, and, above all, the six millions she was to inherit, created
quite a sensation. There was not a youth with any pretensions to manners
or money, who did not determine, either of his own accord, or at the
instigation of his family, to walk down the street with her, send her
little notes, and whisper pleasant nothings in her ear.
De Sarrio, de Nueva, and other places also furnished admirers, who came
under the pretext of taking a holiday. The girl, pleased and intoxicated
with the incense of admiration, never thought of keeping faith with
anybody, for she was continually breaking one engagement and entering
into another. A young man seldom remained in her good graces more than a
couple of months. In fact, there was no one in a position to marry her,
and in Lancia and the rest of the province, there was nobody possessed
of property equal to her _dot_. If, perchance, such a one existed, he
was not of fitting age to enter into matrimony with such a young girl,
for he would be some Indian worn out by tropical heat, or the elderly
owner of some remote, grand, country mansion.
It was not necessary for her father to mention the matter, for the girl
perfectly understood that there was no one to suit her; but she enjoyed
flirting all round and making the youths of Lancia adore her. There was
one young man, however, whom no girl of the town had ever dared to think
of marrying, and that was the Conde de Onis. He was deeply respected on
account of his old family in the province, where the abject worship of
aristocracy sinks the burgess beneath the level of the servant and the
agricultural labourer; and his retired style of life and the mystery and
silence of his old palace, added to his handsome income, seemed to exalt
him to an atmosphere aloof from the darts of all the local beauties.
But it was for this very reason, that there arose in Fernanda's bosom a
desire, at first vague, and then strong, and overwhelming, to make a
conquest of him. This is a very natural wish, and being especially a
feminine one, it requires no explanation. In the bottom of her heart the
daughter of Estrada-Rosa felt herself inferior to the Conde de Onis.
Nevertheless, she had heard so much flattery; and the glitter of her
father's money seemed so irresistible, that she thought she could well
aspire to making him her husband. If she did not really think so, she
pretended to do so when speaking of the count behind his back, and
affecting a certain familiarity in his presence.
In Lancia, as in all the little capitals, the young men and women adopt
the fashion of _tutoyant_ each other, and this was authorised from their
having known each other and played together as children. But for a long
time the Conde de Onis never exchanged a word with Fernanda, although
they constantly met in the street. Nevertheless, when they first met at
a little party at the De Mere's, the young beauty immediately addressed
him as _tu_, and dropped his title. It was Luis here, and Luis there, as
if she were quite accustomed to his name. The count was surprised
without being displeased. No one is sorry to find himself _tutoye_ by a
lovely girl, and a naturally shy and timid man, like the count, was not
likely to be the exception.
Fernanda at once tried to enlist him as an admirer, or at least to make
him appear as such in the eyes of the public, who looked upon it as a
proper state of things. There was no other husband for Fernanda, and no
other wife for the count in the province.
The distance that separated them was retrospective: it existed only in
Fernanda's lack of ancestors, and it was generally thought that the
young girl's beauty, money, and brilliant education, would make the
count overlook this drawback.
These relations lasted about a year.
The two met at a party of the Senoritas de Mere, which was always
considered a pleasant occasion. She had often hinted to the count that
he might go to that house, but he had either not understood, or
pretended not to understand her. But one day Fernanda openly made the
suggestion. He tried to get out of it as well as he could. Was he timid?
or was he proud? Fernanda could not make him out; however, this reserve
increased his attraction for her, and made her like him all the more.
But suddenly, when the public least expected it--when, in fact, it had
begun to ask the reason of the delay of the marriage, the engagement was
broken off. It was done diplomatically and secretly, so much so that it
had been over for a month, and yet people were still joking them, not
knowing there had been a break. The fact when revealed, produced a great
sensation, and became the subject of ceaseless conversation at all the
parties. No one could say what had happened, or who had given the
initiative in the matter. If the count was asked, he stoutly maintained
that Fernanda had given him up; and so much stress did he lay upon the
statement, that nobody doubted his sincerity. The heiress, Estrada-Rosa,
corroborated her lover's assertion without going into particulars, and
this in the off-hand tone she always adopted when speaking of, or to,
the count, for they went on seeing each other pretty frequently, albeit
not quite so often, although they attended parties at the houses of
mutual friends. Moreover, Fernanda soon after became an _habituee_ at
the dances at the Quinones' house. But the past relations were never
renewed, and when the two former lovers met and talked a little as now,
the guests looked on with bated breath and interested eyes.
