Marisalada devoted all her time to perfecting herself in the art which
promised her a brilliant future, a career of celebrity, and a position
which, in flattering her vanity, would satisfy her love for luxury.
Stein ceased not to admire the constancy of her studies, and was
enthusiastic in his astonishment at her progress.
The introduction, however, of the Gaviota to the great world, had been
retarded by the illness of the countess’s son.
From the first symptoms of his malady, the countess was forgetful of
every thing around her, her reunions, her engagements, her pleasures,
Marisalada and her friends, and above all, the elegant and young colonel
of whom we have spoken. For this mother there was no longer any world
but her son. She had passed fifteen days at his pillow without sleep, in
prayers and tears. The teething of her infant did not progress; the gums
were inflamed and painful; his life was in danger.
The duke advised this poor mother to consult Stein, and the skilful
doctor arrested the malady by means of incisions which he made in the
gums. From that moment Stein became the friend of that family. The
countess folded him in her arms, and the count recompensed him as if he
were a prince. The marchioness said he was a saint: the general avowed
that there could be good physicians out of Spain.
Rita, despite her wildness, deigned to consult him as to her headache;
and Raphael declared that some day when least thought of, he would
break some of his bones to have the pleasure of being cured by the
_Grand Frederic_.
One morning the countess, pale and feeble, was seated at the bedside of
her sleeping son. Her mother occupied a low chair, and, as a precaution
against the heat, she held in her hand a fan, which she used
incessantly. Rita was engaged in embroidering a magnificent altar-cloth,
which she was to make in connection with the countess.
Raphael entered. “Good-day, aunt! Good-day, my cousin! How is the heir
of Algares?”
“As well as we could desire,” replied the countess.
“Then, my dear Gracia,” continued the cousin, “it seems to me it is time
to quit your retreat. Your absence is an eclipse of the sun, which has
thrown the whole city into consternation. The _habituées_ of the _fêtes_
sigh unanimously. Soon, in sign of mourning, all the trees of our
promenade, _las Delicias_, will be despoiled of their foliage. The Baron
de Maude has added to his numerous collection of questions, that which
regards your invisibility. This excess of maternal love scandalizes him.
He says that in France they permit ladies to compose beautiful verses on
this subject, but they will not tolerate a young mother who exposes her
health, destroys the freshness of her complexion, by depriving herself
of repose and food--forgetting, in fine, her individual well-being for
love to her child.”
“What extravagance!” cried the marchioness. “Can there be in the world a
country where the mother leaves for a single instant her sick child?”
“The major is worse still,” continued Raphael. “When he learned the
sacrifices you were making, countess, he opened his eyes wider than
ever, so astonished was he, and declared he had not believed the
Spaniards so backward as to be deprived of the advantages of a
_nursery_.”
“What is that?” asked the marchioness.
“Why, he said,” pursued Raphael, “that it was the Siberia of English
children. Sir John says he will bet that you have become so thin and so
frail that you will easily be taken for the daughter of Zephyr, with
greater reason than the Andalusian mares, to whom they affix this
origin, and who, spurred on by the prick of lances, will very soon be
outrun by his English mare Atalante, when even to distance her you
scatter barley in her path. Cousin, the only one who is at all consoled
in your absence, is Polo, who weeps for you in publishing a volume of
poems. But,” continued Raphael, on seeing Stein enter, and playing upon
the word, “here, is the most esteemed of precious stones, stone as
melodious as Momo. Don Frederico,” he said, “you, who are an observer of
physiognomy, will see that in Spain, under all circumstances of life,
the equality of humor, good-nature, and even joy, are unalterable! Here
we have not the _schwermuth_ of the Germans, the _spleen_ of the
English, nor the _ennui_ of our neighbors. And do you know why? It is
because we do not demand too much of life, because we do not aspire to a
refined felicity.”
“It is,” affirmed the countess, “because we are accustomed to have no
other tastes than those of our age.”
“And that our beautiful sky reflects the well-being of our souls,” added
the countess.
“I believe,” said Stein, “that these are all the causes, joined to the
national spirit, which makes poor Spain content with a morsel of bread,
an orange, and a ray of the sun.”
“You say, Don Frederico,” replied the marchioness, “that in Spain every
one is satisfied with his condition. Ah! dear doctor, how much I have to
regret in observing that politics--”
“Aunt,” cried Rita, “if we enter upon politics I warn you that Don
Frederico will fall into his German machine, Raphael into his English
spleen, and that Gracia and I will become tainted with French _ennui_.”
