THE next evening, Quentin, whose nebulous and Anglomaniacal fever had already quieted down, went to sup at the Café del Recreo.
María Lucena, with her mother and a chorus girl friend were waiting for him.
“Well, you’re pretty late,” said María Lucena as she saw him enter the café.
Quentin shrugged his shoulders, sat down and called the waiter.
María Lucena was the daughter of a farm operator near Cordova. She had little voice, but a great deal of grace in her singing and dancing; a strong pair of hips that oscillated with a quivering motion as she walked, a pale, vague-looking face; and a pair of black, shining eyes. María Lucena married a prompter, who after three or four months of wedded life, considered it natural and logical that he should live on his wife; but she broke up the combination by throwing him out of the house.
The girl who accompanied María Lucena in the café was a chorus girl of the type that soon stand out from their sisters and begin to take small parts. She was a small woman, with very lively black eyes, a thin nose, a mouth with a mocking smile that lifted the commissures of her lips upward, and black hair adorned with two red carnations.
The old woman with them was María’s mother; fat, wrinkled, and covered with moles, with a lively but suspicious look in her eyes.
Quentin began to eat supper with the women. His melancholy fit of blues of the day before had left him, but he looked sad for dignity’s sake, and because it was consistent with his character.
María Lucena, who had noticed Quentin’s abstraction, glanced at him from time to time attentively.
“Well, let’s be going,” said María.
The two girls and the old woman arose, as it was time for the entertainment to begin, and Quentin was left alone, distracted by his efforts to convince himself as well as others, that he was very sad.
Then Springer, the Swiss, came in and sat by Quentin’s side.
“What’s the matter?” he said, taking his friend’s funereal look seriously.
“I feel sad today. Yesterday I saw a girl I used to like. The granddaughter of a marquis. She who married Juan de Dios.”
“What then? What happened to you?”
“She looks badly. She won’t last long.”
“The poor little thing!”
In a lugubrious voice Quentin told all about his love affair, heaping on insignificant details, and wearying excuses.
Springer listened to him with a smile. His fine, spiritual countenance changed expression sympathetically with everything his friend said. Then he himself spoke confusedly. Yes, he too had had a romantic love affair, ... a very romantic one, ... with a young lady; but he was only a poor Swiss plebeian.
Any one who heard them would have said that Quentin’s affair had lasted years, and the Swiss’s only days. It was exactly the opposite. Quentin’s fidelity lasted just about two or three months, at the end of which time he began his affair with María Lucena. On the other hand, the Swiss had been faithful for years and years to an impossible love.
As they chatted, Don Gil Sabadía, the arch?ologist, appeared in the café. After shaking hands with the Swiss and with Quentin, he sat down at their table.
“It’s a long time since I have seen you,” he said to Quentin. “How about it—are we gaining ground?”
“Psh! If I could get out....”
“Don’t pay any attention to him today,” said Springer. “He’s full of spleen.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the arch?ologist.
“Women.”
“The females in this city are very attractive, comrade; they are good to look at.”
“They seem insignificant to me,” said Quentin.
“Man alive, don’t say that,” exclaimed the Swiss.
“Pale-faced, rings under their eyes, weak, badly nourished....”
“Will you deny their wit, too?” asked Springer.
“Yes,” answered Quentin. “They make a lot of gestures, and have a fantastic manner of speech that is overloaded with imagery. It’s a sort of negro talk. I always notice that when María Lucena tells something, she compares everything, whether material or not, with something material: ‘it’s better than bread,’ or ‘it has less taste than a squash’ ... everything must be materialized; if not, I don’t believe she would understand it.... She is like a child ... like an impertinent child.”
“What a portrait!” exclaimed the Swiss, laughing.
“Then she makes divisions and subdivisions of everything; every object has twenty names. There is a little bottle of cherry brandy in the house—of that cherry brandy that I hold as something sacred; well, sometimes María calls it ‘the parrot,’ sometimes ‘the greenfinch,’ and sometimes, ‘the green bird.’... And that isn’t all. The other day, pointing to the bottle, she called to her mother from her bed: ‘Mother, bring me that what’s-its-name.’... So you see, for that class of people, language is not language—it is nothing.”
