BEHIND THE SCENES
Just at that time Gallardo received several letters from Don Jose and
from Carmen. The manager tried to encourage his _matador_, counselling
him to walk straight up to the bulls--"_Zas!_ a thrust and thou wilt put
him in thy pocket." But underlying his enthusiasm a certain depression
might be detected, as if his faith were dwindling and he had begun to
doubt that Gallardo was "the greatest man in the world." He knew of the
discontent and hostility with which the public received him. The last
bull-fight in Madrid disheartened Don Jose completely. No; Gallardo was
not like other swordsmen who went on in spite of public derision,
satisfied with earning money. His _matador_ had bull-fighter pride and
could only show himself in the ring to advantage when received with
great enthusiasm.
Don Jose pretended to understand what ailed his swordsman. Want of
courage? Never. He would suffer death before he would recognize this
defect in his hero. It was because he was tired, because he was not yet
recovered from his goring. "And so," he advised in all his letters, "it
would be better for thee to retire and rest a season. Afterward thou
wilt fight again like thine old self." He offered to arrange everything.
A doctor's certificate was enough to certify his temporary weakness,
and the manager would settle with the plaza impresarios to arrange the
pending contracts by sending a _matador_ from the beginners' ranks, who
would substitute Gallardo for a modest sum. They would still make money
by this arrangement.
Carmen was more vehement in her petitions. He must retire immediately;
he must "cut his queue." She was more afraid now than in the first years
of her married life, when the bull-fights and the fearful suspense
seemed to her conditions of existence that destroyed her peace of mind.
Her heart told her, with that feminine instinct seldom mistaken in its
forebodings, that something grave was going to happen. She scarcely
slept; she dreaded the night hours, broken as they were by sanguinary
visions. She waxed furious at the public in her letters--a crowd of
ingrates who forgot what the bull-fighter had done when he was himself;
evil-minded people who wished to see him die for their diversion, as
though she did not exist, as though he had no mother. "Juan, _Mamita_
and I ask it of thee. Retire. Why go on bull-fighting? We have enough to
live on and it pains me to have to see thee insulted by people who are
beneath thee. And if another accident should happen--Heavens!--I believe
I should go mad."
Gallardo remained thoughtful after reading these letters. Retire! What
nonsense! Women's notions! They could say this easily on the impulse of
affection, but it was impossible. "Cut his queue" at thirty! How his
enemies would laugh! He had no right to retire while his members were
sound and he could fight. Such an absurd thing had never happened. Money
was not all. How about glory? And professional pride? What would the
thousands and thousands of enthusiastic partisans who admired him say of
him? What answer would they make to the enemies who threw it in their
faces that Gallardo had retired through cowardice?
Moreover, the _matador_ stopped to consider whether his fortune would
permit this solution. He was rich, and yet he was not. His social
position was not established. What he possessed was the work of the
early years of his married life, when one of his greatest joys consisted
in saving, and in surprising Carmen and the _mamita_ with news of fresh
acquisitions. Later he had gone on earning money, maybe in greater
quantity, but it was wasted and had disappeared through various leaks in
his new existence. He had gambled a great deal and had lived a life of
splendor. His gambling had caused him to ask loans of various devotees
in the provinces. He was rich, but if he retired, thus losing the income
of the _corridas_ (some years two hundred thousand _pesetas_, others
three hundred thousand) he would have to retrench, after paying his
debts, by living like a country gentleman off the product of La
Rinconada, practising economies and overseeing the estate himself, for
up to that time the plantation, abandoned to mercenary hands, had
produced almost nothing.
