THE TOWN
This was the third night that the Conde de Onis could hardly close his
eyes. Nothing was more natural than that he should be agitated and
feverish the last two nights; but now, wherefore? All had happened as it
had been arranged. The undertaking had succeeded well, he had nothing to
do but sleep on his triumph. But it was not so. In spite of his strong
robust figure, the Conde had an excessively nervous and impressionable
temperament. The slightest emotion upset him and excited him to an
indescribable extent. Such intense sensibility was the result of
heredity as well as education. His father, Colonel Campo, had been a
self-centred sensitive man, of such keen susceptibility that he was
quite a martyr to it the last years of his life. Everybody in Lancia
recollected the interesting touching episode which closed the life of
the single-minded gentleman.
The colonel had had to send forces to defend a place in Peru during the
insurrection of the American colonists; but the place was taken by
surprise in an underhand way. By a false report the colonel was accused
of treachery before the Government at Madrid, it being asserted that he
had been in collusion with the enemy. With severe precipitancy, without
impartial evidence of the facts, and without taking into consideration
the Conde of Onis' brilliant career in the Service, the king deprived
him of his commission, and all the crosses and decorations in his
possession. The punctilious old soldier was completely crushed by this
unexpected blow. His comrades snatched the pistol from him just when he
attempted his life. Accompanied by a faithful attendant, he left Madrid
and came to Lancia, where his wife and son of tender age were awaiting
him. The family life was a sedative for the wounded heart of the
soldier. But the brave man who had so often defied death, had not the
courage to face the curious eyes of his fellow-citizens. Instead of
rebelling against the injustice that had been done him, instead of
trying to convince his compatriots of his innocence, which would not
have been very difficult, as they all esteemed his character, and knew
his bravery, he was so conscious of his disgrace that he avoided the
sight of people and retired to his house, and he never walked farther
than the garden at the back of the house, bounded by high, crumbling
walls.
The palace of the Counts of Onis deserves especial mention in this
story. It was a very old building; some remains of the original edifice
which were still extant, were the oldest part of the town. Nothing else
was saved from the dreadful fire which destroyed the city in the
fourteenth century. It was more like a fortress than a mansion. There
were a few narrow windows fitted with stone columns, scattered
capriciously over the facade, a bare stone wall blackened by time, with
several square holes like ventilators near the roof, and a large door in
the middle studded with heavy nails. Inside it was immense, and more
cheerful. The courtyard was broader than the street.
The sun came in at the window at the back at midday, and its rays were
tempered by the branches of the garden-trees which formed a pleasant
curtain.
There was a great deal of mystery and enchantment about this old house
for the Lancians, who were endowed with imagination; more especially for
the children, who are the only beings who are open to weird fancies in
this prosaic age.
The facade, if such a name can be given to the aforesaid wall, faced the
Calle de la Misericordia, one of the most central streets of the town.
One of the windows, perchance the largest, overlooked the Calle de
Cerrajerias, and from it could be seen the cathedral in the distance.
Here it was that the ex-colonel buried himself; for neither the
entreaties of his wife nor the few relations who came to see him,
prevailed on him to change his habits.
But his retirement was useful to the house, for he put the garden in
order, had balconies placed at the back of the house, furnished various
rooms, had the courtyard paved, &c.
Thus, without losing its character of mystery, the dismal old house was
transformed into a pleasanter abode.
But the old soldier having fallen into disgrace, seemed to wither up
within its walls like a tree in want of air and water.
A profound melancholy sapped his constitution: his skin became wrinkled,
his hair turned white, his legs grew feeble, and his hands shaky.
At fifty-eight he looked as old as if he were seventy, but this change
was unnoticed in the house.
He glided about the corridors like a ghost. Whole days went by without
any one hearing the sound of his voice. But he was not disagreeable to
anybody, and there was a sweet pleasant smile always on his lips.