“Doesn’t that indicate inventive genius?” asked the Swiss.
“But what do I want of inventive genius, Springer?” exclaimed Quentin loudly. “Why, a woman doesn’t need inventive genius! All she needs is to be pretty and submissive, and nothing else....”
“You are tremendous,” said the Swiss. “So that for you, a woman’s intelligence is of no account?”
“But that isn’t intelligence! That is to intelligence what the movement of those men who go hopping about nodding to one and talking to another, is to real activity. The former is not intelligence nor is the latter activity. The thing is to have a nucleus of big, strong ideas that direct your life.... As the English have.”
“I have an antipathy for the English,” said the Swiss. “As for Andalusia, I believe that if this country had more culture, it would constitute one of the most comprehensive and enthusiastic of peoples. Other Spaniards are constantly bargaining with their appreciation and admiration; the national vice of Spain is envy. Not so with the Andalusians. They are ready to admire anything.”
“It’s a racial weakness,” exclaimed Quentin. “They are all liars.”
“You, who are an Andalusian, must not say that.”
“I? Never. I am a Northerner. From London, Windsor.... Why did I ever come here?”
María Lucena, her little friend, and her mother came in. The Swiss and Don Gil bowed to them.
“You must defend the Andalusians,” said Springer to the actress; “for Quentin is turning them inside out.”
“What’s he here for, then?” inquired María bitterly.
“That’s just what I was saying,” added Quentin. “What did I come to this city for?”
“I know what all this sadness comes from,” said María Lucena in Quentin’s ear.
“Do you? Well, I’m glad.”
“You saw your cousin yesterday; the one with a face that looks as if she had a sour stomach. They say that she can’t yet console herself for her former sweetheart’s leaving her. That’s why she is so sad.”
Quentin shrugged his shoulders.
“Has she had the baby yet, or is it just dropsy?”
Again Quentin did not deign to answer. She indignantly turned her head away.
“So, because you saw her changed into a worm, you came in so sad and downhearted yesterday, eh?”
“Possibly,” said Quentin coldly.
“If you had seen me in the same condition, you would have felt it less.”
“What intelligence!”
“Well, son, it’s time we quit,” replied the actress angrily. “If you think nothing of me, I feel the same way toward you.”
Quentin shrugged his shoulders. The others, seeing the prelude to a tempest, were silent.
María Lucena’s voice grew shrill and disagreeable.
“Do you know what her stepmother, the Countess, said? Well, she said: ‘For all her prudishness, that hussy has married Juan de Dios for his money!’”
“What that female said is not important.”
“All women are just females to you....”
“And it’s true.”
“Well, if you say that about me....”
“Come, come, this is no place for a scene, and don’t shout so.”
“Are you going to strike me? Tell me, are you going to strike me?”
“No; I shall prudently withdraw first,” answered Quentin, rising and getting ready to go.
At this moment Cornejo, the poet, entered the café accompanied by a tall, thin gentleman with an aquiline nose, and a very black and very long beard cut in Moorish fashion. The two came up to the table and sat down.
The poet and the other gentleman had just left the last performance, and were discussing it. Cornejo thought that the musical comedy they had just seen was not altogether bad, the tall man with the black beard insisted that as far as he was concerned it had been superbly wearisome. This gloomy fellow then asserted that for him, life held little promise, and that of all disagreeable and irritating lives, the most irritating and disagreeable was that in a provincial capital; and of all the lives in provincial capitals, the worst was that of Cordova.
In absolute contradiction to Leibnitz and his disciple, Doctor Pangloss, the man with the black beard would have asserted, with veritable conviction, that he lived the worst life in the worst town, in the worst possible of worlds.
“You are right,” said Quentin, with the honest intention of molesting his hearers. “There is nothing so antipathetic as these provincial capitals.”
Don Gil, the arch?ologist, made a gesture of one who does not wish to heed what he hears, and turning to Springer, said:
“You are like me, are you not? A partisan of the antique.”
“In many ways, yes,” replied the Swiss.