"They will go on as before; they will end by marrying!" they thought.
But they were disillusioned at the sight of the indifference with which
they parted.
Just as he was going to reply to the last words of the proud heiress,
the glance of the count wandered absently round the room and fell upon a
pair of eyes fixed upon him with a sharp and jealous gaze, whereupon he
gave his hand to his friend and said with a forced smile:
"How badly you treat me, Fernanda! It will ever be so, I suppose, but I,
you know, am always your devoted admirer. _Au revoir._"
"I am sorry that this devotion neither pleases nor displeases me," she
returned, without moving a step away.
Then the count went off shrugging his shoulders resignedly and saying:
"And I am still more sorry."
Passing by the couples, who had commenced the _rigodon_, he returned to
the lady of the house, who was at that moment with Manuel Antonio, one
of the persons most worthy of note in this period we are recording.
He was known as much by the nickname of the Chatterbox, or Magpie, as by
his own name. This fact is sufficient to give us an idea of his moral
and physical characteristics.
Manuel Antonio was not young--he was certainly fifty; and all the
artificial means not distinguished for refinement, then in vogue in
Lancia, were brought into play to hide the fact.
He had an unmistakable wig, several false teeth badly put in, a little
black on his eyebrows and red on his lips; there was a strong scent of
patchouli about him, and there was a dash of originality in his whole
get-up befitting his reputation for former splendour. He really had been
a rare combination of face and figure: tall, slender, and well-built,
with regular delicate features, fine auburn hair falling in graceful
curls, a smiling countenance, and gentle voice. There now only remained
a faint trace of all this beauty. The straight shoulders had become
bent, the beautiful curls had vanished like a dream that was past;
unwelcome wrinkles furrowed the smooth brow; and the rows of pearly
teeth, so ornamental to his mouth, were substituted by ugly gaps which
time had made, and the dentist had failed to replace satisfactorily.
Finally, his slight, delicate, silky moustache had become white,
bristly, and shaggy, and neither dye nor cosmetic could keep it
presentable.
What a trial this was for the handsome young man of Lancia and for the
friends who had known him in the palmy days of his beauty! But his mind
kept as youthful as when he was eighteen. He was the same impassioned,
affectionate creature, sweet one moment, irascible and terrible another,
following the bent of his caprices and living in quiet idleness.
He enjoyed the pleasures of the bath so intensely that he would have it
three or more times running, until the water was as clear as when it
left the spring. He loved flowers and birds, but no delight equalled
that of trying on different articles of adornment before the glass to
see which suited him best. He considered that a dash of the feminine
made his costume more fetching, so in winter he liked to wear a short
cape with a gold clasp and a wide brimmed hat which suited him to
perfection. In summer he dressed in white flannel, very well cut to show
off the graceful lines of his figure. His neckerchiefs were nearly
always of gauze, his shoes low, and the collar of his shirt cut sailor
fashion. On his wrist he wore a bracelet; it was certainly only a bright
gold band, but this detail caught the eyes of all his fellow citizens.
Whenever Manuel Antonio was spoken of, the bracelet was sure to be
mentioned, as if there was nothing about his interesting person more
calculated to excite attention. But if years had not materially changed
this kind creature, so eminently created for love, they had nevertheless
made him more cautious and more reserved. He did not show his
preferences in the ingenuous fashion of former years, and he did not
give play to the impulsive fancies of his susceptible heart until he had
proved the worthiness of the object of his affection. Many were the
disillusions he had suffered in his life, and it was particularly sad
when he was getting old to meet not only coldness from his old friends,
from those to whom he had been lavish in marks of kindness, but to find
that he was an object of derision, in fact the laughing-stock of the
youths of the new generation. The young people of the present day made a
regular butt of him.