He never courted caresses from his child, but when he met him by chance
in the passages he would lay his hand on his head, kiss him fondly,
murmur tender words in his ear, and then turn away, sometimes with tears
in his eyes. He thought it a blot on the life of that little boy, ruddy
and beautiful as a cherubim, to have been born of a disgraced father,
and the unhappy man seemed to ask his pardon for his existence. It was
the year 1829; four years had elapsed since the colonel arrived from
America, and he looked a very spectre. He slept well, ate well, and
nothing seemed to worry him; but his life seemed slipping away, in a
slow but sure consumption. His wife sent for a doctor, and then another
and another. But they all said the same: it was necessary for him to
amuse himself and to associate with people. And these were just the
particular remedies which the count declined to adopt. By degrees he
stayed longer in bed, he rose later, and retired to rest earlier. He
lost all inclination to work in the garden, never went outside the four
walls of the house, and indoors he gave up looking after the things
which used to interest him, being generally handy, such as attending to
the aviary and other manual occupations. The few hours that were not
passed in bed were spent in an armchair, or in walking through the
corridors in silence, until at last he left off getting up altogether.
Luis recollected all this perfectly. When he used to go into his
father's apartments he saw him with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and an
expression of terrible distress upon his face. He would turn his head
when his son entered the room, smile, call him to him by signs, and
after giving him a kiss would seem to want him to go.
One day the boy saw much coming and going in the house; the servants
were running about in distress, exchanging rapid words with each other.
The few available friends and relations were summoned, and frightened
the child by their long faces. On entering his father's room he saw that
an altar was being erected. Having been placed in a corner by one of the
servants, he was told not to be afraid, but his father was about to
confess, and partake of the Holy Communion when the Divine Majesty would
be present. The injunction not to be frightened, which was repeated
several times, produced a contrary effect. The boy understood that
something serious was going on. In fact, the Count of Onis was dying; he
was certainly taking his departure, as his relations said. The doctor
said he was to be prepared.... At six o'clock in the evening the doors
of the palace of Onis were thrown open to receive the priest, who had
come in the carriage of the house bearing the Sacred Host. The servants
and relations were waiting in the doorway with lighted torches. A large
file of people of all classes, also bearing lights, came behind. Many of
them came out of real regard and devotion for the patient; but the
majority came out of curiosity to see one who had lived so long apart
from the world under such solemn, critical circumstances.
All those that wished to, came right into the presence of the dying man.
No obstacle was put in anybody's way, so a strange and motley crowd
filled the count's room: well-to-do people, poor people, and children,
were all anxious to see the fallen man, now that he was about to fall
into the dark bosom of death, the oblivion of eternity. The dean of the
cathedral, his friend and confessor, approached with the elevated Host.
The people present fell on their knees, a solemn silence reigned. At
that moment the sick man, who had been propped up in bed, said in a loud
voice, addressing himself to the kneeling assembly:
"I swear by the Sacramental God about to enter my body, that I have
never been a traitor to my country, and that in the American war I
always behaved like a loyal and honourable gentleman."
His voice, which appeared to come from a corpse, sounded clear and sharp
in the room. There was a repressed murmur among the people. The dean,
with tears in his eyes, replied:
"Blessed are those that hunger and thirst after righteousness;" and he
put the blessed Sacrament in the colonel's mouth. The news of the old
soldier's affirmation ran through the town. The strange and terrible
oath, which was repeated from one to the other, made a profound
impression on the public. The relations and friends of the count made a
great parade of the matter. One of them thought of presenting a
petition to the king, signed by all the neighbours, begging him to
revoke the colonel's sentence. But the dean had anticipated him, and
being an energetic, eloquent man, he got the archbishop and the Chapter
of the cathedral to favour his mission to Madrid for the intercession
for the re-installation of the friend of his infancy in his military
rank. Meanwhile the patient slightly improved, the illness did not seem
to get worse; but, although it was not externally noticeable, the
consumption was gaining ground.
Nothing was said about the deputation to the king. However, the dean had
time to get to Madrid, gain an audience of his Majesty, appeal to his
pity with the account of the solemn statement made in his presence,
obtain a royal commission restoring the count all his honours with all
the accompanying crosses and decorations, and return to Lancia mad with
anxiety. How delightful it was to find his friend had not expired! He
ran from the boat in which he had travelled, to the palace of the Onis,
and with the greatest precaution, to avoid over-excitement for the
patient, the good news was communicated to him. The colonel remained
motionless for some time with his face hidden in his hands.
"What time is it?" he said at last.
"It is just two," was the reply.
"Let me have my uniform at once!" he exclaimed with unusual energy,
raising himself up without anybody's help.
"Rayo de Dios! Quick, my uniform," he repeated more emphatically, seeing
that no one moved.