“Theirs was a much better life. How wise were our ancestors! Everything classified, everything in order. In the Calle de la Zapatería were the boot-makers; in the Calle de Librerías, the book-sellers; in the Calle de la Plata, the silversmiths. Each line of business had its street; lawyers, bankers, advocates.... Today, everything is reversed. A tremendous medley! There are scarcely any boot-makers in the Calle de la Zapatería, nor are there any book-sellers in the Calle de Librerías. These ?diles change the name of everything.... The Calle de Mucho Trigo, where there used to be warehouses for wheat, today specializes in making taffy. How absurd, Se?or! How absurd! And they call that progress! Nowadays men are endeavouring to wipe out the memory of a whole civilization, of a whole history.”
“What good does that memory do you?” asked the man with the black beard.
“What good does it do me!” cried Don Gil in astonishment.
“Yes, what good does it do you?”
“Merely to show us that we are decadent. Not comparing the Cordova of today with that of the Arabian epoch, but comparing it with that of the eighteenth century, one sees an enormous difference. There were hundreds of looms here then, and factories where they made paper, and buttons, and swords, and leather, and guitars. Today ... nothing. Factories, shops, even mansions have been closed.”
“That may be true; but, Don Gil, why do you want to know these calamities?”
“Why do I want to know them, Escobedo?” cried Don Gil, who was stupefied by the questions of the man with the black beard.
“Yes; I cannot see what good that knowledge does. If Cordova disappears, why, another city will appear. It’s all the same!” Escobedo continued—“Would that we could wipe out history, and with it all the memories that sadden and wither the lives of men and multitudes! One generation should accept from the preceding one that which is useful, that is,—mere knowledge; for example: sugar is refined in this manner, ... potatoes are fried thusly.... Forget the rest. Why should we need them to say: ‘this love you feel, this pain you suffer, this heroic deed you have witnessed, is nothing new at all; five or six thousand other men, exactly like you, felt it, suffered it, and witnessed it.’ What do we gain by that? Will you tell me?”
The arch?ologist shrugged his shoulders.
“I believe you are right,” said Quentin.
“History, like everything else we have to learn, ages us,” Escobedo proceeded. “Knowledge is the enemy of felicity. This state of peace, of tranquillity, which the Greeks called with relation to the organism, euphoria, and with relation to the soul, ataraxia, cannot be attained in any other way than by ignorance. Thus at the beginning of life, at the age of twenty, when one sees the world superficially and falsely, things appear brilliant and worth coveting. The theatre is relatively fine, the music agreeable, the play amusing; but the evil instinct of learning will make one some day peer from the wings and commence to make discoveries and become disillusioned. One sees that the actresses are ugly....”
“Thanks!” interrupted María Lucena, dryly.
“He doesn’t mean you,” Springer assured her.
“And that besides being ugly, they are sad, and daubed with paint,” continued Escobedo, heedless of the interruption. “The comedians are stupid, dull, coarse; the scenery, seen near to, is badly painted. One sees that all is shabby, rickety.... Women seem angels at first, then one thinks them demons, and little by little one begins to understand that they are females, like mares, and cows.... A little worse, perhaps, on account of the human element in them.”
“That’s true,” agreed Quentin.
“You are very indecent,” said María Lucena, rising with an expression of contempt and anger upon her lips. “Adiós! We’re going.”
The three women left the café.
“And the worst of it is,” continued Escobedo, “that they deceive us miserably. They speak to us of the efficacy of strength; they tell us that we must struggle with will and tenacity, in order to attain triumph; and then we find that there are no struggles, nor triumphs, nor anything; that Fate shuffles our destinies, and that the essence of felicity is in our own natures.”
“You see everything very black,” said the Swiss, smiling.
“I think he sees it all as it is,” replied Quentin.
“Then one would find out,” said Escobedo, “that some of the exalted, beautiful things are not as sublime as the poets say they are—love, for instance; and that other humbler and more modest things, which ought to be profoundly real, are not so at all.