In former times he would have considered himself extremely wealthy with
a small part of what he actually possessed. Now he seemed almost a poor
man if he gave up bull-fighting. He would have to forego the Havana
cigars which he distributed prodigally, and the high-priced Andalusian
wines; he would have to curtail the impulses of a _gran senor_ and no
longer shout in _cafes_ and taverns, "It's all paid for!" with the
generous impulse of a man accustomed to defy death, which led him to
conduct his life with mad extravagance. He would have to dismiss the
troop of parasites and flatterers that swarmed around him, making him
laugh with their whining petitions; and when a smart woman of equivocal
class came to him (if any would come, after he had retired), he could no
longer make her turn pale with emotion by putting into her ears hoops of
gold and pearls, nor could he amuse himself by spotting her rich Chinese
shawl with wine to surprise her afterwards with a finer one.
So had he lived, and so must he continue to live. He was a bull-fighter
of the good old times, such as the people represent a _matador_ of bulls
to be, liberal, proud, a reveller in scandalous extravagances and quick
to succor the unfortunate with princely alms whenever they touched his
rude sentiments.
Gallardo jested at many of his companions, bull-fighters of a new kind,
vulgar members of the guild of the industry of killing bulls, who
journeyed from plaza to plaza like commercial travellers, and were
careful and mean in all their expenditures. Some of them, who were
almost boys, carried in their pocket an account book of income and
expenses, marking down even the five centimes for a glass of water at a
station. They only mingled with the rich to accept their attentions and
it never occurred to them to treat anybody. Others boiled great pots of
coffee at home when the travelling season came on and carried the black
liquid with them in bottles, having it reheated, to avoid this expense
in hotels. The members of certain _cuadrillas_ endured hunger and
growled in public about the avarice of their _maestros_.
Gallardo was not tired of his life of splendor. And they wanted him to
renounce it!
Moreover, he thought of the necessities of his own house, where all were
accustomed to an easy existence; the full and unembarrassed life of a
family which does not count money or worry about its coming in, seeing
it drip ceaselessly as from a faucet. Besides his wife and mother, he
had taken upon himself another family, his sister, his chattering
brother-in-law as idle as though his relationship to a celebrated man
gave him the right to vagrancy, and all the troop of little nephews who
were growing up and becoming constantly more expensive. He would have to
call to an order of economy and parsimony all these people accustomed to
live at his cost in merry and open-handed carelessness! And everybody,
even poor Garabato, would have to go to the plantation, to parch in the
sun and become brutish as rustics! Poor _Mamita_ could no longer gladden
her last days with pious generosity dispensing money among the needy
women in the ward, shrinking like a bashful girl when her son pretended
to be angry at finding she had nothing left of the hundred _duros_ he
had given her two weeks before! Carmen naturally would try to cut down
expenses, sacrificing herself first, depriving her existence of many
frivolities that made it bright.
"Curse it!" All this meant the degradation of his family--on his
account. Gallardo felt ashamed that such a thing might happen. It would
be a crime to deprive them after having accustomed them to luxury. And
what must he do to avoid it? Simply get _closer_ to the bulls; to go on
fighting as in former times.
He would get _closer_!
He answered his manager's and Carmen's letters with brief and labored
lines that revealed his firm intention. Retire? Never!
He was resolved to be the same as ever, he swore it to Don Jose. He
would follow his advice. "Zas! A thrust, and the beast in his pocket."
His courage rose, and he felt equal to taking care of all the bulls in
the universe no matter how big they might be.
He was gay toward his wife, although his pride was rather hurt because
she doubted his strength. She should hear news after the next _corrida_!
He meant to astonish the public to shame it for its injustice. If the
bulls were good, he would be like the very Roger de Flor himself!
Good bulls! This was Gallardo's worry. It used to be one of his vanities
that he never gave them a thought, and he never went to see them in the
plaza before the _corrida_.
"I kill everything they let out to me," he used to say arrogantly. And
he beheld the bulls for the first time when he saw them enter the ring.
Now he wished to examine them, to choose them, to prepare for success by
a careful study of their condition.
The weather had cleared, the sun shone; the following day the second
bull-fight was to take place.
In the afternoon Gallardo went alone to the plaza. The amphitheatre of
red brick, with its Moorish windows, stood by itself at the base of
green hills. In the background of this broad and monotonous landscape
something resembling a distant flock of sheep shone white on the slope
of a hill. It was a cemetery.
