"And what has become of Merelo? He has not been here at all yet."
"He can't come till twelve," replied Rivera. "From ten till twelve he is
always engaged in plotting against institutions in the Cafe del Siglo."
"I thought that he was in Levante."
"No; he goes there last from two till three."
The first speaker was the very same Senor Marroquin of perpetual memory,
Miguel's professor in the Colegio de la Merced, a born enemy of the
Supreme Creator and a man as hirsute as a biped can possibly be. This
was how he happened to be here:--
One day when Miguel was just finishing his breakfast, word was brought
to him that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the library. This
gentleman was Marroquin, who in his appearance resembled a beggar; he
was so poor, dirty, and disreputable. When he saw his old pupil, he was
deeply moved, strange as it may appear, and then told him with genuine
eloquence that he had not a shilling, and that he and his children were
starving to death, and at the end he begged him to find a place for him
on the staff of _La Independencia_.
"I am not the owner of the journal, my dear Marroquin. The only thing
that I can do for you is to give you a letter to General Count de
Rios."
He gave him the letter, and Marroquin presented himself with it at the
general's house; but he had the ill fortune to go at a most inopportune
moment when the general was raging up and down through the corridors of
his house, like one possessed, and calling up the repertoire of
objurgations for which he had been so distinguished when he was a
sergeant.
The reason was that one of his little ones had drunk up a bottle of ink,
under the impression that it was Valdepenas. Whether oaths and
invectives have any decisive influence upon events or not, we are unable
to state; but the general used them with as much faith as though they
had been a powerful antidote.
The victim was leaning his poor little head against the partition,
shedding a copious flood of tears.
"What have you brought?" roared the count, casting a wrathful look upon
Marroquin.
"This letter," replied the poor man, offering it with trembling hand.
"Vomit!" roared the general, with flaming eyes.
"What?" asked the professor, timidly.
"Vomit, child, vomit! or I will shake you out of your skin!" bellowed
the illustrious chief of Torrelodones, seizing his son by the neck....
"And what does the letter say?"
"It is from Senor Rivera, asking a position on _La Independencia_ for
one who admires you."
"Can't you? Then put your fingers in your mouth!.... Senor Rivera knows
perfectly well that there is no position vacant; everything is full, and
I am tormented to death with applications.... Let me see you stuff your
fingers in, you little rascal, or I will do it myself!"
Marroquin acted prudently, by quietly opening the door and slipping out.
Afterward Miguel spoke to the general at a more propitious moment and
succeeded in getting Marroquin a place on the staff at a monthly salary
of five hundred reales.[11]
Among the other editors of _La Independencia_ was an apostate and
liberal priest who had let his beard grow long, and used to tell his
friends secrets of the confessional when he had been drinking. He was
one of Marroquin's intimates: both had the same grudge against the
Divinity, and both were working enthusiastically to free humanity from
its yoke. Nevertheless, one day he actually became ready to quarrel with
the hirsute professor for turning the Eucharist into ridicule, which
confirmed the former in his idea that "the priest was changing his
views."
His name was Don Cayetano.
One other of the editors was a light-haired, handsome, and bashful young
man, whose seat was in one of the corners of the room, and he lifted his
head only when he overheard some brilliant sentence, for such things
aroused his frantic admiration. His articles were always a mosaic of
sonorous, titillating euphemisms, and adjectives, which formed a large
proportion of Gomez de la Floresta's repertory: he played with them like
a juggler; if any one desired to make him happy, he could find no easier
way than by inventing some metaphor or making use of some harmonious
adjective. Rivera, who knew this weakness of his, used to indulge him in
it.
"This afternoon, gentlemen, I saw a woman whose glance was as bright as
a Damascus blade."
Gomez de la Floresta's face would flush with pleasure, and he would look
up with a smile of congratulation:--
"That means that it was a cold and cutting glance!"
"Her skin was smooth and brilliant with marble lines; her hair fell like
a golden cataract upon her swan-like neck, which was bound around with
a diamond necklace, brilliant as drops of light...."
"Drops of light! How felicitous that is, Rivera! how felicitous!"
"She was a woman capable of making life Oriental for a time."
"That is it! Taking refuge with her in a minaret, breathing the perfumes
of Persia, letting her pearly fingers caress our locks, drinking from
her mouth the nectar of delight!"
"I am delighted, Senor de Floresta, to see that you are consistent. Let
us put a stop to it, nevertheless. You have been having an attack of
phrases on the brain, and I fear a fatal termination."
The editor smiled in mortification and went on with his work.
A slender young man, with prominent cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes, and
awkward gait, came in, making a great confusion, and humming a few
strains of a waltz; he went up to the table where Miguel was writing,
and giving him a slap on the shoulder, said, with a jolly tone:--
"_Hola_, friend Rivera!"