“Friendship! There is no such thing as friendship except when two friends sacrifice themselves for each other. Sincerity! That, too, is impossible. I do not believe that one can be sincere even in solitude. Great and small, illustrious and humble, every individual who gazes into a mirror will always see in the glass the reflection of a pretender.”
“I’m with you,” said Quentin.
“I believe,” declared the Swiss, “that you only look upon the dark side of things.”
“I force myself to see both sides,” responded Escobedo—“the bright as well as the dark. I believe that in every deed, in every man, there is both light and darkness; also that there is almost always one side that is serious and tragic, and another that is mocking and grotesque.”
“And what good does that do you?” asked Don Gil.
“A whole lot. From a funereal and lachrymose individual, I am metamorphosing myself into a jolly misanthrope. By the time I reach old age, I expect to be as jolly as a pair of castanets.”
“Greek philosophy!” said Don Gil contemptuously.
“Se?or Sabadía,” replied Escobedo, “you have the right to bother us all with your talk about the signs on the streets of Cordova, and about the customs of our respectable ancestors. Kindly grant us permission to comment upon life in our own fashion.”
“Risum teneatis,” said Don Gil.
“Do you see?” continued Escobedo—“That’s another thing that bothers me. Why does Don Gil have to thrust at us a quotation so common that even the waiters in the café know it?”
The arch?ologist, not deigning to notice this remark, commenced to recite an ancient Cordovese romance that went:
Jueves, era jueves,
día de mercado,
y en Santa Marina
tocaban rebato.
(Thursday, it was Thursday, Market Day, and in the Church of Santa Marina they rang the call to arms.)
Escobedo went on philosophising; a waiter in the café began to pile the chairs upon the tables; another put out the gas, and the customers went out into the street.
THE afternoon of the following day, Quentin went to the Calle del Sol to see his grandfather, according to his promise to Rafaela. There was a carriage at the door. Juan, with his hat in his hand, was talking to an elegant lady with black eyes.
“Do you mean to say I cannot go in?” said she unpleasantly.
“The Se?oritas have told me that they were not at home to any one.”
“Not even to me?”
“Those are my orders.”
“Very well. I shall wait until my husband comes.”
“It will be useless,” said Juan emphatically.
“Why?” asked she haughtily.
“Because the Se?or Marqués told me that he does not wish to see you.”
The woman made no reply.
“Home!” she said to the coachman angrily.
Quentin went up to Juan.
“What’s up? May I not come in?” he asked.
“You may, of course,” replied the gardener, “but not that designing hussy.”
“Who is she?”
“The Countess. After saying all sorts of monstrous things about Rafaela and her grandfather, the hussy comes here to boast of her charity.”
“How is the Se?or Marqués?”
“Very bad.”
“Has his illness been aggravated, or is it following its natural course?”
“It has been aggravated.... And meanwhile, the Count—do you know what he’s doing? Well, he’s selling everything he can lay his hands on. He’s even sold the lead pipes and the paving stones in the stable, which he tore up with his own hands. I tell you it’s a shame....”
“Why don’t they stop him?”
“Who is there to do it? It’s very sad. While the master is in bed, the second-hand men come and cart everything away. They’ve removed tapestries, bronzes, the gilt writing-desks that were in the hall, the sideboard, the dressing tables ... and that shrewd female, who knows all about the business, wants to come and take part in the robbery. One can say nothing to the Count; but to that wicked woman, it’s different. If you could see her! I don’t see how she dares look at me after what has happened between us.”
“Between whom? You and her?”
“Sí, Se?or. Have they never told you?”
“No.”
“Well, you know I have a son, who, though not so much to look at now, was several years ago a very beautiful child, whiter than snow, and with a pair of cheeks just bursting with blood. Moreover, he was strong, healthy, and very innocent. Well, pretty soon the lad began to get pale, and thin, and black circles appeared under his eyes. His mother and I wondered what was the matter with him, and what his trouble was. But it was useless; we were unable to understand what was going on, until one night the coachman saw him climbing about the roof. The man hid himself and found out everything. At that time the Countess lived here with her husband, and my son was on his way to her. When I told the Marquis what was happening, he went and loaded a pistol, and was for shooting his daughter-in-law. But she, the shrewd thing, came to me and said: ‘If you need anything for your son, let me know.’—‘Se?ora,’ I answered, ‘you are a very vicious woman, and my son shall never see you again.’”
