The state of the Gaviota, already ill before she went to take supper
with Pepe Vera, was made sensibly worse, and on the morrow she was
seized with a violent fever.
“Marina,” she said to her maid, after an agitated sleep, “call my
husband; I do not feel well.”
“The señor has not come in,” replied Marina.
“He has remained to attend some sick person. So much the better; he
would have prescribed for me a dose of physic, which I abhor.”
“You are very hoarse, señora.”
“Yes, ’tis true. I require care. I will remain at home to-day. If the
duke calls, tell him I sleep. I do not wish to see anybody. My head is
on fire.”
“And if some one presents himself at the door privately?”
“If it be Pepe Vera, you can let him come in: I have something to say to
him.”
The servant left; but she returned immediately.
“Señora,” she said, “here is a letter which the señor, my master, has
sent to you by Nicolas.”
“Go along with your letter; there is no light to read here, and I wish
to sleep. What is it he says: ‘The path where duty calls him.’ What does
this communication mean? Leave the letter on the round table, and go
away at once.”
Marina a few moments after again entered.
“You here again?” groaned the Gaviota.
“It is because the señor Pepe Vera wishes to see you.”
“Let him enter.”
Pepe Vera entered without ceremony, opened the blinds, threw himself on
a chair, without abandoning his cigarette, and gazed at Maria, whose
inflamed cheeks and swollen eyes indicated a serious illness.
“How beautiful you are!” he said to her “and your husband?”
“He has gone out.”
“So much the better! and may he follow his path like the wandering Jew
until the last day. I come, Mariquita, on my way to visit the bull
destined for the course this afternoon. They will give this _corrida_ to
annoy me. There is one bull which they call _Medianoche_ (midnight), who
has already killed a man in the pasture.”
“Do you wish to frighten me, and render me still more ill? Close the
blinds, I cannot stand this glare of light.”
“Nonsense!” replied Pepe. “Pure childishness! the duke is not here, my
dear, so that you might fear that too much light may glare on you; nor
your _mata sanos_ of a husband, to dread a draft of air on his beloved.
One inhales here the infernal odors of musk, lavender, and all the
stench of perfumery; these are the drugs which make you ill. Let the air
into your room, that will do you good. Tell me, my dear, do you go this
evening to the _corrida_?”
“I am perhaps in a state to go!” replied Maria. “Shut that window, Pepe,
I pray you; the cold and the light make me ill.”
Pepe arose, and threw the window wide open.
“That which makes you ill, is affectation. You moan too much for such a
trifle. Do they not tell you, you are about rendering up your soul?
Señora Princess, I go to order your coffin, and afterwards to kill
_Medianoche_, in honor of Lucia del Salto, who, _gracias á Dios_, cannot
but be more amiable.”
“Still this woman!” screamed Maria. “This woman, who is going off with
an Englishman! Pepe, you will not do as you say. It would be infamous!”
“Do you know what would be an infamy?” said Pepe, placing himself in
front of the Gaviota; “it would be, when I go to risk my life, that you,
in lieu of sustaining my courage by your presence, remain at home to
receive the duke freely.”
“Always the same fear! Will it not content you to be concealed here in
my alcove, and act as a spy upon me, and to be convinced with your own
eyes that there exists nothing between the duke and me? Do you not know
that that which pleases him in me is only my voice, and not my person?
As to me, you know too well--”
“What I do know is, that you fear me; and, by the blood of Christ! you
have reason to fear me. But God only knows what may happen if I leave
you alone, and certain not to be surprised by me. I have faith in no
woman, not even my mother.”
“I have fear? I?” said Maria, “I have fear?”
“But do you believe myself so blind,” interrupted Pepe, “as not to see
what is passing? Do I not know, from a good source, that you put on a
good face before the duke, because you have got it in your head to
obtain for your imbecile husband the position of surgeon to the queen.”
“’Tis a lie!” cried Maria.
“Maria, Pepe Vera does not mistake bladders for lanterns. Know that I
understand as well the _ruses_ of the rude bull of the mountains as
those of the less ferocious bull of the plains.”
Maria began to weep.
“Come!” replied Pepe, “dry your tears, the _refugium peccatorum_ of
women. You know the proverb which says, ‘Make a woman weep, and you
vanquish her;’ but, my beautiful, there is another proverb, ‘Confide not
either in the barking of dogs, or in the tears of women.’ Keep your
tears for the theatre; here we do not play comedy. Look well to
yourself. If you deceive me, you make me incur the danger of death; I do
not prove my love by the recipes of the apothecary, nor by dollars. I am
not satisfied with grimaces, I must have acts. If you do not come this
afternoon to the bull-fight you will repent of it.”