As they had not witnessed his triumphs, nor known his past radiant
beauty, they were far from professing that respect that the last
generation had had for him. They never lost an opportunity of worrying
and teasing him cruelly. When he appeared in the Calle de Altavilla, or
entered the Cafe de Maranon, he was surrounded by a crowd of _gamins_.
Cristo! the remarks that were made; and, sad to say, they passed from
using their tongues to using their hands. This was what Manuel Antonio
could not put up with. They could talk as much as they liked, for he had
the gift of repartee and could well hold his own with his turn for
sarcasm and his sense of the ridiculous; and years, and long practice
had made him such an adept in this art of repartee, that his retorts
were terrible; and those who tried to get a rise out of him generally
got the worst of it, and were staggered by the words they brought on
themselves. But when these shameless fellows passed from speech to
touch, patting his face and pulling his beard, he entirely lost his
self-control, and gave vent to expressions which were neither
intentional nor rational. Needless to say that as this was known to be
his weak point, the teasing always terminated in this way. Nevertheless,
apart from the pardonable desire to retort on those who hurt him, he was
not naturally malignant, but really a most useful and serviceable being.
His talents were many, and various. He could crochet most perfectly, and
his coverlets were unrivalled in Lancia. He decked an altar, or dressed
the images as well as any sacristan. He could upholster furniture, make
wax flowers, paper walls, embroider with hair, and paint plates. And
when any of his female friends wished to have her hair well dressed to
go to some ball, Manuel Antonio gallantly went to the rescue, and did it
as cleverly as the best hairdresser in Madrid. If any of his friends
were ill, then was the time to see the unfailing care and attention of
our old Narcissus. He immediately took up his post by the sick bed, he
kept count of the draughts, made the bed, and put on poultices as
cleverly as the most practised nurse. Then, if the illness became
serious, he knew how to suggest the idea of confession with so much
tact, that instead of the patient being offended, he accepted it as the
most natural thing in the world. And when he saw that death was
imminent, he prepared for the reception of the solemn guest, and no lady
could have taken greater pains to receive some most important personage:
There was the little altar with the embroidered cloth, lighted with
candles, the staircase adorned with pots of flowers, the ground covered
with rose-leaves, and the servants and relations at the door, holding
lighted tapers in gloved hands. Not a single detail was forgotten. The
Chatterbox, in his glory, assumed the manners of a general at the head
of his troops. Everybody obeyed and seconded him as if he were a chief.
Then, if the patient died, it is hardly necessary to say that his power
was still more omnipotent. From the laying-out of the corpse to the
final function of burial, there was nothing but what he had a hand in.
And as there were generally sick people to nurse, images to dress,
friends who wanted their hair dressed, or flowers to be arranged, Manuel
had rather a busy life. In performing these offices, or in going from
house to house fetching and carrying news, the days and years slipped
by. He lived with two sisters, older than himself, and they looked
after him, and cared for him as if he were still a child. They paid no
heed to their brother's wig, wrinkles, or false teeth, and the hours he
spent on his toilette, and his baths provoked a compassionate smile.
Whilst they bitterly deplored the ravages made by time on their own
faces and figures, they seemed to think that their brother had arrested
the course of the common enemy, and that he had in fact some elixir for
keeping himself eternally young. Manuel Antonio was methodical in his
visits: he had several houses at which he called every day at the same
time. He went to Don Juan Estrada's at three o'clock, the coffee hour;
he took chocolate with the Countess of Onis every afternoon, and he was
a regular _habitue_ at the evening receptions of the Senora de Quinones.
There were several other families that he frequently visited. He dropped
into the houses of Maria Josefa Hevia and the Mateos in the morning for
a little while, just to hear any news that was going, or to inspect
their work, and sometimes of an evening, he went to the Senoritas de
Mere.
"Look, here is the count!" he exclaimed in his peculiarly effeminate
tone. "Ah! what a cunning fellow the count is!"
"How?" said the count, approaching.
"Ask Amalia."
Then the smile suddenly left the lips of the nobleman.
