FIVE YEARS AFTER
Five years have passed. The noble city of Lancia has changed little in
appearance and still less in customs; several gilded cages in the form
of gorgeous houses, built with Indian money round about the San
Francisco Park; foot-ways in various streets that never had them in
former times, three more lamps in the Plaza de la Constitucion; a
supplementary municipal guard that owed its existence, less to the
necessities of the service, than to the efforts of the justice of the
peace, a fellow of excellent ideas almost entirely devoted to Venus, and
whose propitiatory sacrifices to Vulcan were only made at the expense of
the municipality; in the Bombe promenade a few bronze statues with
falling drapery of which the erection caused great scandal, and the
magistrate Saleta was informed at the Grandee's evening party that the
half nude was a hundred times more suggestive than the complete; a few
silver threads in the heads of our old acquaintances; and the radiant
countenance of Manuel Antonio, the most fetching of all the sons of the
famous city, showed signs that his beauty was on the wane, like a dream
fading in the cold wind of morning, or snowdrops falling in the silence
of a day in winter.
The same vegetative, dull, sleepy life; the same gatherings in the
shop-parlours, where the sweets of slander were regaled; and personal
nicknames still weighed like lead upon the well-being of several
respectable families. On sunny afternoons there were the same groups of
clerics and military airing themselves in the Bombe. The great bells of
the cathedral continued to peal at certain hours, when old lady-devotees
were seen hastily wending their way to the service of the rosary, or
nones, and the monotonous voice of the canons sounded solemnly in the
silence of the old vaulted aisles.
In Altavilla at the evening hour the eternal groups of youths still
laughed and talked in loud tones still loth to let any pretty
dressmaker, or plump servant-maid pass by without rendering them homage
with their eyes or lips, and not seldom with their hands. And there in
the heights of the firmament there were the same clusters of greyish
clouds heaped together in solemn silence over the old cathedral to
listen on melancholy autumn nights to the wind moaning through the high
tin arrow on the tower. We are in November. The Conde de Onis was
accustomed to ride on dull days as well as fine. The society of men
pleased him less and less. His character had become more secretive and
melancholy. Sin had destroyed the feeble germs of cheerfulness which
nature had put in his heart. The gloomy, extravagant, fanatical
temperament of the Gayosos had been increased by the incessant gnawing
of remorse, his imagination was distorted, his slight activity
enervated, and his whole existence darkened.
People worried him. He imagined hostility in their glances, and he saw
hidden meanings in their most innocent remarks that made his blood boil
with rage. He never dared enter churches, nor fall on his knees as
formerly before the bleeding crucifix in his mother's room. If he heard
hell mentioned, he fled in terror. He gave plentiful alms to churches,
and paid for Masses he never heard; he put candles before the images,
and in the privacy of his chamber he puerilely amused himself in asking
fate, by the tossing of money, whether he would be eternally damned or
whether he would only go to purgatory. When he heard the chant of
priests going to a funeral he grew pale, trembled and stopped his ears.
At night he would suddenly jump up from sleep in a cold sweat, crying
miserably: "There is nothing but death, nothing but death!" For some
time he lived thus in almost utter retirement without going out more
than he was made to by her, whose will ruled his own. But at last his
suffering became too intense, and he feared his gloomy thoughts would
upset his reason, so he took to riding or walking in the country until
he was tired out. The physical fatigue relieved his mind, and the sight
of nature soothed his tormented imagination.