At last the countess went to the wardrobe, and brought it out. He had
himself quickly dressed; the ribbon of Carlos III. put across his
breast, and all the crosses he had won. There were so many, that he
could not put them all on the left side, so some had to come to the
right. In this attire he had himself led to the window looking on to the
Calle de Cerrajerias, and there he stood. It was not long before the
faithful, repairing home from Mass, which was the best attended of the
Sunday services, saw this strange, corpse-like figure, dressed in his
grand uniform, at the window. And with a feeling of sadness, respect,
and compassion, they all filed by the house with their eyes riveted upon
him.
For three consecutive Sundays the colonel made a point of getting up and
going through the same ceremony. He stood for half an hour displaying
his signs of honour, with his eyes ecstatically fixed on space, without
seeing or hearing the crowd which collected before the palace with
manifestations of the gravest interest and concern. On the fourth Sunday
he wished to do the same, and peremptorily insisted on being dressed,
but he at that instant fell back on the pillows, never to rise again. So
that night God took the brave, punctilious soldier unto Himself. Poor
father! The count could never think of that scene, so deeply graven in
his mind, without tears rising to his eyes. He had inherited from him
the exquisite delicacy of feeling, and a susceptibility that almost
amounted to weakness, without the serenity, power of taking the
initiative, and the unbending will that had characterised Colonel Campo.
The present count had an excessively sensitive and affectionate
disposition, together with the integrity and modesty peculiar to the
Campos. But these qualities were counteracted by a weak, fanciful, moody
character, which was doubtless inherited from his mother's family.
Donna Maria Gayoso, the widowed Countess of Onis, daughter of the Baron
de los Oscos, was a very original person; so exceptionally original that
she bordered on the eccentric. In her whole family for the last three or
four generations there had been some exhibition of eccentricity that in
some members had passed into madness.
Her grandfather had been a hardened atheist and a follower of Voltaire
and the Encyclopaedia; then he became a victim to drunkenness in his last
days, and, according to the general report, he was carried off by
devils to the infernal regions. He had really died of spontaneous
combustion, which fact gave rise to such a fabulous story. Her father
was a weak-minded man, and her mother, a woman of uncommon energy, had
him completely under her thumb. Of his uncles, one had gone melancholy
mad; another distinguished himself in mathematics, but he was so
eccentric that his curious ways were retailed as amusing anecdotes in
Lancia; and another retired to the country, married a peasant, and
killed himself with drinking. She had only one remaining brother, the
present Baron de los Oscos. He was an original and an eccentric
creature. At the commencement of the civil war he put himself under the
banner of the Pretender, and entered his army, but only on condition of
serving as a common soldier. This resolution made a great sensation.
But all the persuasions of the grandees about Don Carlos, and even those
of the king himself, were powerless to make him accept an officer's
commission. He was wounded several times, and in one case he was so
seriously injured in the face that he was deeply scarred; and as his
face was already as ugly as it could well be, the deep red seam finished
by rendering his appearance ghastly to a degree that was terrible.
He was younger than his sister Maria, not being yet fifty, and he lived
alone and celibate in the dreary old house belonging to the los Oscos in
the Calle del Pozo, which had certainly nothing grand about it. He
rarely went to see his sister, not from any antipathy, but from the
unsociability and crustiness of his disposition. He seldom left his
house, particularly in the daytime. He had very few friends, and his
most intimate one--in fact, the only one who might be said to enjoy his
friendship--was an uncloistered friar, who before taking orders had
served as an officer in the army. This Fray Diego was his constant
companion. The baron inspired universal terror with his gloomy
character, his eccentricities, and more especially by the fearful
appearance of his face. The children were quite panic-stricken in his
presence. Parents and nurses used him as a bugbear to make them
obedient:
"I will go and tell the baron about you! The baron will come! I saw the
baron to-day, and he asked me if you were obedient," &c.
And the baron, with his strange gestures, and rough, loud voice, became
a very ogre to the poor little innocent things. He constantly went about
armed with a pair of pistols; and the handle of his stick was a
veritable club. It was said that he once made an end of a servant merely
for having opened a letter, and that on several occasions he seized hold
of children who dared to make faces at him in the street, put them in
the stable, undressed them, and thrashed them soundly with the bridle of
his horse. True, or invented, these stories were calculated to make the
infant minds of Lancia regard him as a monster of ferocity from whom
they fled as fast as their trembling legs would carry them.