“Whom is she living with now?”
“With Periquito Gálvez.”
“Who is he?”
“A rich farmer.”
“Young?”
“No; he’s over fifty. But she would take to any one. When he came to an understanding with her, they say that one day he found one of the Countess’ garters, which had a little sign on it that read:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.
(Love is fearless; it conquers all obstacles.)
“Periquito had a pair of garters made just like it, with letters of diamonds and pearls, which he gave to her.”
“How magnificent!”
“It certainly was.”
Quentin left Juan, and went up to see the sick man.
In a drawing-room near the bedroom, Rafaela and Remedios were talking to a thin, graceful, very polished-looking gentleman. It was El Pollo Real, brother of the Marquis and of Se?ora Patrocinio. From time to time Colmenares, the hunchback, came out of the bedroom red-eyed, only to go back again immediately.
“I am going to pray at the hermitage of La Fuensanta,” said Remedios to Quentin. “Do you wish to come with me?”
Remedios, her young maid-servant, and Quentin left the house as evening fell.
The two women said their prayers, and then Remedios and Quentin returned chatting from the hermitage. Remedios told Quentin that some of her stepmother’s invectives had reached Rafaela’s ears, and Quentin promised the girl that he would silence the Countess. He thought of dedicating a few stings to her in La Víbora which might mortify her. Then Remedios spoke of her brother-in-law. She felt a strong antipathy for him, and, while realizing that he was good and amiable, she could not bear him.
To prolong the conversation, they took the longest way home.
It was an autumn day with a deep blue sky.
In the west, long, narrow clouds tinged with red, floated one above the other in several strata. They walked by the Church of San Lorenzo. The square tower rose before them with its angel figure on the point of the roof; the great rose-window, lit by the rosy hue of late afternoon, seemed some ethereal, incorporeal thing, and above the rosette, a white figure of a saint stood out against a vaulted niche.
They returned by the Calle de Santa María de Gracia. Remedios read the signs on the stores as she passed them, and the names of the streets. One of these was called Puchinelas, another, Juan Palo, another El Verdugo....
A lot of questions suggested themselves to the child, to which Quentin did not know how to reply.
They went along the Calle de Santa María. Overhead, the rosy sky showed between the two broken lines of roofs; the water pipes stuck into the air from the eaves like the gargoyles and cantilevers of a Gothic church; the houses were bathed in a mysterious light....
Against the white walls of an ancient convent with tall Venetian blinds, the scarlet splendour of the sky quivered gently; and in the distance, at the end of the street, the hoary tower of a church, as it received the last rays of the sun, shone like a red-hot coal.
When they reached the house, the sky was already beginning to lose its blood-red colour; a veil of pale yellow opal invaded the whole celestial vault; toward the west it was green, to the east, it was blue, an intense blue, with great, purple bands....
THAT night, Quentin went to look for Cornejo at the print-shop where La Víbora was published.
The shop was situated in a cellar, and contained a very antique press, which took a whole day to print its fifteen hundred copies.
“For the next number,” said Quentin to the poet, “you’ve got to make up a poisonous poem in the same style as those that have been published against the Alguacil Ventosilla, Padre Tumbón, and La Gardu?a.”
“Good. Against whom is it to be?”
“La Aceitunera.”
“The Countess?”
“Yes.”
“The devil! Isn’t she a relative of yours?”
“Yes, on the left hand side.”
“Let’s have it. What must I say?”
“You already know that they call her La Aceitunera?”
“Yes.”
“And you also know that she has no morals to boast of?”
“Yes.”
“Well, with that you’ve got it all made. As a sort of refrain to your poem, you may use the quotation she wears on her garters; it goes like this:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”
“Very good; but give me an idea.”
“Do you need still more? You can begin with a poetic invocation, asking every crib in Cordova who the lady of such and such a description is; then give hers; including the fact that she wears garters with this motto engraved upon them:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”
“Good! For example: I’ll say that she has black eyes, and a wonderful pair of hips, and—”
“An olive complexion.”