Seeing the bull-fighter in the vicinity of the plaza some slovenly
individuals, parasites of the ring, vagabonds who slept in the stables
through charity, living at the cost of devotees and on the leavings of
patrons of the nearby taverns, approached him. Some of them had come
from Andalusia with a shipment of bulls and hung about in the vicinity
of the plaza. Gallardo distributed some coins among these beggars, who
followed him cap in hand, and entered the ring through the door of the
_Caballerizas_.
In the _corral_ he saw a group of devotees watching the _picadores_
testing horses. Potaje, with great cowboy spurs on his heels, was
grasping a spear, preparing to mount. Those in charge of the stables
escorted the manager of the horses, an obese man in a great Andalusian
hat, slow of speech, who responded calmly to the insulting and abusive
wrangling of the _picadores_.
The "wise monkeys," with arms bared were pulling the hacks by the bridle
reins for the riders to try them. For several days they had been riding
and training these miserable horses which still bore on their flanks the
red gashes of the spurs. They brought them out to trot over the
clearings adjacent to the plaza, making them acquire an artificial
energy with the iron on their heels and obliging them to make turns to
accustom them to running in the ring. They came back to the plaza with
their sides dyed with blood, and before entering the stables they
received a baptism of several bucketfuls of water. Near the trough not
far away the water standing between the stones was dark red, like
spilled wine.
The horses destined for the bull-fight the following day were almost
dragged out of the stables to be examined and passed upon by the
_picadores_. These worn-out remnants of wretched horse-flesh advanced,
with tremulous flanks drooping with old age and sickness, a reproach to
human ingratitude so forgetful of past service. Some were mere
skeletons with sharp protruding ribs that seemed about to break through
their hairy hide. Others walked proudly, stamping their strong hoofs,
their coats shining and their eyes bright; beautiful animals that it was
hard to imagine among outcasts destined to death, magnificent beasts
that seemed to have been recently unharnessed from a luxurious carriage.
These were the most dreaded, for they were horses afflicted with vertigo
and other maladies, and behind these specimens of misery and infirmity,
rang the sad hoof-beats of steeds past work, mill and factory horses,
farm horses, public cab nags, all dulled by years of pulling the plough
or the cart, unhappy pariahs who were going to be exploited until the
last instant, forced to provide diversion to men with their pawing and
springing when the bull's horns gored their shrinking bodies. To mount
this miserable horse-herd, tremulous with madness or ready to drop with
misery, as much courage was needed as to stand before the bull. Heavy
Moorish saddles with high pommel, yellow seat, and cowboy stirrups were
thrown upon them, and as they received this weight their legs almost
gave way.
Potaje wore a haughty mien in his discussions with the overseer of the
horses, speaking for himself and for his comrades, making even the "wise
monkeys" laugh with his gypsy-like maledictions. Let the other
_picadores_ leave it to him to come to an understanding with the
horse-traders. Nobody knew better than he how to make these people stand
around.
A servant approached him, dragging after him a dejected hack with long
hair and ribs in painful relief.
"What art thou bringing there?" said Potaje facing the man. "That can't
be received. That's an animal no man alive could mount. Take it to thy
mother!"
The phlegmatic contractor answered with grave calmness. If Potaje dared
not mount him it was because the _piqueros_ now-a-days were afraid of
everything. With a horse like this, kind and gentle, Senor Calderon,
Trigo, or any of the good-old-time horsemen could have fought bulls two
consecutive afternoons without getting a fall and without the animal
receiving a scratch. But now! Now there was much fear and very little
shame.
The _picador_ and the contractor insulted one another with friendly
calmness, for among them abusive language lost significance from force
of habit.
"What thou art," answered Potaje, "is a freshy, a bigger thief than Jose
Maria the _Earlybird_. Get out, and let thy bald-headed grandmother that
rode on a broom every Saturday at the stroke of twelve get on that
raw-boned, hard-gaited beast."