It was a dark, cold evening. The clouds pressed heavily upon the hills
looking towards the north, and hid the high mountains of Lorrin that
stretch like a distant curtain in the west. Heavy rains had fallen
converting the low part of the town into a lagoon, and the roads, which
went from thence, into seas of mud. In spite of this, the count ordered
his horse to be saddled. He left Lancia by the Castilian Road, and
galloped amid splashes of mud across meadows and chestnut woods. The
yellow leaves of the trees shone like gold, a thousand little streams
made their uncertain way down the base of the hill where the waters were
deposited on the pasture land with its gentle soft green undulations. A
darker fringe marked the stream of the Lora, which hides itself
mysteriously under the osiers and thick lines of alder trees. The count,
with his head thrown back and his eyes half closed, inhaled with delight
the fresh humidity of the afternoon. The road flanked the hill in gentle
decline. Before crossing it, and losing sight of the town, he stopped
his horse and cast a look back. Lancia was a heap, albeit not large, of
red roofs over which waved the dark arrow on the cathedral spire. Below
was a yellow spot--the oak-wood of the Grange, and a little lower down
were the old orange-coloured turrets of his solitary house. The rain had
ceased. A cold wind dispersed the clouds and scattered them behind the
mountains; the sky became clear with the pale blue of autumn days, and a
few stars appeared like diamonds in the horizon. The trees, mountains,
streams and verdure-clad valley shone indistinctly under the clearness
of the twilight. The count again put his horse to a gallop and quickly
descended the hill which hid Lancia from view. The wind affected his
senses and whistled in his ears producing a sweet intoxication that
dissipated the black clouds of his imagination. Along the muddy road he
only met a stray herd of cattle with its driver, or a waggon drawn
leisurely by oxen, in which the carter carelessly slept at the bottom.
But before turning a corner he thought he heard the distant sound of
wheels and bells. It was the coach that arrived at Lancia in the
evening. As it passed by him, he cast an absent glance into the
interior, two large shining eyes encountered his own, which gave him a
sort of an electric shock. He quickly turned his head again, but there
was nothing then to be seen but the back of the coach disappearing in
the distance. He pulled the rein of his horse and followed it, but after
a few moments in a stunned sort of way stopped ashamed, and went on with
his ride.
"It must be Fernanda." A passing, but very definite feeling told him the
fact. Nevertheless he might be mistaken. He had heard no news of her
arrival. He knew that she had been a widow for some months. Garnet had
at last met his end like an ox from a fit of apoplexy. But at the same
time everybody knew that the widow of the Indian bore a deadly hatred
against Lancia ever since the humiliating practical joke that her
compatriots had played on her at the time of her marriage. The fact of
her not having come there at the death of her father the preceding year
was a clear proof of it. The Count thought of all this for some minutes,
and then put it from his mind, for his thoughts were changed by the
sight of a dark thick cloud which presaged another storm. But something
indefinite and sweet remained in his mind, which put him in a good
humour. He turned the horse and arrived at Lancia very late in the
evening, very tired, and covered with mud; but his heart was light and
cheerful without his knowing why.
Fernanda never hesitated for an instant. She saw him, and knew him so
well, that she even noticed the marks that time and care had left upon
his face. He seemed older, and she thought she saw silver streaks in his
long red beard. At the same time she was agreeably impressed by the
suffering, anxiety, and sadness that she read in the eyes that rested an
instant upon her. The memory of her old _fiance_ had always remained
green in the depths of her heart. Neither treachery, scorn, nor the
thousand distractions to which she resorted in her frivolous, restless,
Parisian life had been able to destroy it. If she had found happiness in
the power of wealth and health, she would not have been open to that
soft wave of sympathy which delighted her for an instant. In such
perverse pleasure in the count's sadness there was the bitterness of the
slighted woman, but there was also a certain breezy, vapourous feeling
like hope, which sang and laughed in her soul, and dissipated the black
thoughts which had accumulated in her mind. It was necessity, and not
will which obliged her to return to Lancia where she had vowed never
again to set her foot. Her husband had made a will in her favour, which
his brothers had disputed, and the consequence was a lawsuit, which was
soon given in her favour.