One of the things which inspired the terror of the little ones, and
caused respect not devoid of fear in the grown-up people, was the horse
that the baron had. It was a creature with a fiery eye, and so fierce
that nobody but he and his friend Fray Diego, who had served in the
cavalry, dared to mount him. He had to be most cleverly managed when
taken to drink, and even then the ungovernable brute reared and kicked
to the alarm of all the passers-by. When the baron mounted and left his
house, striking about him, and laying into the horse with his whip, the
neighbours rushed to their windows, the children took refuge in the
bosoms of their mothers, and everybody gazed in terror at the fearful
centaur. Certainly the Baron de los Oscos presented at such times a
formidable aspect, with his scarred face, bloodshot eyes, waxed,
fierce-looking moustache, and his figure looking like part of the
horse.
One's imagination had to go back to the invasions of the barbarians to
find anything equal to it. Neither Alaric, Attila, nor Odoacer could
have looked more strange and sinister, nor could they have inspired more
terror than he. Judge, then, of the effect upon the timid neighbours
when one day he took it into his head to parade the streets of the town
at midnight, accompanied by a servant, a man very like him, on another
charger.
The Countess of Onis was as strange in her way as her brother. She was
short and stout, with a pale, round face, dull black eyes, hair
plastered down with quince-juice gum, and constantly dressed in the
mournful garb of a nun. She lived as secluded in her place, as a nun in
a convent. She was absolutely absorbed in devotion, but it was a
capricious, fantastic devotion, in no way similar to that practised by
really mystic souls. All her life she had shown a tendency to
eccentricity, but after the count's death it became so marked, that her
strange ways assumed the form of rather serious manias. When she was
young, her modesty was so extreme that it became ridiculous. The ears of
the Senorita de los Oscos were so chaste that the conversation of an
English "Miss" would seem like a serjeant's in her presence. She could
not tolerate her brother's under-linen being put with hers when the
laundress took it away or brought it home. If she was asked to sew a
button on his underclothes, she ran to her room when the task was over,
and washed her hands, when, it was said, she sprinkled them with holy
water. She compressed her figure to a hurtful extent, and the height of
the collar of her dresses was contrary to the regulations of fashion;
her under-garments were only changed in the dark, and she never shook
hands with a man unless she had gloves on. The history of her marriage
was truly curious, full of funny incidents which were for a long time
the talk of the town, and the account of the first night of her
marriage, whether true or false, was worthy of figuring in a novel of
Paul de Kock. One need hardly say that during her marriage this virtue
of chastity became somewhat modified. But as soon as she became a widow,
she resorted to her eccentric ways to a remarkable degree, and in her
latter years they assumed the aspect of madness. When she told her
beads, which was twice a day, she sent a servant to the poultry-yard to
separate the cock from the hens; then the forks had to be separated from
the spoons, and the hooks from the eyes. One day the coachman came to
tell her that one of the mares had foaled, and she was so angry that,
after having sharply rebuked him for his audacity in acquainting her
with such a fact, she gave orders for having it sold. One day she came
upon a lad giving a kiss to the cook, and she became ill with disgust,
and both parties were immediately dismissed from the house.
She liked to have a party at an early hour in the evening, when she only
invited clerics. On these occasions she used to sit in an armchair
where, intentionally or unintentionally, probably intentionally, there
were put two cushions so that she seemed to be in a valley. Soon after
the arrival of the company, when the conversation became animated, she
would fall into a deep sleep, and thus remain until nine o'clock, when
the cassocked gentlemen retired, presumably, without shaking hands. As
there was a chapel in the house she seldom went out, and when she did
so, it was in the carriage. She kept all the money that came to her
hands hidden away in secret places in the garret or the garden.
Sometimes this avarice or, as it may be more correctly termed, this
mania for hoarding, brought them into difficulties, and she preferred to
let her son borrow money to disinterring her treasure. She was very
greedy, and fond of dainties; and she could consume a quantity of sweets
with no signs of indigestion. But such things were not made for nuns,
and so, in strange contradiction to her pious inclinations, she hated
all that savoured of the convent.