“And an olive complexion ... and I’ll finish up with:
Y ésta leyenda escrita en la ancha liga,
que tantos vieron con igual fatiga:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.
(And this legend written upon her broad garter, which so many men have seen with the same feeling of fatigue: etc.)
“Eh? How’s that?”
“Very good.”
“All right, it won’t take a minute to finish it. What shall I call the poem?”
“To La Aceitunera.”
“It’s done. How would you like me to begin like this?:
Casas de la Morería;
Trascastillo y Murallón,
ninfas, due?as, y tarascas,
baratilleras de amor.
(Houses of La Morería, Trascastillo and Murallón; nymphs, mistresses, and lewd women, second-hand dealers in love.)”
“You may begin as you wish. The idea is that the thing must hurt.”
“It’ll hurt, all right; never fear.”
Cornejo finished the poem; two days later the paper came out, and in cafés and casinos, the only subject of conversation was the Countess’ garters, and everybody maliciously repeated the refrain:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.
The following night, Quentin was waiting for the poet in the Café del Recreo. He had made an appointment with him for ten o’clock, but Cornejo had failed to appear.
Quentin waited for him for over two hours, and finally, tired out, he started to go home. As he left the café, a little man wrapped in a cloak came up to him at the very door.
“Listen to me a second,” he said.
“Eh!”
“Be very careful, Don Quentin, they are following you.”
“Me?”
“Sí, Se?or.”
“Who are you? Let’s hear first who you are.”
“I am Carrahola.”
“Aren’t you angry at me for what I did to you the other night?”
“No, Se?or, you’re a brave fellow.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, Se?or José has sent Cantarote, the gipsy, and me to go home with you.”
“Bah! No one interferes with me.”
“Don’t say what you know nothing about. Take this club”—and he gave him one which he had concealed under his cloak—“and walk on.”
“Aren’t you armed, Carrahola?”
“I?—Look!”—and lifting aside his cloak, he showed his sash, which was filled with stones.
Quentin took the club, wrapped himself up to his eyes in his cloak, and began to walk slowly along the middle of the street, looking carefully before passing cross-streets and corners. When he reached one corner, he saw two men standing in the doorway of a convent, and two others directly opposite. No sooner had he perceived them, than he stopped, went to a doorway, took off his cloak and wrapped it about his left arm, and grasped the club with his right hand.
When the four men saw a man hiding himself, they supposed that it was Quentin, and rushed toward him. Quentin parried two or three blows with his left arm.
“Evohé! Evohé!” he cried; and an instant later began to rain blow after blow about him with his club, with such vigour, that he forced his attackers to retreat. In one of his flourishes, he struck an adversary on the head, and his club flew to pieces. The man turned and fell headlong to the ground, like a grain-sack.
Carrahola and Cantarote came running to the scene of the fray; one throwing stones, the other waving a knife as long as a bayonet.
Carrahola hit one of the men in the face with a stone, and left him bleeding profusely. Of the three who were left comparatively sound, two took to their heels, while the strongest, the one who seemed to be the leader of the gang, was engaged in a fist fight with Quentin. The latter, who was an adept in the art of boxing, of which the other was totally ignorant, thrust his fist between his adversary’s arms, and gave him such a blow upon the chin, that he fell backward and would have broken his neck, had he not stumbled against a wall. As the man fell, he drew a pistol from his pocket and fired.
“Gentlemen,” said Quentin to Carrahola and Cantarote; “to your homes, and let him save himself who can!”
Each began to run, and the three men escaped through the narrow alleyways.
The next afternoon Quentin went to the Casino. The newspapers spoke of the battle of the day before as an epic; a ruffian known as El Mochuelo, had been found in the street with concussion of the brain, and a contusion on his head; besides this, there were pools of blood in the street. According to the newspaper reports, passions had been at a white heat. Immediately after the description of the fight, followed the news that the notable poet Cornejo had been a victim of an attack by persons unknown.
“They must have beaten him badly,” thought Quentin.