She came accompanied by an old servant of her father's, whom she had
made her _dame de compagnie_, and a majordomo. From Madrid she had
telegraphed to a cousin who, with Manuel Antonio, two of the daughters
of Mateo, and a few more friends were awaiting her arrival on the badly
paved Place of the Post, where the diligence stopped. And then followed
embraces, huggings and kisses, questions, exclamations and tears. The
offended heiress of Estrada-Rosa never thought she could have felt so
much pleasure in returning to her native place. In the ardour of their
affection, her friends almost carried her off to her house. There they
all left her with the exception of Emilita Mateo, to whom Fernanda
signed to remain. Then the two friends, with their arms round each
other's waists, went slowly up that wide polished staircase which
Fernanda had so often trod as a child with bare feet. They soon shut
themselves in the old library of Estrada-Rosa to enjoy an hour of sweet
confidences. Amid smiles, kisses, and vows of eternal friendship the
history of those five years was told. Fernanda talked of her late
husband in a tone that lapsed from compassionate to depreciative, for
she had lived with him in a state of antagonism of ideas and tastes that
had kept them apart. She had been neither happy nor miserable. They had
been five years of excitement, filled with crowded streets, splendid
theatres, magnificent hotels, gorgeous dresses, many acquaintances, and
not a single friend. Her husband devoted himself to the satisfaction of
her fancies like some wild bear who obeys the whip of the keeper with
growls. They had had one child that had died at four months old.
The skittish Emilita was very unhappy in her marriage. Nunez had turned
out a fast man. Fernanda knew something about it, but not much. It is
not easy to go into certain significant details in letters. He began
very well, but then he went wrong with bad companions; at first he took
to gambling, then to drinking, then he went after women, and it was this
last that Emilita felt so deeply. She had willingly pardoned him all the
rest. She had borne his coming home drunk in the early hours of the
morning, she had pawned her earrings and her mantilla for him, but she
could not stand seeing him going into the house of a bad woman who lived
in the Calle de Cerrajerias. On saying this the Pensioner's daughter
burst into a torrent of tears. The sight of her trouble was the more
distressing, as a piquant sort of cheerfulness had always been her
peculiar characteristic. Fernanda caressed her tenderly and wept with
her. After some minutes silence she said:
"But do you go on loving him?"
"Yes, girl, yes," she exclaimed with rage, "I cannot help it. I am more
and more blindly in love."
"Well, _por Dios_! Your poor father must be very much put out."
"As you can imagine! And the worst of it is," she added, weeping
bitterly, "that now he has returned to his mania against the army. He
says awful things about soldiers! Yes, yes, awful! Directly I enter the
house he begins going on, on purpose to annoy me. My sisters support
him. They call us idle good-for-nothings, and say that the contingent
ought to be reduced."
Here the tender heart of the wife of Nunez was torn with sobs. Fernanda,
who had also cried at the sight of her affliction, could not help
smiling.
"Your sisters, too?"
"I should think so! They all--they all want it to be reduced!"
When the daughter of Estrada-Rosa had shown her that the reduction of
the land forces was not so easy as it seemed, her spirits gradually
rose. Then they arranged a surprise for the Lancian society. Fernanda
was to appear that evening without previous announcement at the house of
Quinones. The idea filled them both with childish delight, and after
concerting the details, Emilita went off, promising to return and fetch
her friend. It was ten o'clock when they both mounted the stone steps,
which were as damp as ever, of the large seignorial stairway of the
Quinones. On arriving at the top, Emilita would not let the servant
announce them, but opened the door herself, and pushed Fernanda in. She
was an apparition calculated to throw all the guests into ecstasies. The
daughter of Estrada-Rosa was resplendent in a most elegant dress from
one of the first modistes of Paris. Her beauty, which her compatriots
had only known in the bud, had blossomed during the five years of
refined and elegant life into a magnificent rose. She had always been
admired for the dignity of her bearing, the brilliancy of her large dark
eyes, and the delicacy of her skin, but her beauty had acquired in Paris
the necessary adjuncts of the most finished manners, and a perfect taste
in dress--two distinctions she would never have attained in Lancia. Her
black silk dress revealed her neck and shoulders, and a few strings of
pearls, twisted in her hair, were all the ornaments she wore. Amalia was
the first to see her, and the sight of her beauty caused a sudden chill
at her heart, but she recovered herself immediately and ran to greet
her.