“Are you not ashamed? Hold your tongue,” said her aunt, laughing.
“To avoid so great a misfortune,” replied Raphael, “I propose to compose
a novel among ourselves.”
“Help! help!” cried the countess.
“What extravagance!” said her mother. “Will you write some _chef
d’œuvre_, like those which my daughter is in the habit of reading in
the _feuilletons_ published by the French?”
“Why not?” demanded Raphael.
“Because no one will read them,” replied the marchioness; “at least when
not given as a Parisian production.”
“What does it matter to us?” replied Raphael. “We will write as the
birds sing--for the pleasure of singing, and not for the pleasure of
being heard.”
“Do not do it,” observed the marchioness, “do not write up seductions
and adulteries. Is it a good thing to render women interesting by their
faults? In the eyes of sensible persons, nothing inspires less interest
than a young inconsistent woman, and an unchaste woman who neglects her
duties.”
“Heaven!” said Raphael, “what eloquence! My aunt is inspired,
illuminated! I will vote for her as a candidate for the Cortes.”
“Dispense also,” continued the marchioness, “with introducing into your
novel the frightful suicide.”
“Apropos of suicides, will you kill yourself if I marry Don Luis?” asked
Rita of Raphael.
“I, executioner of my innocent person! God preserve me, my beautiful
ingrate! I will live to see you repent, to replace Don Luis, the
conqueror, if one day he takes it into his head to play a game at
_monte_, in the kingdom of Lucifer, his compeer.”
“My mother,” said the countess, “instead of tears and crimes, make
something good and amusing.”
“But, Gracia,” replied Raphael, “it must be acknowledged that there is
nothing so insipid in a novel as virtue only. Example: let us suppose I
should write the biography of my aunt. I would say she was an excellent
young girl; that she was married, with the approval of her parents, to a
man suited to her; and that she is the model of wives and of mothers,
without any other weakness than being a little prone to things of the
past, and to have a little too great _penchant_ for the _tresillo_. All
this is very good for an epitaph, but it is rather simple for a novel.”
“Where have you discovered that I aspire to become the model of a
heroine in a novel? What nonsense!”
“Then,” remarked Stein, “write an historical romance. No, rather a
romance on manners. At this moment you are about to have a romance
composed by me--a romance which will be composed of two styles.”
“The scene--will it be laid here?” said the marchioness. “You will see,
Don Frederico.”
“I intend to take for my subject,” said Raphael, “the life, altogether
moral and honorable, of my uncle, General Santa-Maria.”
“It only wanted this. You mock my brother. It seems to me that he will
not lend himself to the joke. Go!”
“No, without doubt,” replied Raphael. “I respect and I esteem my uncle
more than I do anybody in the world; and I know that his military
virtues, pushed often to extremes, have drawn upon him the surname of
Don Quixote of the army. But nothing in all this can prevent me from
writing his history. Listen, then, illustrious doctor, to the history of
my uncle--abridged. Santiago León Santa-Maria was from his birth
destined for the noble career of arms, because he saw the light of day,
or, to be more exact, the shades of night, when the drums, beating the
retreat, passed before his paternal mansion. His _entrée_ into the
world, one might say, was made at the sound of the drum and fife.
“That’s true,” said the marchioness, smiling.
“I never lie--when I speak the truth,” gravely continued Raphael. “As a
most certain sign of this predestination, he came into the world with a
sword, color of blood, on his breast--a sword designed in most perfect
form by the hand of nature; which made all the gossips salute the future
general of the army of His Catholic Majesty.”
“There is nothing in all this,” interrupted the marchioness. “My brother
had a mark on his breast, it is true--that of a radish, a simple longing
of my mother.”
“Remark, doctor,” continued Raphael, “that my aunt _depoetizes_ the
history of her dear brother, and takes away all his prestige. A radish
on the breast of a hero, in lieu of a military order! Go along, aunt,
there is nothing more ridiculous.”
“What is there ridiculous in it,” said the marchioness, “to be born with
a mark on his breast?”
“Raphael,” replied Rita, “I do not know all these particulars. Relate
them without too much circumlocution.”
“Nothing obliges us to hunt after them, dear Rita,” replied Raphael.
“One of our advantages over other nations is, that we do not live too
fast. León Santa-Maria had scarcely accomplished his twelfth year when
he entered a regiment as a cadet, and from that moment he held himself
as straight as a gun: he became serious as a sermon, and grave as a
funeral. He learned his exercise, and fought valiantly at Roussillon;
then at last this dear uncle arrived at the age when the heart sings and
sighs.”