And Pepe Vera went away, without even saying _á Dios_ to his mistress.
He was at that moment borne down by two opposite feelings which required
iron nerves to conceal them, as he did, under appearances the most
tranquil, under a countenance the most calm, and the most perfect
indifference.
He had studied the bulls he was about to fight with; never had he seen
any so ferocious. One of them strangely preoccupied him; as often
happens to men of his profession, who, without caring for the other
bulls, believe themselves saved if they can conquer the one which causes
their anxiety. Besides, he was jealous. Jealous! he who knew only how to
vanquish, and be cheered by bravos. He was told that they mocked him,
and in a few hours he went to find himself between life and death,
between love and treason. At least he believed so.
When he had quitted Maria, she tore the lace trimmings of her bed,
unjustly scolded Marina, and shed abundance of tears. Then she dressed
herself, called one of her maids, and went with her to the bull-fight,
where she seated herself in the box which Pepe had reserved for her.
The noise and the heat increased her fever. Her cheeks, ordinarily pale,
were inflamed, and a feverish ardor shone in her large black eyes.
Anger, indignation, jealousy, offended pride, terror, anxiety, physical
pain, combined in vain to force a complaint, even a sigh, from that
mouth closed like a tomb. Pepe Vera perceived her: he smiled; but his
smile in no way moved the Gaviota, who, under her icy countenance, swore
to revenge her wounded vanity.
One bull had already bitten the dust under the blow of another
_toreador_. This bull had been _good_: he had been well fought.
The trumpet again sounded. The _toril_[8] opened its narrow and sombre
door, and a bull, black as night, dashed into the arena.
“It is _Medianoche_!” cried the crowd.
_Medianoche_ was the _bull of the corrida_; that is to say, the king of
the _fête_.
Medianoche was in no way like an ordinary bull, who at once seeks his
liberty, his fields, and his deserts. He would, before every thing, show
them they were not playing with a contemptible enemy; he would revenge
himself, and punish. At the noise made by the cries of the crowd, he
stopped suddenly.
There is not the least doubt of the bull being a stupid animal.
Nevertheless, whether it be the sharp anger, or intelligence the most
rebellious, whether it be that he has the faculty to render clear
instincts the most blind; it is the fact that some bulls can divine and
baffle the most secret ruses of the course. The _picadores_ attracted,
at first, the attention of the bull. He charged the one he found
nearest to him, and felled him to the earth; he did the same with the
second, without leaving the spot, without the lance being able to arrest
him, and which inflicted but a slight wound. The third _picador_ shared
the fate of his comrades.
_Medianoche_, his horns and front bloody, raised his head towards the
seats whence came cries of admiration at such bravery.
The _chulos_ conveyed the _picadores_ outside the arena. One of them had
a broken leg; they took him to the infirmary, and the other two changed
their horses.
A new _picador_ replaced the wounded, and while the _chulos_ occupied
the attention of the bull, the three _picadores_ resumed their places,
their lances in rest.
The bull divided them, and after a combat of two minutes all three were
overthrown. One had fainted from having his head cut open; the furious
animal attacked the horse, whose lacerated body served as a shield to
the unfortunate cavalier.
There was then a moment of profound stupefaction. The _chulos_ searched
in vain, at the risk of their lives, to turn aside _Medianoche_, who
appeared to have a thirst for blood, and quenched his rage upon his
victim.
At this terrible moment a _chulo_ rushed towards the animal, and covered
his head with his cloak. His success was of short duration.
The bull disengaged himself promptly; he made the aggressor fly, and
pursued him; but, in his blind fury, he passed him; the _chulo_ had
thrown himself on the ground. When the animal suddenly turned round, for
he was one of those who never abandon their prey, the nimble _chulo_ had
already risen, and leaped the barrier amid the acclamations of the
enthusiastic crowd for so much courage and agility.
All this had passed with the rapidity of light. The heroic devotion with
which the _torreros_ aid and defend each other, is the only thing really
noble and beautiful displayed in these cruel, immoral, inhuman _fêtes_,
which are a real anachronism in our times, so much vaunted as an age of
light.
The bull, full of the pride of triumph, walked about as master of the
arena. A sentiment of terror pervaded all the spectators.
Various opinions were expressed. Some wished that the _cabestro_[9] be
let into the arena, to lead out the formidable animal, as much to avoid
new misfortunes as to preserve the propagation of his valiant race. They
sometimes have recourse to this measure; but it frequently happens that
the bull withdrawn does not survive the inflammation of blood which had
provoked the fight. Others insisted that his tendons be cut, thus
killing the bull easily. Unfortunately the greatest number cried out
that it would be a crime not to see so beautiful a bull killed according
to all the rules of art.