"Oh! I knew you had arrived, but I never thought you would be so kind
as----"
Their eyes met and that glance revealed the hatred that burned in the
depth of their souls. But circumstances were changed. Five years ago
Amalia had been the most elegant and distinguished lady of the place;
the only one whose bearing and refinement of manners had raised her to a
more cultivated and spiritual sphere. But Fernanda now had the advantage
of her, for the former had visibly aged. Many silver threads were
noticeable in her hair; her complexion, always pale, had lost its
freshness; then her desire and taste for dress had palled, and she had
gone on taking the tone of the ordinary commonplace society surrounding
her, and so had become more and more careless of her appearance. A
bitter smile wreathed her lips, as she exchanged the necessary greetings
with Fernanda, who enjoyed her triumph with a grave, serene content.
The ladies immediately surrounded her. There was a rush of kisses and
embraces, accompanied with loud expressions of delight. The men, who
formed a circle behind, also stretched out their hands and pressed that
of the beautiful traveller. And between so many congratulatory and
pleasant greetings, and either from forgetfulness or shame, nobody dared
make any remark about the loss that the young girl had recently
sustained, and so there was no allusion made to the cross old bear who
slept his eternal sleep in a cemetery at Paris. When the excitement of
the greetings had somewhat abated, Amalia took her smilingly by both
hands and exclaimed as her eyes swept over her costume:
"Do you know mourning is very elegant in Paris?"
Fernanda made a _moue_ of disdain.
"Dress is of little importance if mourning is in the heart," said Maria
Josefa, whose tongue had grown considerably sharper in the five years
that had passed.
Fernanda's cheeks flushed red. She was as ashamed as if it were a crime
at not feeling the loss of Garnet. Then, irritated by the sense of
antagonism, she was on the point of showing her vexation; but she turned
her back and began talking to some other ladies.
At that moment the Conde de Onis came out of the library and advanced to
greet her. She gave him her hand with an affectionate smile.
Nevertheless, the dark circles round her eyes betrayed her emotion. To
hide her feelings she went on to the library saying with assumed levity
that she would leave them all as she much wished to see Don Pedro.
The noble Grandee was sitting in his chair with the cards in his hand.
His hair and his beard were white, but just as erect and fierce-looking
as ever. His energetic features seemed more marked; his piercing eyes
shone with a fiercer fire. Moving with difficulty his great athletic
body, so helpless in the lower limbs, the lines of his face were
distorted with an expression of ferocious impotence that inspired
sadness and fear. But if he was broken down in body, his proud spirit,
seemed only to assert itself the more remarkably. His respect for
himself at bearing the name of Quinones increased every day, with his
scorn for all other people born under the stigma of any other name.
Being profoundly thankful to Heaven for the favour accorded him, he
would have thought it a sin to envy other men the power of using their
legs. What was the good of Juan Fernandez being able to walk, run and
jump if, after all, he was only named Juan Fernandez? The only thing
that troubled him sometimes was whether it was befitting the dignity of
a Quinones to have utterly helpless extremities, and if it would not be
preferable for them to participate in the glory of the rest of his body.
But such unpleasant thoughts were put away by thinking that dead or
alive, those extremities occupied a superior position in society.
When Fernanda entered the library he fixed his eyes on her, and gave her
a look, which took her in from head to foot. Neither the girl's beauty,
nor bearing, singularly elegant as it was, seemed to please him, for he
immediately turned to the cards and said in an insolent, patronising
tone:
"Holla, little one! Is it you? When did you arrive?"
In spite of being offended at such a tone, Fernanda saluted him
affectionately.
"I am pleased to see you so well, dear," he continued, "and I take the
opportunity of condoling with you. You know I have not written letters
for years. I was sorry about Santos. Do you hear, Moro? Are you ever
going to give me a decent card again? He was a good subject, an
excellent neighbour, incapable of harming any one. You will not get
another husband like him. He had one quality not easily met
with--modesty. In spite of the money that he made he never pretended to
go out of his sphere; he always showed himself respectful to his
superiors. Was it not so, Saleta, that he was not one of those parvenu
popinjays who, as soon as they hear the clink of money in their pockets,
forget all about profits and percentage, as if they had never gone in
for them. Valero, sit down and say if this trick will be mine. Have you
come to settle here, child? or are you going back to the _franchutes_?"