Those present laughed and the contractor merely shrugged his shoulders.
"But what's the matter with that horse?" he said coolly. "Look at him,
thou evil soul. Better is he than others that have glanders, or get
dizzy and that have thrown thee off over their ears before thou wast
even near the bull. He is sounder than an apple, for he has been
twenty-eight years in a gas factory doing his duty like a decent person,
without ever being found fault with. And now along comest thou, thou
street-crier, abusing him with thy 'buts' and thy fault finding, as if
he were a bad Christian."
"But I don't want him! Get out! Keep him!"
The contractor slowly approached Potaje, and with the ease of a man
expert in these transactions whispered in his ear. The _picador_,
pretending to be offended, finally walked up to the hack. He shouldn't
miss the sale on his account! He didn't want to be taken for an
intractable man, capable of injuring a comrade.
Putting a foot in the stirrup he swung the weight of his body upon the
poor horse. Then, holding the spear under his arm, he thrust it into a
great post embedded in the wall, spearing it several times with
tremendous force, as if he had a stout bull at the end of his lance. The
poor hack trembled and bent his legs under these shocks.
"He don't turn badly," said Potaje with conciliating tone. "The _penco_
is better than I thought. He's got a good mouth, good legs. Thou hast
won. Let him be kept."
The _picador_ dismounted, disposed to accept anything the contractor
offered him after his mysterious "aside."
Gallardo left the group of devotees who had laughingly witnessed this
performance. A porter of the plaza went with him to where the bulls were
kept. He passed through a little door entering the _corrales_.
A rubble wall that reached the height of a man's neck surrounded the
_corral_ on three sides, strengthened by heavy posts united to the
little upper balcony. Passages so narrow that a man could only go
through them side-wise opened at certain distances. Eight bulls were in
the spacious _corral_, some lying down, others standing with lowered
heads sniffing at the pile of hay before them. The bull-fighter walked
the length of these galleries examining the animals. At times he would
come outside the barricade, his body looming up through the narrow
openings. He waved his arms, giving savage whoops of challenge that
stirred the bulls out of their immobility. Some sprang nervously,
attacking with lowered head this man who came to disturb the peace of
their enclosure. Others stood firm on their legs, waiting with raised
heads and threatening mien for the rash being to approach them.
Gallardo, who quickly hid himself again behind the barricades, examined
the appearance and character of the wild beasts, without deciding which
two he desired to choose.
The plaza overseer was near him; a big athletic man, with leggings and
spurs, dressed in coarse cloth and wearing a broad hat held by a chin
strap. They had nicknamed him Young Wolf; he was a rough rider who spent
the greater part of the year in the open country, coming to Madrid like
a savage, with no curiosity to see its streets nor desire to pass beyond
the vicinity of the plaza.
To his mind the capital of Spain was a ring with clearings and waste
lands in its environs, and beyond these a mysterious series of houses
with which he had felt no desire to become acquainted. The most
important establishment in Madrid was, in his opinion, Gallina's tavern,
situated near the plaza, a pleasant realm of joy; an enchanting palace
where he supped and ate at the manager's cost, before returning to the
pastures mounted on his steed, with his dark blanket over the pommel,
his saddle bags on the croup, and his spear over his shoulder. He
rejoiced in terrifying the servants of the tavern with his friendly
greetings; terrible hand-clasps that made the bones crack and drew
shrieks of terror. He smiled, proud of his strength and proud to be
called "brute," and seated himself before his meal, a plate the size of
a dishpan, full of meat and potatoes, besides a jug of wine.
He tended the bulls acquired by the manager, sometimes in the pasture
grounds of Munoza, or, when the heat was excessive, in the meadows among
the Guadarramas. He brought them to the enclosure two days before the
_corrida_, at midnight, crossing the arroyo Abronigal, at the outskirts
of Madrid, accompanied by horsemen and cowboys. He was in despair when
bad weather prevented the bull-fight and the herd had to remain in the
plaza, and he could not return immediately to the tranquil solitudes
where he pastured the other bulls.