And it was by this eccentric, one may almost say mad, woman, that the
present Count of Onis was brought up, and his character was much
affected thereby. To counteract his excessive sensitiveness, his weak
and vacillating temperament, and his imaginative and gloomy disposition,
of which sad signs were shown at times, he ought to have been brought up
in the open air under an intelligent and energetic master, who would
have known how to inspire him with manly strength and resolution. But,
unfortunately, it was just the contrary. The countess would not hear of
any career which would take him away from Lancia; so he went to the
local university, where he followed a course of jurisprudence, after
which rich young men think they are entitled to pass the rest of their
days in idleness. During his college career the countess kept him under
her authority in a way that became ridiculous. He never left the house
without permission, he came in at dark, he told his beads, and went to
confession when she bade him to. Whilst his body developed to a
marvellous degree, so that he became a fine athletic young fellow, his
mind remained as submissive and childish as that of a ten-year-old
child.
His retired effeminate life increased the natural timidity of his
character, his sensitiveness became weakness, and his gloomy nature
secretive. And the most lamentable thing was, that without being a
shining light, he was gifted with clear intelligence, and possessed a
penetration frequently found in reserved and timid men. He was wanting
in self-confidence and experience; but he showed a great deal of tact in
conversation; shortcomings of his neighbour never escaped him and, as
with most weak characters, he took a mischievous delight in drawing
attention to them. It is the revenge taken by characterless people upon
those who have a vigorous and spontaneous one. Nevertheless, these
outbursts of irony and malignity were not very frequent. He generally
appeared a prudent, reserved, melancholy young man, with courteous
gentlemanly manners, a feeling heart, and full of affection and respect
for his mother. After his college career was over, his inclination and
plans were in favour of leaving Lancia, going to court, and travelling
for some time. But the countess's disapproval was enough to make him
give up the idea and remain at home. So he spent his days in idleness
without feeling in anyway obliged ever to glance from time to time into
his books of jurisprudence. He amused himself occasionally with certain
manual occupations, and in reading the works of romance much in vogue at
the time. He became a clever carpenter, but not so clever as his father;
and then he took up watch-making. Finally, he developed an interest in a
little property in the suburbs of the town, and set about making great
improvements there. It was called the Grange, and it was situated a
little more than a mile from Lancia. It was a large old rambling house,
with a beautiful wood of oak trees behind, and fertile meadows in front.
The count took to going there every afternoon after dinner; he bred
black cattle, and horses as well; he planted trees, cut canals, and
raised banks. The house he hardly touched. He gained physically by this
new interest, which made him more active and hardy, and his character
improved at the same time. The melancholy which had been so distressing
to him decreased, and he became more cheerful, his self-confidence
increased, as he had more intercourse with people, whilst the fits of
anger, rage and despair which used to come over him without any cause,
making him seem like an epileptic to the servants, grew rarer and rarer
until they left him altogether. He thus reached his twenty-eighth year
when he began to frequent the house of the Quinones, and it was then
that his life underwent a complete change.
It was nine o'clock in the morning when his servant woke him from an
exciting unfinished dream to give him a letter. With feigned
indifference he dropped it on the night-table, but scarcely had the
servant left the room when he seized it, and opened it with visible
agitation.
Although his connection with Amalia was of about two years' standing, he
never opened a letter from her without his hands trembling. They
certainly did not often write to each other; and it was probably the
rarity of the occurrence which accounted for its affecting him so much,
as in truth a deep love for her had taken root in his timid, sensitive
nature.
"This afternoon. By the pulpit," was all that the note conveyed, but his
mind was much agitated by the communication. Such appointments were
extremely dangerous. In the midst of his happiness they overpowered him
with a feeling of dread he could not overcome. He had begged Amalia to
give them up, but she paid no heed to his wishes, and he was perfectly
incapable of opposing her will. All the morning he was nervous and
upset. He took a ride to calm his nerves, and went as far as the Grange,
only to return as unsettled as when he left.