“Raphael, Raphael,” cried his aunt, “do not relate things that should
not be spoken.”
“Don’t fear, señora. I will only speak of his platonic loves.”
“Of what loves? Are there, by accident, different sorts of loves?”
“Platonic love,” replied Raphael, “is that which is satisfied with a
look, a sigh, or a letter.”
“This you say beforehand,” replied the marchioness; “but you know that
the _corps d’armée_ came afterwards. Turn down the leaf then on this
chapter.”
“Marchioness, have no fear. My history will be such that, after having
read it, all the world will see the portrait of my uncle, holding the
sword in one hand, and in the other the holy palm. His first love was
for a pretty daughter of Osuna, where his regiment was in garrison. The
day when he least thought of it the order arrived to depart. My uncle
said he would return, and she began to sing, ‘Marlboro’ goes to the
war.’ She would sing it yet, if a big cultivator had not offered her his
big hand and his big farm. However, at the first she was inconsolable;
she wept like the clouds of autumn, and ceased not to cry day and night;
‘Santa-Maria!’ so much so that a servant who slept in the adjoining
chamber, believing that her mistress said the litanies, never neglected
to respond devoutly--_ora pro nobis_. My uncle received orders to go to
America; he returned to Spain to take part in the war of independence,
and had very little time to think of love. It resulted in his loving
only the beauties he could make march to the beating of the drum; his
character was soured to a point which obtained for him the surname of
General Verjuice. The sobriquet remains.”
“What risks you run, my nephew!”
“Aunt, I risk nothing. I only repeat what others have said. Little by
little his sixtieth year arrived, bringing with it the ordinary
_cortège_ of rheumatisms and catarrhs, ornamented with all the
appearances of an approaching chronic state. My aunt and all his friends
advised him to retire from the army, and to marry and live tranquilly.
You see that my noble relation felt himself led near to homœopathy.”
“This new system,” demanded the marchioness, “which orders stimulants to
refresh? Do not believe in them, doctor, and never give that kind of
remedy.”
“Then, as I said,” continued Raphael, “there was here a young lady of a
mature age, who would not marry to please her father, and her father
would not allow her to marry according to her taste. The father, who is
very haughty, saw that his child, called Donna Panaracia Cabeza de Vaca
(head of a cow)--”
“Well! that noble part of the animal--”
“Laugh away if you will, Raphael,” interrupted the marchioness; “but
know, Don Frederico, that this name, so ridiculous in the eyes of my
nephew, is one of the most illustrious and most ancient in Spain; it
owes its origin to the battle of _Las Navas de Tolosa_.”
“Which occurred,” added Raphael, “in the year 1212, and was gained by
the king Alphonse IX., surnamed the Noble, father of the Queen Blanche
of France, who was the mother of Saint Louis. This battle delivered
Castile from the yoke of the Saracens.”
“In fact,” replied the marchioness, “I have heard all this related by my
sister-in-law. Miramamolin (sovereign prince of the Moors), as my sister
also stated, had retreated to a spot where he had deposited all his
treasures, in a kind of intrenchment formed of iron chains. A river
separated this commanding position from the Christian army: the king,
who was unable to cross it, was in despair. Then an old shepherd,
covered with a sort of capuchin mantle, came to him, and pointed out the
spot where he could, without any difficulty, cross the stream at a ford
indicated by the head of a cow which the wolves had devoured. Such was
the importance of this information, that the king Alphonse gained the
memorable battle of Tolosa. The grateful monarch ennobled him who had
rendered him so great a service, and conferred on him and on his
descendants the name of Cabeza de Vaca. My sister-in-law said that the
statue of the patriotic shepherd, and the chains of the camp of
Miramamolin, are still preserved in the cathedral of Toledo.”
“Six hundred years of nobility,” said Raphael, “is a bagatelle in
comparison with ours; for you should know, doctor, that the name of
Santa-Maria eclipses all the Cabeza de Vacas, if even their genealogical
tree came from the horns of the cow which Noah had in his ark. Learn
that we are related to the Holy Virgin--nothing less. And to prove it, I
will tell you that one of our noble ancestors, when he counted his beads
before his servants, according to the good Spanish custom--”
“A custom which is daily falling into disuse,” sighed the marchioness.