(francais).
Fernanda, who was keenly alive to all the gall of this discourse, made a
cold reply, and after a few words she returned to the drawing-room.
Don Pedro was vexed by the stamp of elegance and distinction borne by
the daughter of Estrada-Rosa. He was angry to think that any one could
rise in their turn, albeit but a few degrees. He abhorred all that was
foreign, especially Paris, where he imagined the Los Quinones had no
especial prestige. He even suspected with horror that they were unknown
there. But, as may easily be supposed, he put such a disagreeable idea
out of his head. For if it took complete possession of his mind, what
was left for the noble gentleman? Death, and nothing else.
The party of _tresillo_ was composed of old acquaintances. Saleta, the
great Saleta, whose lies went on flowing from his mouth so glibly and
easily that he always had to go on lying. But Lancia almost lost in him
one of its most magnanimous amusing fellows; for, retiring on a pension
three years ago, he went and settled in the country, but he only stayed
there one year, for he became homesick for Lancia, Quinones' gatherings,
and, above all, the jokes of his colleague Valero; so he left the
Gallician regions and came back to live with the Lancians. Valero,
having become President of the Chamber, became every day more bombastic,
noisy, and lisping. He was sitting on the left of the distinguished
host. Facing him was Moro, the unattainable ideal of all the
marriageable girls, whose indefatigable head easily stood twelve hours
of _tresillo_ without any ill-effects, or fatigue. Of all the
institutions created for men, the most solid and respectable is that of
_tresillo_. It may well be compared to the immutable laws of nature, so
unchangeable is its stability. It was as true to Moro that a spade is
worth more than a club, as that falling bodies represent a movement
uniformly accelerated. And there, in the dark corner of the room, the
celebrated Manin was sleeping in the same armchair, with his short
breeches, green jacket, and hob-nailed boots. His hair was grey, almost
white, but that was not the worst of it, for the sad part was, that he
was no longer regarded in the place as a fierce hunter, grown grey in
contending with the bears of the mountains. That legend had gradually
passed away. His compatriots were right: Manin was nothing but a country
clown. His deeds of prowess were now a subject of joke, and he was
looked upon as the old buffoon of the mad, illustrious Senor de
Quinones.
Fernanda managed at last to withdraw from the congratulations of her
friends, and retired to a corner apart. She was sad. The hostility of
the people of the house depressed her, but that was not the chief cause
of her sadness, although she tried to think so. The real reason of it,
ashamed as she was to confess it to herself, was Luis. The kind greeting
of her old _fiance_ had suddenly awoke all her recollections, all her
illusions, and all the joys and sorrows of old times that slumbered in
the depth of her soul like birds amid the leaves of a tree. The
agitation of her mind was intense, but nothing, or very little, betrayed
itself in her grave and cold demeanour. Nevertheless, she felt a great
shock when she heard the following words close to her ear:
"How beautiful you have grown, Fernanda!"
She had been so full of thought that she had not noticed the count had
taken a seat by her side. Involuntarily she raised her hand to her
heart, and she replied immediately with a smile:
"Do you think so?"
"Yes; and I am getting old, am I not?"
She made an effort, and looked him straight in the face.
"No; nothing but a few grey hairs in your beard, and rather a weary
look."
The trembling of her voice contrasted with the apparent indifference
which she chose to give to her tone.
The count instantly grew serious. He put his hand to his brow, and at
the end of some moments, he replied in a gloomy tone, as if he were
speaking to himself:
"Weary! yes, that is the right word. Very weary! Weariness is exhaled
from every pore."
Then they were both silent. The count was plunged in profound meditation
which brought a deep furrow to his brow. After a while he renewed the
conversation by saying:
"I saw you before I came here."
"Where?" she asked with assumed surprise.
"On the road. I went out this afternoon for a ride, and the post-chaise
passed me. I knew you perfectly."