Slow of speech, dull of thought, this centaur who smelled of hide and
hay expressed himself with warmth when he talked of his pastoral life
herding wild beasts. The sky of Madrid seemed to him narrow and to have
fewer stars. He described with picturesque loquacity the nights in the
pasture with his bulls sleeping in the diffused light of the firmament
and in the dense silence broken only by the mysterious noises from the
thickets. The mountain snakes sang with a strange voice in this
stillness. They sang, _si, senor_! No one cared to dispute Young Wolf;
he had heard it a thousand times, and to doubt this were to call him a
liar, exposing oneself to feel the weight of his heavy hands. And as the
reptiles sang, so the bulls talked, only that he had not managed to
penetrate all the mysteries of their tongue. They were Christians
although they walked on four legs and had horns. It was a fine sight to
see them awaken when the morning light appeared. They sprang up
joyfully like children; they played, pretending to attack, locking
horns; they tried to ride one another with a noisy joy, as if they
greeted the presence of the sun which is God's glory. Then he told of
his long excursions through the Guadarramas, following the course of the
stream of liquid snow that flowed down from the mountain peaks, like
transparent crystal, feeding the rivers and the meadows with their
herbage dotted with tiny flowers; of the flapping of the wings of the
birds that came and perched on the sleeping bulls' horns; of the wolves
that howled through the night, ever far away, very far away, as if
frightened by the procession of primeval beasts that followed the
leader's bell to dispute with them the wild solitude. Let them not talk
to him of Madrid, where the people were suffocated! The only acceptable
things in this forest of houses were Gallina's wine and his savory
stews.
Young Wolf talked to the swordsman and helped him by his advice to
choose two animals. The overseer showed neither respect nor wonder in
the presence of this famous man, so admired by the people. The
bull-herder almost hated the bull-fighter. Kill one of those noble
animals, with all kinds of deceptions! A braver man was he who lived
among them, passing before their horns in the solitude, without other
defence than his arm, and with no applause whatever.
As Gallardo left the _corral_ another joined the group, greeting the
_maestro_ with great respect. He was an old man, charged with the
cleanliness of the plaza. He had spent many years in this employment and
had known all the famous bull-fighters of his time. He went poorly clad,
but frequently women's rings glistened on his fingers, and he blew his
nose upon a dainty lace-edged linen handkerchief, which he drew out of
the depths of his blouse.
Alone during the week he swept the immense ring, the tiers of seats and
the boxes, without complaint as to the magnitude of this task. Whenever
the manager found fault and threatened to punish him by opening the door
to the vagabonds who idled around outside the plaza, the poor man in
desperation promised to mend, so that this unwelcome irruption of
scavengers might not cheat him of his spoil. At the most, he admitted
half a dozen rogues, bull-fight apprentices, who were faithful to him in
exchange for his permitting them on festal days to see the _corrida_
from "the dogs' box," a door with a grille situated near the bull-pens,
through which the wounded combatants were carried out. These assistants,
clutching the iron bars, witnessed the _corrida_, struggling and
fighting like monkeys in a cage to occupy the front row.
The old man distributed them skilfully during the week as the cleaning
of the plaza progressed. The youngsters worked in the seats in the sun
occupied by the poor and dirty public, which leaves in its wake a
scrap-heap of orange skins, papers, and cigar stubs.
"Look out for the tobacco," he ordered his troop. "Any one that holds on
to a single cigar stub won't see the bull-fight Sunday."
He patiently cleaned the shady side, bending over like a treasure-seeker
in the mystery of the boxes to put the findings in his pockets; ladies'
fans, rings, handkerchiefs, lost coins, all that an invasion of fourteen
thousand persons leaves in its wake. He heaped up the smokers'
leavings, mincing the stubs and selling them for pulverized tobacco
after exposing them to the sun. The valuables were for a pawnbrokeress
who bought these spoils of a public forgetful or overcome by emotion.