“Did not neglect to say,” pursued Raphael, “‘God save you; our lady and
cousin protect thee!’ and the servants replied: ‘Holy Mary, cousin and
lady of his excellency.’”
“Don’t say such things before strangers,” replied the countess: “they
are enough prejudiced against us to credit them; or, without believing,
they have enough bad faith to repeat them. That which you have related
is known to everybody here. It is a poor joke invented to mock the
exaggerated pretensions of our family as to the antiquity of our
nobility.”
“Apropos of what strangers say: do you know, cousin, that Lord
Londonderry has written, in his _Travels in Spain_, that there is but
one beautiful woman in Seville, the Marchioness of A., concealing
without doubt her name in a manner the most whimsical.”
“He is right,” replied the countess, “no one can be more beautiful than
Adèle.”
“Very handsome, cousin, but the only one! It is a frightful
extravagance. The major is furious, and intends to institute a process
for calumny, with full powers from the Giralda, who believes herself,
and gives out, that she is the most beautiful person in all Seville.”
“That is to be more royalist than the king,” said Rita, with a gesture
of disdain; “and you may assure the major, in the name of all the
Sevillians, that we are very indifferent as to whether this lord finds
us handsome or ugly. But continue your history, Raphael; you have yet to
tell us of the preliminaries of your uncle’s marriage.”
“Above all,” said the marchioness, “I will inform Don Frederico that the
nobility of our family dates back as far as the year 737. One of our
forefathers killed the bear which had taken the life of the Gothic king
Favila; it is for this that we have a bear on our family escutcheon.”
At these words Raphael burst out into a laughter so boisterous that he
broke the thread of his aunt’s narrative.
“Let’s see,” said he, “here’s part second of Santa-Maria, our Lady and
cousin! The marchioness possesses a collection of genealogical facts,
the one as truthful as the others. She knows by heart all the history of
the dukes of Albe, history which rivalled that of Perou.
“If you will have the goodness to relate them to me, Señora
Marchioness,” remarked Stein, “I will be infinitely obliged to you.”
“With much pleasure,” replied the marchioness; “and I hope you will
accord more credit to my words than this child Raphael, who pretends to
know more than those who were born before him. I declare at the outset
that nothing ennobles a man so much as courage.”
“According to this,” said Rita, “José Maria, the celebrated bandit,
would be noble, and something more--grandee of Spain of the first
class.”
“My nephews and nieces seem fond of contradiction,” replied the
marchioness, with some impatience. “Well, yes! José Maria might have
been noble, if he had not been a robber.”
“Since you are talking of José Maria,” added Raphael, “I will relate to
Don Frederico a trait of the courage of this man. I have it from a good
source.”
“We do not wish to know the exalted deeds of the hero of the carbine,”
said the marchioness. “Raphael, you speak wrong, and out of place.”
“Listen to my history of José Maria. A robber, elegant, heroic, a
gentleman, gallant, and distinguished, is a fruit which can grow only on
our soil. You foreigners may have many dukes of Albe, but assuredly you
cannot have a single José Maria.”
“What say you?” interrupted the marchioness, “that foreigners may have
many Dukes of Albe? Yes, then, it is an easy thing! Listen, Don
Frederico: When the pious King Ferdinand was before the walls of
Seville, seeing that the siege was prolonged, he proposed to the Moorish
king--”
“Who was named Axataf,” interrupted Raphael.
“His name is of no consequence,” continued the marchioness. “He then
proposed to him, as I said, to decide the fate of the besieged city by a
singular combat--a duel--between the two monarchs. The Moorish king had
the shame to refuse the defiance. King Ferdinand had concealed from
everybody his resolution, and when the designated hour arrived, he went
out of his camp alone, and wended his way towards the place designed for
the combat. A soldier of his guard who saw him depart, had some
suspicions of his plan; fearing that the king might fall into an
ambuscade, he armed himself, and followed at a distance. When the
monarch arrived at the spot which is called to this day the _King’s
Fountain_, and which was then a desert spot, he stopped, waiting the
approach of the Moor. But while he waited for his enemy, the Moor had no
thought of presenting himself at the rendezvous. Ferdinand passed the
night there: at the dawn of the day he arose to retire, when he heard a
noise among the foliage.
“‘Who are you?--show yourself!’ he cried out.
It was the soldier;--he obeyed.
“‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the king.
“‘Sire, I saw your Majesty leave the camp, and I divined your intention.
I feared a snare, and I am come to defend you.’
“‘Alone?’