The alcalde did not know which party to side with. To preside over a
bull-fight is not an easy thing.
At last, that which happens in all similar cases occurred in this:
victory was with those who cried the loudest, and it was decided that
the powerful and terrible _Medianoche_ should die according to rule, and
in possession of all his means of defence.
Pepe Vera then appeared in the arena, armed for the combat.
He saluted the authorities, placed himself before Maria, and offered her
the _brindo_--the honor of the bull. He was pale.
Maria, her countenance on fire, her eyes darting from their sockets,
breathed with difficulty. Her body bent forward, her nails forced into
the velvet cushions of her box, contemplated this young man, so
beautiful, so calm before death, and whom she loved. She felt a power in
his love which subjugated her, which made her tremble and weep; because
that this brutal and tyrannical passion, this exchange of profound
affection, impassioned and exclusive, was the love which she felt: as
with certain men of a special organization, who require in place of
sweet liqueurs and fine wines the powerful excitement of alcoholic
drinks.
Everywhere reigned the most profound silence. A gloomy presentiment
seemed to agitate every soul. Many arose and left the place.
The bull himself, now in the middle of the arena, appeared valiant: he
proudly defied his adversary.
Pepe Vera chose the spot which seemed to him the most favorable, with
his habitual calm and self-possessed manner; and designated it to the
_chulos_, by pointing with his finger.
“Here!” he said to them.
The _chulos_ sprang out like rockets in a display of fireworks; the bull
had not for an instant the idea of pursuing them. They disappeared.
_Medianoche_ found himself face to face with the _matador_.
This situation did not last long. The bull precipitated himself with a
rapidity so sudden, that Pepe had not time to put himself on guard. All
he could do was to dodge the first attack of his adversary. But the
animal, contrary to the habits of those of his species, took a sudden
spring, and, turning suddenly, he came like a clap of thunder on the
_matador_, caught him on his horns, furiously shook his head, and threw
at a distance from him the body of Pepe Vera, which fell like an inert
mass upon the ground of the arena.
A cry, such as the imagination of Dante alone could conceive, broke
forth from a thousand human breasts, a cry profound, mournful,
prolonged, and terrific.
The _picadores_ rushed towards the bull to prevent his returning to his
victim. The _chulos_ also surrounded him.
“The _medias lunas_! the _medias lunas_!” (long partisans by which
sometimes the tendons are cut) cried the crowd.
The alcalde repeated the cry of the crowd.
Then were seen to appear these terrible weapons, and soon _Medianoche_
had his tendons cut; he was red with rage and with pain.
At last he fell under the ignoble poniard of the horse-killer.
The chulos raised up the body of Pepe Vera.
“Dead!”
Such was the cry which escaped from the lips of the group of _chulos_;
and which, passing from mouth to mouth throughout the vast amphitheatre,
brought mourning to all hearts.
* * * * *
Fifteen days had fled since this fatal bull-fight. In a bedchamber, from
which the luxurious furniture had disappeared, on an elegant bed, but
whose furniture was soiled and torn, was lying a young woman, pale,
meagre, and broken down.
Nobody was near her.
This woman seemed to have awakened from a long sleep; she seated herself
on her bed, let her astonished looks ramble around the chamber, and
resting her forehead on her hands, sought to collect her ideas.
“Marina,” she called in a voice harsh and feeble.
A woman entered; it was not Marina. It was an old woman bringing in a
beverage she had prepared.
The invalid gazed on her attentively.
“I know that face!” she said, surprised.
“It is possible, my sister,” replied the woman with sweetness; “we
render our services equally to the rich and to the poor.”
“But where is Marina?”
“She ran off with the servant, carrying with them all they could take.”
“And my husband?”
“He has gone away. No one knows where he has gone to.”
“My God, my God! And the duke? You ought to know him, for it was at his
house I believe I saw you.”
“At the Duchess of Almanzas? Indeed, this lady sometimes commissioned me
to distribute her charities. She has departed for Andalusia, with all
her family, and her husband.”
“Thus, I am alone, abandoned by all,” cried the invalid; “but the
recollections of the past come back in a crowd on my memory.”
“Am I not here?” said the good sister of charity, entwining her arms
around Maria; “If they had let me know sooner, your present condition
would have been less grave.”
A hoarse cry escaped from the breast of the Gaviota.
“Pepe! The bull! Medianoche! Pepe! Dead! Ah!”
And she fell back on her pillow broken-hearted.