He went to Cornejo’s house and found him in bed, his head covered with bandages, and smelling of arnica.
“What’s the matter?” asked Quentin.
“Can’t you see? They gave me the devil of a beating!”
“They tried to do it to me yesterday, but I knocked a few of them down.”
“Well, don’t be overconfident.”
“No, I’m not; I carry a pistol in each pocket, and I can’t tell you what would happen to the man who comes near me.”
“It’s a bad situation.”
“Ca, man! There’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“You can do as you like, but I’m not going out until I’m well; nor will I write for La Víbora any more.”
“Very well. Do as you wish.”
“I’ve got to live.”
“Psh! I don’t see why,” replied Quentin contemptuously. Then he added, “See here, my lad, if this business scares you, take up sewing on a machine. Perhaps you’ll earn more.”... And leaving the poet, Quentin returned to the Casino. He was the man of the hour; he related his adventure again and again, and in order that the same thing might not be repeated that night, a group of eight or ten of his friends accompanied him to his house.
QUENTIN was worried, and in spite of his two pistols and the sword-cane that he carried, he feared that the first chance they got, they would set a trap for him and leave him in the same condition as they had left Cornejo.
He was very mistrustful of María Lucena, because she was beginning to hate him and was capable of doing him almost any ill turn.
Some two weeks after the nocturnal attack, Quentin went to the Café del Recreo. As he was learning to be very cautious, before entering he looked through a window and saw María Lucena talking to an elegantly-dressed gentleman. He waited a moment, and when a waiter went by, he said to him:
“See here, who is that gentleman there?”
“The clean-shaven one dressed in black?”
“Yes.”
“Se?or Gálvez.”
“Periquito Gálvez?”
“Sí, Se?or.”
Quentin entered the café and pretended not to see the fellow. He noticed that María Lucena was more pleasant to him than ever before.
“There’s something up,” he said to himself. “They are getting something ready for me.”
Quentin was not jealous, he was already very tired of María Lucena, and if any one had made off with her, he would have thanked him rather than otherwise.
“Between the two of them,” thought Quentin, referring to Gálvez and María, “they are plotting something against me.”
Presently, Quentin got up, and left the café without even nodding to María.
“I’m going to see Pacheco,” he murmured.
He was going along the Calle del Arco Real, when he looked back and saw two men following him.
“Devil take you,” he remarked, seizing a pistol.
He raised the muffler of his cloak, and began to walk very rapidly. It was a cold, disagreeable night; the crescent moon shone fitfully from behind the huge clouds that were passing over it. Quentin tried to shake off his pursuers by gliding rapidly through tortuous alleyways, but the two men were doubtless well acquainted with the twists and turns of the city, for if he happened to lose them for an instant, he soon saw them behind him again.
After a half-hour’s chase, Quentin noticed that there were no longer only two pursuers, but four of them, and that with them was a watchman. Presently there were six of them.
He sought safety in his legs, and began to run like a deer. He came out opposite the Mosque, went down by the Triunfo Column, through the Puerta Romana, and along the bridge until he reached the foot of the tower of La Calahorra. Everywhere he heard the whistles of the watchmen.
At the exit of the bridge, there were a couple of guardias civiles. Perhaps they were not warned of his flight; but suppose they were?
Quentin retreated. From the bridge he could see the Cathedral, and the black wall of the Mosque, whose battlements were outlined against the sky.
A vapour arose from the river; below him the dark water was boiling against the arches of the bridge; in the distance it looked like quicksilver, and the houses on the Calle de la Ribera were reflected trembling on its surface.
As he turned toward the city, Quentin saw his pursuers at the bridge entrance.
“They’ve trapped me!” he exclaimed in a rage.
They were evidently reconnoitering the bridge on both sides, for the watchman’s lantern oscillated from left to right, and from right to left.
Quentin crept toward one of the vaulted niches in the middle of the bridge.
“Shall I get in there? They will find that easier than anything else. What shall I do?”
To throw himself into the river was too dangerous. To attack his pursuers was absurd.
As if to add to his misfortunes, the moon was coming from behind the cloud that had hidden it, and was shedding its light over the bridge. Quentin climbed into the niche.