“‘Sire, your Majesty and I, are we not sufficient to vanquish two
hundred Moors?’
“‘You left my camp a soldier, you will return as _Duke of Albe_.’”
“You see, Don Frederico,” remarked Raphael, “that this popular legend
arranges duels at midnight, and creates dukes by the word of mouth.”
“Hold your tongue, Raphael, for the love of God,” said the countess,
“and leave us this belief. Besides, this history pleases me.”
“Yes,” replied Raphael; “but the Duke of Albe will not be very grateful
to your mother for the _illustration_ which she would confer upon him.
You will see if I am not right.”
Upon this, the young man left precipitately, and soon returned, carrying
a folio volume in parchment which he had taken from the library of the
count.
“Here,” said he, “are the origins, privileges, and antiquities of
Castilian titles, by Don José Barni y Catalo, advocate to the Royal
Councils. Page 140--‘Count of Albe, now duke. The first was Don Fernando
Alvarez de Toledo, created Count of Albe by Juan II., in 1439. Don
Enrique IV. was created duke in 1469. This illustrious and noble family
is of royal blood. It has always occupied the first employments in
Spain, whether in war or in politics. The Duke of Albe commanded in
chief the army during the conquest of Flanders, and during that of
Portugal, where he did wonders. This celebrated family shines with so
much distinction, and possesses so much merit, that one must write
volumes to enumerate them.’
“You see, aunt, that your history, however good, is not the less
apocryphal.”
“I do not know from whence this word comes, I believe from the Greek,”
continued the marchioness; “but to return to Santa-Maria, this name was
given them because that--”
“Aunt! aunt!” said Rita, “stop, I pray you, our genealogical history.
Have we not had enough of the Cabeza de Vaca, and the Dukes of Albe?
When you think of entering upon a second marriage you can parade these
glorious genealogies before your favorite.”
“The family name of the Dukes of Albe is Alvarez,” said Stein, “and it
is also that of my host, a brave and honest retired merchant. I find it
astonishing that in this country names the most illustrious are equally
common to classes the most elevated, and to those the most infamous. It
is for this strangers ask, Do all Spaniards believe themselves of noble
blood?”
“It is a confusion of ideas,” answered Raphael, “as with every thing
that regards Spain. Thus there is not a single foreigner who does not
write in good faith respecting us, that all laborers wear at their side
the sword of a gentleman. The same names of families are, without doubt,
very common in Spain; but that arises in a great degree from the fact
that formerly lords who possessed slaves gave their names to them on
their emancipation. These names, which the free Moors already adopt,
multiply, and more particularly those of great lords in proportion to
the number of the slaves emancipated. Some of these new families became
illustrious, and were ennobled, because many among them descended from
Moors of noble race; but the grandees of Spain, who bear these names,
need not be confounded with these families any more than with those of
artisans whom they find in the same condition. We may also remark that
many of these families have taken the names of places from whence they
came; thus we have hundreds of Medina, Castillo, Navarre, Toledo,
Burgos, Aragones, &c. As to these pretensions to nobility, so rife among
Spaniards, I declare that the remark is not without foundation: it is
certain there is in our country a great deal of pride joined to delicacy
and an innate distinction; but we must not confound this salient point
of the national character with the ridiculous affectations of nobility
which we have seen in our time. The Spanish people do not aspire to
embellish themselves with rags, or to quit the sphere in which
Providence has placed them; but they attach as much importance to the
purity of their blood as to their honor; above all in the northern
provinces, where the inhabitants glory in not having any Moorish blood
in their veins. This purity is lost by an illegitimate birth, by an
alliance more or less doubtful with Moorish or Jewish blood, as also by
their employment as mule-drivers, or public criers, and by ignominious
penalties.”
“Dear me!” said Rita, “how tedious you are with your nobility! Will you,
Raphael, do me the pleasure to continue the history of my uncle?”
“Again!” said the marchioness.
“Aunt,” replied Raphael, “I know of nothing more tiresome than an
obstinate story-teller. Then, Don Frederico, Santa-Maria and Cabeza de
Vaca united like two doves. Very often I have heard said that my aunt,
the marchioness here present, has wept with joy and tenderness on seeing
a union so well assorted. But he who was much astonished, as was
everybody, and more than everybody, was my dear uncle, when, after due
time, the Cabeza de Vaca gave birth to a little Santa-Maria as large as
a fan, and who appeared to be the fruit of a union of an X and a Z. The
Cabeza de Vaca was more proud than was Jupiter at the birth of Minerva.