At the hour named he left home and went to the Calle de Cerrajerias. It
was the time of day when scarcely anybody is about. It was three
o'clock, and so people were either at table or resting. At the end of
Cerrajerias, at the corner of Santa Lucia, is the church of San Rafael,
and the principal entrance is on that side. The count entered the
building, after taking holy water, like one about to say his prayers. He
was quite alone, or at least he seemed so at first sight. In a few
minutes his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, and he saw two
or three kneeling figures scattered about. He knelt down in the dark
near the little door of the staircase leading to the pew of the
Quinones, and pretended to pray for a few moments. This was very
repugnant to him. He was a sincere believer, and his strictly pious
education made him have a horror of such sacrilege. The fanaticism of
his mother had left its mark upon him, and he had a fearful dread of
hell. Amalia was also a believer, and she had a reputation for piety in
the place: she belonged to several confraternities, she was patron of
several asylums, she frequently made presents to the images, and she was
generally seen with the clergy; but this profanation she regarded with
the greatest indifference. Religion was for her a thing of
respectability, but her own pleasures and wishes seemed the thing to be
most respected. After a few minutes the count cautiously rose, and
pushed the little door, which had been purposely left open, then he went
in and mounted the narrow winding staircase. The little pew of the
Quinones was even darker than the Church. He felt for the door of the
passage and opened it, but as it had glass windows looking on to the
street, he crossed it like a cat. At the door communicating with the
house, Jacoba was waiting for him. She was a woman of more than fifty
years of age, of portly form and demeanour. She moved with difficulty,
for her breath was short, from her extreme fatness, and she always spoke
in a falsetto voice. She was discretion itself, a sealed book. The count
and Amalia had never had any other confidante. Nobody else in the world
was acquainted with their love affair, and she had served them
wonderfully through its course. Acting as sentinel, she had often saved
them from discovery, for she had constituted herself their guardian
angel. She was not a servant in the house, but the senora was one of her
patrons. Her occupation was to run errands to the shops for different
houses, and the perquisites made on the purchases formed the staple of
her livelihood. This was not, however, sufficient for her maintenance,
but she was alone and a spinster, and in many houses presents were made
her, and she was helped in a hundred ways. The Senora de Quinones was
her especial patroness, and when she became her confidante, it was like
coming upon a mine of wealth, for Amalia paid lavishly for services
which certainly deserved great compensation.
The go-between put her finger on her lips as a sign of silence directly
the count entered the door, but as he was already holding his breath to
avoid making a noise, this warning was quite unnecessary. Then going a
little way first, to see how the ground lay, she made him a sign to
follow her. They crossed a corridor, passed by the principal staircase
without going up it for fear of meeting some servant, and went into the
library where there was a little staircase that led thence to the second
floor. The count proceeded on tiptoe with a beating heart. Although this
was not the first time he had been like this to the Quinones' house, it
always seemed to him the height of temerity, and he inwardly cursed his
lover's boldness and disregard of consequences.
At last they came to the senora's room. The door opened without any one
being seen, Jacoba gave the count a gentle push, and remained herself
outside.
Amalia withdrew her hand, which she had mechanically held out, and with
a sudden impulsive gesture, she threw her arms round the neck of her
beloved and kissed him with tenderness. The grave man, being still upset
by the manner of his arrival, remained quiescent, and did not
reciprocate these demonstrations of affection. The lady then gave him a
maternal tap on the cheek.
"Calm yourself, coward, nobody will eat you here."
Luis made an effort to smile and sank into a French chair upholstered
with bright blue.
Amalia's room with its luxurious furniture was a contrast to the neglect
that reigned in the rest of the house. The walls were covered with rich
tapestry, the best of the collection in the possession of the family;
the bright furniture, of Louis XV. style, was brought from Madrid, with
the magnificent ebony bedstead inlaid with marble in the alcove, when
Don Pedro was making futile efforts to win the heart of his wife. There
was a perfumed sensual atmosphere about the place, showing the refined
tastes that the foreign lady had brought from other lands to the severe
mansion of the Quinones. She seated herself on the count's knee, and
pulling his beard, she exclaimed with a joy that could scarcely be
restrained and emanated from her whole person:
"See now, see how we have conquered. See how we have got over all those
difficulties which came into your head and prevented your seeing
clearly. Only a little audacity was necessary for God to help us."
"God!" said the count, with a shudder.
She felt she had been wrong in referring to the Divinity, and she
hastened to say with unconcern:
"Well, then, fate, if you like. Come, don't make yourself wretched and
sad. This is a moment of happiness for us. She is really here, and it
seems too good to be true. My daughter, the daughter of my love living
with me; being able to see her and kiss her at all hours! How beautiful
she is! I could not look at her comfortably until this morning, but
to-day I did so to my heart's content. She is like you--particularly
about the forehead between the eyebrows. Jacoba says that the mouth is
mine. I am not sorry, for it might have taken after me in something
worse, is it not so?" she added, with a coquettish smile.
