While they were talking an automobile horn was heard, and a little later
Don Calixto’s niece entered the drawing-room.
This was Amparito, the flat-faced girl with black eyes, of whom Cæsar
had spoken to Alzugaray. Her father accompanied her.
The priest patted the girl’s cheeks.
Her father was a clumsy man, red, sunburned, with the face of a
contractor or a miner.
The girl took off her cap and the veil she wore in the automobile, and
seated herself between Don Calixto’s daughters. Alzugaray looked her
over. Amparito really was attractive; she had a short nose, bright black
eyes, red lips too thick, white teeth, and smooth cheeks. She wore her
hair down, in ringlets; but in spite of her infantile get-up, one saw
that she was already a woman.
“Cæsar is right; this is quite a lively girl,” murmured Alzugaray.
The mayor’s son now arrived, and his sister. He was an insignificant
little gentleman, mild and courteous; he had studied law at Salamanca,
and it seemed that he had certain intentions about Don Calixto’s second
daughter.
All the guests being assembled, the master of the house said that, since
nobody was missing and it was time, they might pass into the gallery,
where the table was set.
At one end the lady of the house seated herself, having the priest on
one side and the judge on the other; at the other end, Don Calixto,
between the judge’s wife and the mayor’s daughter. Cæsar had a seat
assigned between Don Calixto’s elder daughter and Amparito, and
Alzugaray one between the second daughter and the judge’s girl.
A few moments before they sat down, Amparito went running out of
the gallery into the garden. “Where has that child gone?” asked Don
Calixto’s wife.
“Something or other has occurred to her,” said Amparito’s father,
laughing.
The girl reappeared a little later with a number of yellow and red
chrysanthemums in her hand.
She gave red ones to the mayor’s daughter and to her cousins, who were
all three brunettes, and a yellow one to the judge’s daughter, who was
blond. Then she proceeded to the men.
“This one is for you,” to the mayor’s son; “this one for you,” and she
gave Alzugaray a yellow one; “this one for you,” and she gave Cæsar
a red one; “and this one for me,” and she put a similar flower in her
bosom.
“And the rest of us?” asked Don Calixto.
“I don’t give you chrysanthemums, because your wives would be jealous,”
replied Amparito.
“Man, man!” exclaimed the judge; “how does it strike you, Don Calixto?
That these little girls know the human heart pretty well?”
“These children do not know how to appreciate our merits,” said Don
Calixto.
“Oh, yes; your merits are for your wives,” replied Amparito.
“I must inform you that my friend Cæsar is married, too,” said
Alzugaray, laughing.
“Pshaw!” she exclaimed, smiling and showing her white, strong teeth. “He
hasn’t the face of a married man.”
“Yes, he has got the face of a married man. Look at him hard.”
“Very well; as his wife isn’t here, she won’t quarrel with me.”
Alzugaray examined this girl. She had great vivacity; any idea that
occurred to her was reflected in her face in a manner so lively and
charming, that she was an interesting spectacle to watch.
At first the conversation was of a languid and weary character; Don
Calixto, the judge, and Cæsar started in to exchange political
reflexions of crass vulgarity. Cæsar was gallantly attentive to the
wants of Don Calixto’s elder daughter, and less gallantly so to his
other neighbour Amparito; the mayor’s son, despite the fact that his
official mission was to court one of Don Calixto’s girls, looked more at
Amparito than at his intended, and Alzugaray listened smilingly to the
young person’s sallies.
Toward the middle of the meal the conversation grew brisker; the judge
recounted, with much art, a mysterious crime that had occurred in a town
in Andalusia among farming people, and he succeeded in keeping them all
hanging to his lips.
At the end of the recital, the conversation became general; the younger
element talked together, and Cæsar made comments about what the judge
had told them, and defended the most immoral and absurd conclusions, as
though they were Conservative ideas.
Cæsar’s observations were discussed by the men, and the judge and Don
Calixto agreed that Cæsar was a man of real talent, who would play a
great role in Congress.
“Please give me a little wine,” said Amparito, holding her glass to
Alzugaray; “your friend pays no attention to me; I have asked him for
some wine twice, and nothing doing.”
Cæsar acted as if he hadn’t heard and kept on talking.
Amparito took the glass, wet her lips in it, and looked at Alzugaray
maliciously.
After eating and having coffee, as the two married ladies and the girls
were inert from so long a meal, they arose, and Alzugaray, the mayor’s
son, and Amparito’s father followed them. Don Calixto, the judge, and
Cæsar remained at table. The priest had gone to sleep.
A bottle of chartreuse was brought, and they started in drinking and
smoking.
Cæsar’s throat grew dry and he became nauseated from drinking, smoking,
and talking.
At five the judge took his leave, because he had to glance in at court;
Don Calixto wanted to take his nap, and after he had escorted Cæsar to
the garden, he went away. The two married ladies were alone, because
the young people had gone with Amparito’s father on an excursion to the
Devil’s Threshold, a defile where the river flows between some red
precipitous rocks full of clefts.
Cæsar joined the two ladies, and kept up a monotonous, dreary
conversation about the ways of the great city.
At twilight all the excursionists came back from their jaunt. One of the
young ladies played something very noisy on the piano, and the judge’s
daughter was besought to recite one of Campoamor’s poems.
“It is a very pretty thing,” said the judge’s wife, “a girl who laments
because her lover abandons her.”
“Given the customs of Spain, as they are, the girl would be in a house
of prostitution,” said Cæsar in a low tone, ironically.
“Shut up,” replied Alzugaray.
The girl recited the poem, and Cæsar asked Alzugaray sarcastically if
those verses were by the girl’s father, because they sounded to him like
the verses of a notary or a judge of the Court of First Instance.
Then somebody suggested that they should have supper there.
Cæsar noticed that this plan did not appeal to the mistress of the
house, and he said:
“One should be moderate in all things. I am going home to bed.”
After this somewhat pedantic phrase, which to Don Calixto seemed a
pearl, Cæsar took leave of his new acquaintances with a great deal of
ceremony and coolness. Alzugaray said he would remain a while longer.
When Cæsar was bowing to Amparito, she asked him jokingly:
“Is it your wife that keeps you in such good habits?”
“My wife!” exclaimed Cæsar, surprised.
“Didn’t your friend say...”
“Ah! Yes, it is she who makes me have such good habits.”
This said, he left the drawing-room and went quickly down the stairs.
The cool night air made him shiver, and he went with a heavy, aching
head to his hotel, and got to bed. He slept very profoundly, but not
for more than an hour, and woke up sweaty and thirsty. His headache was
gone. It was not yet past eleven. He lighted the light, and sitting
up in bed, set to thinking over the probabilities of success in his
undertaking.
Meanwhile he stared at the red chrysanthemum which was in the
button-hole of his coat, and remembered Amparito.
“That child is a prodigy of coquetry and bad bringing-up,” he thought
with vexation; “these emancipated small town young ladies are more
unattractive than any others. I prefer Don Calixto’s daughter, who at
least is naively and unobjectionably stupid. But this other one is
unsupportable.”
Without knowing why, he felt more antipathy for the girl than was
natural under the circumstances. He did not like to admit it to himself;
but he felt the hostility which is produced in strong, self-willed
characters by the presence of another person with a strong character
proposing to exert itself.