Gallardo answered the old man's pleasant greetings by giving him a
cigar, and he took leave of Young Wolf. It was agreed with the overseer
that he should shut up the two chosen bulls for him. The other swordsmen
would not protest. They were boys in good luck, in the flower of their
youthful bravery, who killed whatever was put before them.
Going out into the courtyard again where the horse-testing was going on
Gallardo saw a man move away from the group of spectators; he was tall,
spare, and of a coppery complexion, dressed like a bull-fighter. Beneath
his black hat locks of grayish hair fell over his ears, and he was
wrinkled around the mouth.
"Pescadero! How art thou?" said Gallardo, pressing his hand with sincere
effusion.
He was an old-time swordsman who had had hours of glory in his youth,
but whose name few remembered. Other _matadores_ coming after had
obscured his poor fame, and Pescadero, after fighting bulls in America
and suffering various wounds, had retired with a small capital of
savings. Gallardo knew that he was the owner of a tavern in the vicinity
of the ring where he vegetated far from the devotees and bull-fighters'
trade. He did not expect to see him in the plaza, but Pescadero said
with a melancholy expression: "What brings me here? Devotion to the
game. I seldom come to the bull-fights, but affairs of the trade still
attract me, and I come in a neighborly fashion to see these things. Now
I am nothing but a tavern keeper."
Gallardo, contemplating his forlorn appearance, thought of the Pescadero
he had known in his youth, one of his most admired heroes, arrogant,
favored by the women, a notable figure in Campana Street when he went to
Seville, with his velvet hat, his wine-colored jacket, and his silken
girdle, leaning on a gold-headed cane. And thus would _he_ become,
common and forgotten if he retired from bull-fighting.
They discussed professional matters a long time. Pescadero, like all old
men embittered by bad luck, was a pessimist. There were no good
bull-fighters any more. Only Gallardo and a few others killed bulls in
classic style. Even the beasts seemed less powerful. And after these
lamentations he insisted on his friend accompanying him to his house.
Since they had met, and the _matador_ had nothing to do, he must visit
his establishment.
Gallardo smiled, and asked about the school of tauromachy established by
Pescadero near his tavern.
"What wouldst thou, son!" said the latter apologetically. "One has to
help oneself, and the school yields more than all the customers of the
tavern. Very good people come, young gentlemen who want to learn so as
to shine in bullock-fights, foreigners that grow enthusiastic at the
bull-fights and get a crazy notion to become bull-fighters in their old
age. I have one taking a lesson now. He comes every afternoon. Thou
shalt see."
After taking a glass of wine at the tavern they crossed the street and
entered a place surrounded by a high wall. On the boards nailed
together, that served as a door, was posted a great bill which
announced, "School of Tauromachy."
They entered. The first thing that claimed Gallardo's attention was the
bull, an animal made of wood and rushes, mounted on wheels, with a tail
of tow, head of braided straw, a section of cork in place of a neck, and
a pair of genuine and enormous horns which inspired the pupils with
terror.
A bare-breasted youth, wearing a cap and two hanks of hair over his
ears, communicated activity to the beast by pushing it when the students
stood before it cape in hand.
In the centre of the enclosure a round, corpulent old man with a red
face stood in his shirt-sleeves holding an armful of _banderillas_. Near
the wall, slouching in one chair and resting her arms on another, was a
lady of about the same age and not less voluminous, wearing a beflowered
hat. Her florid face, with spots as yellow as chaff, dilated with
enthusiasm every time her companion performed a good feat. The roses on
her hat, and her false curls of a ridiculous blonde hue, shook with
laughter as she applauded.
Standing in the doorway Pescadero explained these people to Gallardo.