"Well, I did not see you. I only recollect meeting two or three
peasants, but I did not recognise anybody."
On saying this a wave of crimson surged to her face in spite of herself.
To hide her confusion she turned her head, and her eyes met those of
Amalia, brilliant and steely, as they rested upon her. They looked at
each other for an instant. The feline mouth of the Valencian was
wreathed in a smile. Fernanda tried to respond by a similar one, but it
was a failure. She turned again to the count, and talked of indifferent
subjects, of theatres, music, and projects of travel.
Nevertheless, Luis became more and more preoccupied; he seemed to lose
his self-control, and talked at random, as if his thoughts were straying
afar. He was silent for some moments, struggled to say something, moved
his lips, but instead of their articulating what he wanted, they
expressed something quite different, something trivial and ridiculous
that he was ashamed of directly he had said it. Fernanda watched him
attentively, regaining the calmness and self-possession that he was
rapidly losing. She seemed absorbed in the conversation, describing her
travelling impressions with naturalness, and expressing her opinions
with unconcern, as if there had been nothing between them but an old
and tranquil friendship. Finally, availing himself of an instant's
silence, he summoned resolution to say:
"When I approached you, you seemed very thoughtful. Of what were you
thinking?"
"I do not recollect. Of what would you have me think?"
The count hesitated a moment; then encouraged by the gracious smile of
his _ex-fiancee_, he ventured to say:
"Of me."
Fernanda looked at him in silence with playful curiosity, under which
shone a delight impossible to hide. The count coloured up to the eyes,
and he would gladly have cut his tongue out before having said those two
fatal monosyllables.
"All right," said the girl, jumping up from her chair. "_Au revoir_, I
am glad to see you friendly."
"Listen!"
"What is it?" she said, turning back, as she was going away, and
glancing at him with two smiling, malicious eyes that completed her
conquest of him.
"Pardon, if my words offended you."
Fernanda tossed her head disdainfully and went off, exclaiming:
"Repent sinner, or hell will have you!"
"Hell!"
This word, uttered at random, as a joke, gave him a sudden shock, and
called him back again to the habitual tenor of his thoughts. All the
Gayosos had lived under the influence of this baneful idea. But the
terror of his ancestors seemed concentrated in his mind, tormenting and
maddening him to a degree. Amalia had had a hard struggle to distract
him for a little time from his scruples. Therefore, when she now signed
to him to come to her she saw he moodily rose from his seat, and came
towards her with slow, unwilling steps. She had too much tact and pride
to show any vexation at the short conversation just held with his old
_fiancee_. She received him with the same smile, speaking with her
habitually assumed tone of cheerfulness, and she did not mention
Fernanda's name. But her pallid lips contracted with anger every time
his eyes turned towards the girl, which they often unwittingly did.
A beautiful child with blue eyes and long fair hair now appeared at the
door with a servant.
"Oh, how late!" exclaimed the Senora de Quinones. "Why are you so late
in bringing her, Paula?" she added severely.
The servant replied that the child was so amused at playing: "Let them
give to the kite," that she cried every time they wanted her to go to
bed.
"Are you not sleepy yet, my treasure?" said the lady drawing her to her,
and passing her hand caressingly over her curls.
The guests were very interested in the little creature, and she went
from one to the other, receiving caresses from one and the other, and
returning them with good-night kisses.
"Good-night, Josefina. Until to-morrow, my treasure. Have you been good
to-day? And has your godmother bought you a doll that shuts its eyes?"
The count regarded her with tears in his eyes, whilst he made incredible
efforts to master his emotion. He always felt the same when he saw the
child. When his turn came he only brushed her fair cheek with his lips;
but Josefina, with the fine instinct of children, who always know who
loves them, threw her arms round his neck, and gave evidence of
particular affection for him. Fernanda also regarded her with intense
interest, with a curiosity so great, that she opened her eyes wide.
Josefina was six years old, she had a creamy complexion, eyes of
infinite sweetness, and something sad and delicate about her diminutive
person. One detected at once her likeness to the count. When the child
left him, his eyes met Fernanda's, and he was so embarrassed, that he
took a seat farther off.