"What? What do you mean?" he exclaimed with undisguised confusion.
Amalia also looked upset, and her pale cheeks grew red.
"We have been grumbling at you, my man, and a pretty character we gave
you. Yes, Manuel Antonio has been saying that you are a dog in the
manger," said Amalia.
"No, you were the one who said so."
"I?" exclaimed the lady.
"And why am I the dog in the manger?" said the count. "Let us hear."
"Because Amalia says you do not want to eat the meat yourself, and you
will not let Don Santos eat it."
"Get along! Hold your tongue, you rude fellow!" said the lady
half-laughing, giving him a pinch.
"What is being said of Don Santos?" asked a short, broad gentleman, with
a fat purple face, who approached the group.
The count and Amalia did not know what to answer.
"They were remarking," said Manuel Antonio, with his ready tongue, "that
Don Santos thought of taking us up to his place, the Castaneda
(Chestnuts)."
"No, no, it was not that," returned the stout man with a forced smile.
"Yes it was, and Amalia maintained that you were not up to taking us to
the Castaneda for the day."
"But, my good fellow, you seem bent on painting me in very black
colours," said Amalia.
"Because I am a real friend. How pale you have been looking lately....
You must credit me, Santos, for having a higher opinion of your
generosity than the majority of people. 'You don't know Don Santos,' I
often say to those who declare that you do not like spending money. 'If
Don Santos does not spend and does not entertain his friends, it is not
from avarice but from indolence, and from want of a fitting occasion.
The man is self-distrustful, and incapable of proposing banquets or
festivities; but let anybody start the idea, and you will see how gladly
it will be followed up.'"
"Thank you, thank you, Manuel Antonio," murmured Don Santos, with a
rabbit-like smile.
The poor man was indeed continually haunted by the fear of appearing
mean. Like many of the Indians, the fact of his being immensely rich
gave him a reputation, not utterly unfounded, of being mean. He arrived
a few years ago from Cuba, where by dint of first packing cases with
sugar and then selling them, he amassed an immense fortune. He was like
a Bedouin, without any regard for what went on in the world; he could
not speak a dozen words correctly, nor comport himself like other men.
The thirty years he had spent behind a counter had caused his legs to
swell, which had given him the gait of a drunken man. The high colour of
his complexion was so characteristic, that in Lancia, where few people
escaped a nickname, he was dubbed _Garnet_.
In the midst of his misery he enjoyed making some show with his riches.
He built a most magnificent house: the steps were of marble from
Carrara, the furniture from Paris, &c. Nevertheless, when he came to pay
the large bills contracted in its construction, he was careful to see
what could be taken off for the value of the paper and cord, used for
packing the things for their transit from Paris. With this object in
view, he would carefully examine these wrappings accumulated in a heap
in a corner. When the house was finished, he took possession of the
ground-floor, and let the other two. And then began his martyrdom--a
martyrdom long and terrible. The servants and children of the second and
third floors were his torturers. If he heard the floors of the second
storey being rubbed, he was put in a bad humour, for he said that sand
was bad for boarded floors. If he saw a mark made on the stucco by the
careless hand of some little child, he was very angry and muttered words
of dread import. If he heard a door shut violently, the sound seemed to
go to his heart, and fears filled his mind lest the hinges should be
loosened, and the bolts displaced. At last the continual excitement
threw him into such a highly nervous state that his health visibly
declined. A friend of his, who was quite as miserable, although endowed
with more spirit, suggested that he should leave the house and live in
another one. And so he did, for he returned to the hotel where he had
put up during the building of his palace.
But Santos was remiss in the performance of the duty considered
incumbent on all those who make large fortunes from the sugar trade in
America--he failed to enter into matrimony with any lady, young or old,
pretty or ugly.