They must be French, or natives of some other foreign country--he was
not sure where they were from nor did it matter to him. They were a
married couple who travelled about the world and seemed to have lived
everywhere. He had had a thousand trades, to judge from his tales; miner
in Africa; colonist in distant isles; hunter of horses with a lasso in
the solitudes of America. Now he wished to fight bulls--to earn money
as did the Spaniards; and he attended the school every afternoon, with
the determination of a stubborn child, paying generously for his
lessons.
"Imagine it; a bull-fighter with that shape and well past fifty years of
age!"
When the pupil saw the two men enter, he lowered his arms laden with
_banderillas_, and the lady arranged her skirt and flowery hat. Oh,
_cher maitre_!--
"Good-afternoon _Mosiu_; greetings, _Madame_," said the master, raising
his hand to his hat. "Let us see, _Mosiu_, how the lesson is getting on.
You know what I have told you. Firm on your ground, you stir up the
beast, you let him come on, and when you have him beside you, aim, and
put the barbs in his neck. You don't have to worry yourself about
anything; the bull will do everything for you. Attention! Are we ready?"
The master moved away, and the pupil faced the terrible bull, or rather
the gamin who was behind it, his hands on its hind quarters to push it.
"A-a-a-a! Come on, Morito!"
Pescadero gave a frightful bellow to cause the animal to charge,
exciting, with yells and with furious stamping on the ground, this
animal with entrails of air and rushes, and a head of straw. Morito
charged like a wild beast, with great clatter of wheels, bobbing his
head up and down as he moved, the page who pushed him bringing up the
rear. Never could bull of famous breed compare in intelligence with this
Morito, immortal beast, stuck full of barbs and sword-thrusts thousands
of times, suffering no other wounds than such insignificant ones as a
carpenter cures. He seemed as wise as man. On drawing near the pupil, he
changed his course so as not to touch him with his horns, moving away
with the barbs lodged in his cork neck.
An ovation greeted this heroic feat, the _banderillero_ remaining firm
in his place, arranging the suspenders of his trousers and the cuffs of
his shirt.
"Masterful, _Mosiu_!" shouted Pescadero. "That pair is first class!"
The foreigner, moved by the professor's applause, responded with
modesty, beating his breast:
"Me got the most important. Courage, _mucho_ courage."
Then, to celebrate his deed, he turned to Morito's page, who seemed to
lick his lips in anticipation of the order. Let a bottle of wine be
fetched. Three empty ones lay on the ground near the lady, who was
constantly growing more purple in the face, wriggling in her clothing,
greeting her companion's tauromachic exploits with great shouts of
laughter.
On learning that he who had just arrived with the teacher was the famous
Gallardo, and on recognizing his countenance so often admired by her in
the newspapers and on match-boxes, the foreign woman lost color and her
eyes grew tender. Oh, _cher maitre_! She smiled at him, she rubbed
against him, desiring to fall into his arms with all the weight of her
voluminous and flabby person.
Glasses were clinked to the glory of the new bull-fighter. Even Morito
took part in the feast, the steward who acted as nurse drinking in his
name.
"Before two months, _Mosiu_," said Pescadero, with his Andalusian
gravity, "you will be sticking _banderillas_ in the plaza of Madrid like
the very God himself, and you will have all the applause, all the money,
and all the women--with your lady's permission."
The lady, without ceasing to gaze upon Gallardo with tender eyes, was
moved with joy, and a noisy laugh shook her waves of fat.
Pescadero accompanied Gallardo down the street.
"_Adios_, Juan," he said gravely. "Maybe we'll see each other in the
plaza to-morrow. Thou seest what I have come to--to earn my bread by
these frauds and clown-tricks."
Gallardo walked away, thoughtful. Ah! that man whom he had seen throw
money around in his good times with the arrogance of a prince, sure of
his future! He had lost his savings in bad speculations. A
bull-fighter's life was not one in which to learn the management of a
fortune. And yet they proposed that _he_ retire from his profession!
Never.
He must get _close_ to the bulls!