Josefina was dressed with taste. The Senores de Quinones brought her up
with every indulgence like an adopted child. This had been for some time
the favourite topic of gossip in Lancia. The cost of her little hats was
guessed at with the greatest interest; the number of her toys was
commented upon, and calculations were made as to what her marriage _dot_
would be. But such remarks ended by getting stale. It was only when the
subject came up, that some sarcastic allusion was made, or some new
discovery whispered. The child came to a stop before a group, in which
figured Maria Josefa, the young lady with the long spiteful tongue, and
Manuel Antonio, as beautiful as the first rays of morning.
"Listen, Josefina; who do you love best--your godmother or your
godfather?" asked he of the child.
"My godmother," replied the child, without hesitation.
"And who do you love most--your godfather or the count?"
The child looked at him astonished with her large blue eyes, and a shade
of distrust passed over them, as, with a frown on her beautiful brow,
she returned:
"My godfather."
"But does not the count bring you lots of toys? Does he not take you in
his carriage to the Grange? Has he not brought you the little waggon?"
"Yes, but he is not my godfather."
The group received this reply with a smile. They knew that the child
lied, for Don Pedro was not a man to inspire any one with affection.
"But I think the count is also your--fa--godfather."
"No such thing. I have only one godfather," returned the child, now
getting angry. And then she left the group.
She then went to where Amalia was, and placing herself before her, she
crossed her little arms upon her chest, and making a curtsey, said:
"Godmother, your blessing."
Whereupon the lady gave her her hand, which the child kissed with
reverence. Then, taking her in her arms, she kissed her on the forehead.
"You must go to bed, my daughter. Go and ask your godfather for his
blessing."
So the child went to the library. These old world customs were a great
pleasure to the Senor de Quinones. Josefina approached him timidly. That
great paralysed gentleman always inspired her with dread, although she
tried to hide it according to her godmother's injunctions.
"Senor, your blessing," she said in a subdued voice.
The pompous old Grandee paid no attention, and looked at the cards he
held in his hand, whilst wrapped in his grey cloak with the red cross,
he seemed to grow bigger and bigger before the frightened eyes of poor
Josefina. She thought that there was nobody in the world more immense,
more imposing, and more worthy of respect than that noble senor; and Don
Pedro shared the same opinion, so that all other beings with whom he
came in contact seemed a chaotic mass, in which only two or three were
possessed of any individual character. The child waited, with her little
arms crossed, for about a quarter of an hour. At last the Senor de
Quinones, after playing a good card, condescended to cast a severe look
upon the child which turned her pale. He then stretched out his
aristocratic hand with a gesture worthy of his namesake, Peter the Great
of Russia, and Josefina pressed her trembling lips upon it and then
withdrew. The bombastic old fellow was not quite pleased at his wife
treating the little foundling with so much indulgence, but he consented
because it flattered his vanity, for Amalia, knowing his weak point,
said:
"Treating her like a servant is what anybody would do in Lancia. We
ought to do things in another fashion."
So Don Pedro could not but see the weight of that undeniable truth.
Josefina crossed the drawing-room to go to bed. As she passed by
Fernanda, she caught her by the arm and dragged her to her. All the joy
and love that filled her heart overflowed with vehemence upon the little
creature whom she covered with kisses. She forgot all about her rival
whom she considered defeated. She only thought that it was a child of
his, his blood, his very image. And she kissed with ecstasy those blue,
deep, melancholy, eyes, that creamy skin, and those yellow curls that
surrounded her face like a golden aureole.
"Oh, what beautiful hair! What beautiful curls!"
And she pressed her lips on the child's head with so much feeling that
she was not far from crying.
At that moment a sharp, imperious voice sounded in her ears.
"Not gone to bed yet! you naughty girl."
And on raising her eyes, Fernanda saw Amalia with a pallid face and
compressed lips, take the child roughly by the arm, and after giving her
a sharp shake, she dragged her to the door.