None of his friends ever took a tradesman's daughter for a wife, and
Garnet could not do less than they. On the contrary, as he was richer
than any of them, it was natural that he should expect more social
advantages. And so it came about that he fixed his prominent, bloodshot
eyes upon the prettiest, richest, and most charming girl in the town--on
nobody less than Fernanda Rosa. The fact aroused the astonishment and
derision of the neighbourhood. For highly as money was esteemed in
Lancia, it was not thought equal to the accomplishment of a feat like
this. The pride of the province marry a fellow of his caste! The girl
was angry and indignant. At first she considered it a joke; then she
became annoyed, and finally she ridiculed the idea. At last she became
used to Garnet's attentions, and it pleased her self-love to be a
subject of adulation, which she unmercifully snubbed in return. But
Santos was pertinacious in his courtship. With the persistence of a fly
which dashes against glass, trying a hundred times to pass through the
obstruction, neither repulses, ridicule, nor rude remarks rebuffed him
for long. He returned the next day, metaphorically speaking, to break
his head against the cold disdain of the proud heiress. He really
thought that the real obstacle to the realisation of his hopes was the
Conde de Onis. He acknowledged that Fernanda was somewhat attracted to
him, or, as he thought, to his title, and he seriously considered going
to Madrid to buy one of the same rank as that of his rival. But when he
was told that the papa set no store by such things, he gave up the idea.
In the meanwhile, he vowed revenge on the gallant count, and hated him
with a deadly hatred, which he showed by never losing an opportunity of
making fun of his ugly, old-fashioned, dilapidated house. The count was
rich in land, but his income could not be compared with that of the
opulent Garnet.
"And if not, you will see the day that he marries what a change will be
effected in the place," continued Manuel Antonio; "we shall have
banquets, and balls, and _fetes champetres_ every day."
"But suppose Fernanda does not like balls?" said Emilita Mateo, who was
dancing with Paco Gomez, and had her back to the group.
"I do not know that I have mentioned Fernanda," said the Chatterbox
severely.
"I thought you were talking of Don Santos marrying, and I supposed you
meant with her."
"Then do not suppose any more, but attend to your dancing with Paco, for
I reckon he has been waiting five minutes."
Paco was a very slender young man, so tall that he reached the lintels
of the doorways, with a head about the size of a potato, and such a thin
face that he really only seemed to walk about by permission of his
undertaker. And with these physical peculiarities, he was the wittiest
person of the place.
"Well, my child!" he exclaimed, standing in front of the Chatterbox.
"The only thing for which I should regret dying would be to be deprived
of the pleasure of seeing such bewitching creatures as yourself."
With this he gave his beard a derisive sort of touch.
We know that Manuel Antonio could not bear anybody's hands near him in
public.
"Be off, you jackdaw, be off!" he returned, with visible irritation as
he pushed him away.
"But are you not fetching? Why, my man, if this were lost to view! Look
what a mouth! Goodness alive, what shaped eyes! Did you ever see such a
texture of the skin?"
And as he touched him again, Manuel repulsed him with a hard push of
real anger.
"Caramba! how cross you are to-day!" said the Conde de Onis.
"It does not matter," returned Paco with a sigh, "white hands never
offend."
At that moment it was his turn to figure in the _rigodon_, and he went
off with Emilita.
Maria Josefa, who had been dancing a little way off, now came up with
her partner, a lieutenant of the battalion of Pontevedra.
"Why, Don Santos, you are cruel! Why do you not go and keep Fernanda
company? She is quite alone."
This was true, for the little friend of the rich heiress having found a
partner for the dance, Fernanda was sitting by herself.
"Yes, yes, you ought to go, Santos," said Manuel Antonio; "see, the girl
has left an empty chair by her side; she could not give a stronger
hint."
So saying, he winked at the count, who confirmed his statement by
saying: "I think it would only be polite."
Garnet cast a sharp glance at the speaker and surlily returned:
"Then why don't you go yourself and sit by her side?"
"For the simple reason that we have nothing to talk about. But with you
it is quite different."
"That is understood, Senor Conde. I am not a child," he murmured very
crossly.
"Although you are not a child in age," said Amalia, intervening to
prevent discord, "you are one in the frankness and spontaneity of your
sentiments, and in the freshness of heart, that other people younger
than you are remiss in. Children love with more simplicity and fervour
than men."
"But men do something more heroic--they marry," said Paco Gomez, who was
again standing near with his partner.