They had on this occasion a grand matrimonial discussion. The señora
wished the sweet fruit of their love to be named Panoracio, a name
which, since the battle of the plains of Tolosa, had been that of the
first-born of the family. My uncle was obstinate, and wished that the
future representative of the venerable Santa-Marias should have no other
name than that of his father--a name sonorous and warlike. My aunt
reconciled them by proposing to baptize the creature with the names of
León Panoracio; and so the father has always called him Panoracio.”
This recital was suddenly interrupted by the general, who entered the
saloon pale as death, his lips closed, and his eyes inflamed with anger.
“Powerful God!” said Raphael, in an under-tone, “I wish I were a hundred
feet under ground, with the Roman statues which served the Moors to
construct the foundations of the Giralda.”
“I am furious,” said the general.
“What is the matter, uncle?” the countess, red as a pomegranate, asked
of him.
Rita lowered her head on her embroidery, and bit her lips to stifle her
desire to laugh.
The marchioness had a face longer than that of Don Quixote.
“It is worse than the mockery of the world,” continued the general, in a
voice of thunder; “it is an insult!”
“My uncle,” said the countess, softening her voice as much as possible,
“where there is no bad thought, where there is only trifling which makes
one giddy, with the disposition to laugh--”
“Disposition to laugh!” exclaimed the general. “Laugh at me! laugh at
my wife! By my life, that will never happen again. I go, this instant
even, to lodge my complaint with the police.”
“The police! are you in your sound senses, brother?” cried the
marchioness.
“If I can happily get out of this,” said Raphael to Rita, “I vow to St.
Juan the Silent to imitate him during a year and a day.”
“My dear León,” pursued the marchioness, “do not clothe this
childishness with too much importance. Calm yourself. I know that he
loves and respects you. Would you create scandal? Family complaints
should never be made public. Come, León, let this be kept among
ourselves.”
“What family complaints are you talking about?” replied the general,
approaching his sister. “Is it a family affair to witness the unheard-of
insolence of this ill-bred Englishman, who insults the people of the
country?”
On hearing these words, the sister and all the others breathed as if a
stone was taken from off their hearts; the history, then, had _not_ been
heard by the inflexible general, and Raphael demanded in the most severe
tone he could give to his voice--
“What has he then done, this great amphibious animal?”
“What has he done? I will tell you. You know that, unfortunately for me,
this man resides opposite to me. Well! at one o’clock at night, when
everybody is enjoying his best sleep, the _master_ opens his window, and
begins to play on his trumpet!”
“I know he has a passion for that instrument,” said Raphael.
“Besides, he plays horribly bad, and the breath from his powerful chest
brings notes from the instrument capable of waking the dead for twenty
miles around; in such a manner too that all the dogs in the neighborhood
set up a horrible barking and yelling. You will by this have an idea of
the nights we have to pass.”
All the efforts which the auditors had made up to this moment to contain
themselves now proved ineffectual. The burst of laughter was so instant,
so loud, that the general was instantly mute, and cast on them an
indignant look.
“It wanted but this, my friends! It wanted only one such audacious
insolence, and one such contempt of honest people to create for you a
subject for laughter. Laugh! laugh! we will soon see if your _protégé_,
will laugh also, Raphael.”
He said this, and left the saloon, as furious as he had entered it. He
went to lay his complaint before the police.
Rita laughed till her neck stretched.
“My God, Rita,” said the marchioness, “this is not a thing to make you
so joyous. You have done wrong.”
“My aunt, I would laugh if I were even in my coffin. I promise you, to
revenge my uncle, that when the Major _Grande Mosca_ (big fly) comes to
me to jabber his twaddle, I will not content myself with turning my back
on him, but I will say to him, ‘Save your powerful breath to blow your
trumpet with.’”
“You would do better,” replied Raphael, “to imitate foreign young
ladies, who blush in saying ‘Good-day,’ and turn pale when they would
say ‘Good-evening.’”
“With all this,” added Stein, persevering like a German, “you have
promised me, Señor Arias, to relate to me a trait of courage of José
Maria.”
“That will be for another day, Don Frederico. Here is my
general-in-chief,” he said, taking out his watch; “it is three o’clock
less a quarter, and I am invited to dine with the captain-general at
three o’clock. Doctor, were I in your place I would offer the aid of my
art to my aunt Cabeza de Vaca, in the critical state she is thrown into
by the major’s trumpet.”