"I think you are beautiful all round."
"That is right!" exclaimed the lady with an affectionate look. "You have
at last recovered the power of speech. Well, then," she added in a
serious tone, "you do not know the trouble we had this morning to find a
nurse. Three were brought to me, and neither of them suited. At last I
settled on the fourth. And how beautifully my angel took to her food. I
could hardly help jumping for joy, and I can hardly help it now. But I
must be grave and solemn, like the senor count. Tell me, how did you
manage to get her here? Tell me about it. How your face looked when the
drawing-room door opened last night!"
"The thing was not easy. At nine o'clock I went to fetch her from
Jacoba's house. But she will have told you about it. I had to spend two
hours there, for the devil seemed in the business, and the child
screamed incessantly."
"Yes, yes; I know all that. And then?"
"What a night it was! The gusts of wind were incessant, especially in
those out-of-the-way suburbs. I turned up my trousers to the knee, for
how could I come into your drawing-room covered with mud? I wanted to
carry the basket on one arm, and the open umbrella in the other hand,
but it was impossible. After a few steps, I came back and left the
umbrella with Jacoba. What a walk! Holy heaven, what a business! The
wind kept blowing down the collar of my coat, the rain dashed in my face
and down my neck. I was frightened the baby would get wet. I went along
fearing to breathe. Supposing I had slipped just then! The wind blew at
times so strongly that I could hardly get along. You can easily believe
that I was tempted to go back and leave it for another day."
"I can easily believe it. I know that a plate of water would be enough
to drown you."
He gave her a sad, reproachful look, and then Amalia began to laugh, and
embracing and kissing him effusively, she exclaimed:
"Don't be cross, poor little dear! Do not think I do not feel for you.
The journey was very difficult. You bore it like a hero."
The count coloured at these praises. His conscience told him he did not
deserve them; and he recollected the terrible ordeal that Amalia had
herself passed through, and said:
"But you! What you must have suffered on your side! How are you? It was
imprudent to go downstairs so soon."
"Oh! I am as strong as a horse, although I appear weak."
"So you seem to be. To suffer what you did without uttering a sound!"
"Pray, what can you know about it, stupid?" she said, putting a hand on
his mouth.
"Then only four days in bed," continued the young man, gently taking her
hand from his mouth and kissing it at the same time; "and on the fifth
to go down to the drawing-room."
"But, then, nothing was supposed to have happened, and if I had not gone
down yesterday, Quinones would certainly have sent for the doctor! On
the second day he was worrying for me to go down. But what do you think?
He is in love with the baby--quite mad about it! All the morning he has
had the nurse in his room. And he has such strange ideas. He says, 'God
has sent us this child to console us for having no family.'"
Then the count relapsed into sadness and gloom, whilst a smile of cruel
irony played on the lips of the lady.
"And all this time you have never asked for her, you unnatural father!"
she said, as she passed her delicate white fingers through her lover's
thick, curly, reddish beard. "For you _are_ her father--yes, her father.
That you can't deny," she added, fondly putting her face against his so
that her lips were close to his ear. "I will go and fetch her."
"But will the nurse come, too?" he asked in terror.
"No, man, no!" she answered, laughing; "she will come alone. You will
see that can easily be managed."
The count opened his eyes with an expression that made her laugh more.
She got up and, opening the door, she whispered a second with Jacoba who
was stationed as sentinel outside. In a few minutes the stout go-between
re-opened the door and brought in the sleeping child. Amalia sat down,
and told her to put it on her lap. And then, for a long time, they both
gazed in ecstasy at the little delicate creature as it softly breathed
in its sleep. It was a moment of happiness. The count forgot his fears
and became quite calm, whilst a smile of real pleasure illuminated his
gentle, melancholy features. The minutes passed, and neither cared to
break the blissful silence, nor disturb the intense absorption in which
their minds were one. That tiny, unconscious being, that atom of rosy
flesh riveted their gaze equally, and bound their souls and lives to her
with invisible threads.
"How beautiful she is! She is like you," murmured the count so softly
that the words hardly reached the ears of his lover.
"She is more like you," she returned in the same subdued voice.
And by a simultaneous movement, they both turned and looked at each
other with a long intense look of love.
"I adore you, Amalia," he said.
"I love you, Luis," she replied.
Their hands met and pressed affectionately, and their heads were bent in
the interchange of a chaste kiss.