"There are occasions when they do not marry either," returned Manuel
Antonio, making an imperceptible grimace, by which it could be seen
that he was thinking of Maria Josefa.
"Very well," returned that gentleman, abandoning the argument; "but it
must be allowed that there are cases when such an act would require a
heroism beyond human nature."
The old maid who overheard this last remark, cast a withering look at
the speaker.
"Human nature, indeed!" she retorted with displeasure, "human nature
sometimes assumes such eccentric forms that heroism would appear out of
place."
However, Paco Gomez was not a whit confused, and merely touched his face
with comic gestures, feigning a dumb submission, which made the others
laugh. Amalia, seeing the conversation was getting dangerous, changed
the subject by exclaiming:
"Look, see what Don Santos has been doing whilst we have been busy
talking!"
And, in fact, the Indian had quietly left his seat and glided into a
chair by Fernanda's side.
She glanced at him coldly, and hardly deigned to respond to his
ceremonious and pompous greeting. Nevertheless, the red face of Garnet
shone like that of a god sure of his omnipotence. With his large, broad,
fat hands spread out on his knees, his body bent forwards, and his head
raised as much as the fat nape of his neck would permit, he disclosed a
row of large teeth as his lips wreathed in a beneficent smile. Trying,
according to his wont, to make conversation, he said:
"Have you noticed in what quarter the wind is?"
The young lady made no reply.
"It does not signify now," he continued, "as all the fruit is gathered
in, but if it had come sooner, we should not have had a chestnut nor a
grain of maize left, he! he!"
To judge from the expression of pleasure which shone in his eyes,
Garnet delighted in giving utterance to this remark.
"But it is not cold here, eh? I am not cold, he! he! On the contrary I
feel hot. It is because your eyes are two coals--they are burn----"
Another time he would have finished the word burning without any
hesitation, but to excuse his confusion, he feigned a cough which made
his purple face look as if he were suffering strangulation.
The beauty, who had kept her eyes fixed on space, now turned her head
towards her adorer, and looked at him with a vague, absent expression,
as if she did not see him. She then got up, and without vouchsafing a
word, took a seat a little way off. So the Indian was left with the same
stereotyped smile on his face, like the petrified grimace of a satyr.
But when he saw the eyes of the others fixed derisively upon him, he
suddenly became cross and peevish.
"What has this Garnet to do with the ladies?" said Paco Gomez to the
count. "As I was saying the other day, you do not need to go to America
for rich women. Your face is your fortune."
"Look, my dear count, you ought to go and sit by her side. You will see
she won't get up then," said Manuel Antonio.
"Yes, yes, you ought to go, Luis," said Maria Josefa, "we shall be able
to see then whether she is in love with you or not. Really, Amalia,
ought he not to go?"
"Yes, it seems to me that you ought to sit by her side," said the lady
in measured, trembling tones.
"Do you think so?" asked the count, looking earnestly at her.
"Yes, go," returned the lady, with perfect serenity, avoiding his eyes.
"Then you must allow me to disobey you, as I do not wish to expose
myself to a rebuff."
"What do rebuffs signify when you are in love?... Because from what I
hear, you are in love with Fernanda. It is known for a mile round."
"Certainly for a mile round, for that is not saying much," interposed
Manuel Antonio.
And Maria Josefa, and Emilita Mateo, and Paco Gomez all corroborated the
remark with a smile.
Amalia insisted effectually. Luis had tried his best to avoid suspicion;
but as all efforts are ineffectual to exclude every ray of light, she
had guessed for some time past that the count nourished in the depths of
his heart an affectionate regard for Fernanda.
"Listen to me," she said; "a few days ago somebody happened to say to
Moro that he had two false teeth. You cannot think how put out the poor
man was; a little more and he would have beaten him who told him of it."
"I am not as bad as that," said the count, "but I expressed myself
somewhat emphatically, as injustice always annoys me," and he smiled
shamefacedly.
"Oh! excitement in such cases is always suspicious. When one feels no
interest in anybody, one is not so vehement in denying it. Caramba! I
never saw you so put out as you are now. One can see that the girl has a
valiant champion ready to break lances on her behalf."
The lady did not leave the joke. She seemed to wish the count to think
that his love for Fernanda was a foregone conclusion. In spite of the
kind smile on her face, there were certain strange inflexions in her
voice that were only noticeable to one person present at that moment.
But the _rigodon_ was over and the little group was augmented by the
arrival of several other couples. Some came, and others went, until at
last the lady found herself surrounded by fresh people. Another waltz
was danced, and another. Then twelve o'clock struck from the cathedral
clock. And as the young people showed no sign of dispersing, Manin,
according to the custom of the house, appeared by Don Pedro's order at
the drawing-room door with an armful of wraps belonging to the ladies.
This was the signal for withdrawal adopted by the Senor de Quinones at
his parties. It was not very courteous, but nobody was offended; on the
contrary, it was received in good part and considered a pleasant sort of
joke.
After they had all shaken hands with the Grandee, they formed a group in
the middle of the drawing-room, and Amalia in the centre bade farewell
to her female friends, as she kissed them affectionately. She was pale,
and her eyes looked anxious and feverish as she gave her hand to the
count; she turned her head aside, feigning inattention; but she pressed
his fingers firmly three or four times as if to inspire him with
courage, for indeed the poor man was in want of it. He was so nervous
and trembling that Amalia thought that he would collapse entirely.
And then the guests quickly passed into the passages and down the damp
stone staircase. A servant was there to open the street-door.
"Ah! Who left this basket here?" said Emilita Mateo, who was the first
to come across the obstruction.
"A basket?" asked several ladies as they came up to her.
"Perhaps some poor creature asleep about here," said the servant, who
had not yet closed the door.
"There is nobody to be seen," said Manuel Antonio, who had quickly
surveyed the portico.
Curiosity then prompted one of the ladies to raise the cloth which
covered the basket. Whereupon the same exclamation was heard that
Pharaoh's daughter uttered when she saw the celebrated basket of Moses
floating on the river.
"A child!"
Then ensued a moment of amazement and curiosity among the guests. They
all rushed forward, all wishing to see the foundling at once. For no one
doubted for an instant but that the child had been purposely left
there. Paco Gomez picked up the basket and uncovered it completely, so
as to show the sleeping child to his friends.
Then followed a storm of exclamations.
"Little angel! Who could have been so wicked? Poor little soul! What
stony-hearted creatures! Oh, my goodness! Look how beautiful he is! Has
he been left in the cold long? The little thing must be perished. Paco,
let me touch it."
The basket was passed from hand to hand. The ladies, who were very
interested and trembling with emotion, pressed so many tender kisses on
the cheeks of the newly-born that it was aroused from its sleep.
A feeble cry from the little pink creature filled every heart with pity,
and some of the ladies burst into tears.
"Let us take it upstairs so that it may be warmed a little."
"Yes, yes; let us take it upstairs."
And forthwith the chattering crowd rushed into the hall and up the
staircase of the mansion of the Quinones, carrying the mysterious basket
in triumph.
Amalia was standing pale and motionless in the middle of the
drawing-room when the doors were re-opened. Don Pedro had been taken to
bed by Manin and another servant. The fresh sudden invasion seemed a
great surprise to the lady of the house.
"What is the matter? What is this?" she exclaimed, in an agitated voice.
"A baby, a baby!" was the simultaneous cry of many voices.
"We have just found it in the doorway," said Manuel Antonio, putting
down the basket which he had carried upstairs.
"Who left it there?"
"We do not know. It is a foundling. Look! See how beautiful it is,
Amalia."
"Perhaps some poor person, who will come and fetch it, just left it in
the doorway."
"No, no; we have inspected the doorway, and the street is deserted."
The little creature, who was disturbed by all this excitement, now
stretched out its two little rosebud fists, and the compassion of the
ladies was evinced in passionate exclamations. Each one wished to kiss
it and press it to her bosom. At last Maria Josefa managed to get
possession of it, and taking it from the basket she tenderly wrapped it
in the cloak with which it had been covered, and pressed it to her
bosom. Then a paper which had been in the child's clothes fell to the
ground. Manuel Antonio picked it up. On the paper was written in large
awkward-looking characters, evidently with the left hand: "The unhappy
mother of this baby girl commends her to the charity of the Senores de
Quinones. It is not baptised."
"It is a girl, then!" exclaimed several ladies in one voice.
And in the tone of this remark it was evident that the discovery was
somewhat disappointing. They had been so certain it was a boy.
"What mystery is this?" asked Manuel Antonio, whilst a malicious smile
curled his lip.
"Mystery? There is no mystery," returned Amalia with some displeasure.
"It is evidently some poor woman who wants her child to be maintained."
"Notwithstanding, there is a _je ne sais quoi_ strain of mystery about
the matter, and I would wager that the parents of this baby are
well-to-do," replied the Magpie.
"Well, now you are getting foolish!" exclaimed the lady, with a nervous
smile. "Well-to-do people do not leave their children dressed in rags."
Certainly the baby was dressed in miserable clothes and covered with a
scanty, dirty cloak.
"Gently, Amalia, gently," interposed Saleta in his clear, quiet voice.
"Many years ago I found in the doorway of my house in Madrid a child
enveloped in very old clothes, and at the end of some time we
ascertained that he was the son of a very important personage, who shall
be nameless."
All eyes were now turned to the Galician magistrate in surprise.
"It was a very important personage, it was----" he continued, after a
pause, with the same cool impertinence: "well, it was very easy to guess
who it was; the features of the face showed him to be a perfect
Bourbon."
The audience was quite taken aback. They looked at each other with the
slightly amused smile prevalent on such occasions, and Saleta was quite
unconcerned.
"Hurry up!" exclaimed Valero; "won't you have your umbrella?"
"The child died when he was two months old," continued the imperturbable
Saleta; "and it was a fact that when we went to the cemetery, a carriage
joined the funeral cortege, and nobody knew to whom it belonged. But I
knew it, for I had seen it in the royal stables; however, I held my
tongue."
"Will the babbler never cease?" murmured Valero.
"All right, Saleta; you must tell us this story by day, at night such
things are rather boring," said the Chatterbox intervening and winking
at the others. "What we have to think of now, Amalia, is what is to be
done with the baby."
The lady shrugged her shoulders with indifference.
"I don't know. We will leave her here to-night, and to-morrow we will
look for a nurse for her, for it is really quite an upset."
"If you do not care about keeping her in the house, I shall be very
pleased to take charge of her, Amalia," said Maria Josefa, who had stood
a little apart cooing to the baby to keep it quiet.
"I did not say that I did not wish to," returned the lady, somewhat
sharply. "I will take the child, because it concerns me more than
anybody, since it is confided to my care. But, as you can understand,
before doing so I must consult my husband."
The guests greeted these words with a murmur of approbation.
Just at that moment Manin appeared, to ask the meaning of all the
excitement. It was explained to him. Then the Senor de Quinones had
himself brought back into the drawing-room in his wheeled chair; and
when he saw the baby, he at once interested himself in her behalf.
He immediately declared she should not leave the house, and he told a
servant to find a nurse in the morning. In the meanwhile the little
creature had a little milk and tea in a flask with an india-rubber top;
and it was then enveloped in better wraps. The guests watched these
operations with the keenest interest. The ladies uttered cries of
enthusiasm, and their eyes overflowed with tears when they saw the eager
way the baby sucked the top of the bottle.
When all was done, they said good-bye again; but they did not leave
without each one pressing a kiss on the cheeks of the poor little
foundling baby.
All this time the Conde de Onis did not open his lips. He stood in the
third or fourth row, following with eager eyes all the attention and
care bestowed upon the infant. But when he was about to depart without
again taking leave, Amalia stopped him with an audacity which almost
petrified him.
"What is this, count? Do you not wish to kiss my charge?"
"I, yes, Senora."
This was the finishing stroke. And pale and trembling he approached, and
put his lips on the little creature's forehead, whilst the lady watched
him with a provoking triumphant smile.