What irritated him most was being made prisoner in such a stupid way. He did not fear prison, but rather the loss of prestige with the people. Those who had been enthusiastic over his deeds, when they learned that he had been made prisoner, would begin to look upon him as a common, everyday person, and that did not suit him in the least.
“I must do something ... anything. What can I do?”
To face his pursuers with his pistol from the niche would be gallant, but it would mean exposing himself to death, or going to prison.
Turning about in the niche, Quentin stumbled over a huge rock.
“Let me see. We’ll try a little fake.”
He removed his cloak and wrapped the stone in it, making a sort of dummy. Then he took the bundle in his arms and stepped to the railing of the bridge.
“There he is! There he is!” shouted his pursuers.
Quentin tipped the dummy toward the river.
“He’s going to jump!”
Quentin gave a loud shout, and pushed the stone wrapped in the cloak into the water, where it splashed noisily. This done, he jumped back; and then, on hands and knees, returned quickly to his niche, climbed into it, and pressed himself against the inside wall.
His pursuers ran by the niches without looking into either of them.
“How awful!” said one of the men.
“I can’t see him.”
“I think I can.”
“Let’s go to the mill at El Medio,” said one who appeared to be the leader. “There ought to be a boat there. Watchman, you stay here.”
Quentin heard this conversation, trembling in his hole; he listened to their footsteps, and when they grew fainter in the distance, he got up and looked through a narrow loophole that was cut in the niche. The watchman had placed his lamp upon the railing of the bridge, and was looking into the river.
“I have no time to lose,” murmured Quentin.
Quickly he took off his tie and his kerchief, jumped to the bridge without making the slightest noise, and crept toward the watchman. Simultaneously one hand fell upon the watcher’s neck, and the other upon his mouth.
“If you call out, I’ll throw you into the river,” said Quentin in a low voice.
The man scarcely breathed from fright. Quentin gagged him with the handkerchief, then tied his hands behind him, took off his cap, placed his own hat upon the watchman’s head, and carrying him like a baby, thrust him into the niche.
“If you try to get out of there, you’re a dead man,” said Quentin.
This done, he put on the watchman’s hat, seized his pike and lantern, and walked slowly toward the bridge gate.
There were two men there, members of the guardia civil.
“There! There he goes,” Quentin said to them, pointing toward the meadow of El Corregidor.
The two men began to run in the indicated direction. Quentin went through the bridge gate, threw the lantern and the pike to the ground, and began to run desperately. He kept hearing the whistles of the watchmen; when he saw a lantern, he slipped through some alley and fairly flew along. At last he was able to reach El Cuervo’s tavern, where he knocked frantically upon the door.
“Who is it?” came from within.
“I, Quentin. They’re chasing me.”
El Cuervo opened the door, and lifted his lantern to Quentin’s face to make sure of his identity.
“All right. Come in. Take the light.”
Quentin took the lantern, and the innkeeper slid a couple of formidable-looking bolts into place.
“Now give me the lantern, and follow me.”
El Cuervo crossed the tavern, came out into a dirty courtyard, opened a little door, and, followed by Quentin, began to climb a narrow stairway which was decorated with cobwebs. They must have reached the height of the second story when the innkeeper stopped, fastened the lantern to a beam on the wall, and holding on to some beam ends that were sticking from the wall, climbed up to a high garret.
“Let me have the lantern,” said El Cuervo.
“Here it is.”
“Now, you come up.”
The garret was littered with laths and rubbish. El Cuervo, crouching low, went to one end of it, where he put out the light, slid between two beams that scarcely looked as if they would permit the passage of a man, and disappeared. Quentin, not without a great effort, did the same, and found himself upon the ridge of a roof.
“Do you see that garret?” said El Cuervo.
“Yes.”
“Well, go over to it, keeping always on this side; push the window, which will give way, and enter; go down four or five steps; find a door; open it with this key, and you will be in your room—safer than the King of Spain.”
“How about getting out?”
“You will be notified.”
“And eating?”
“Your meals will be sent to you. When Se?or José gets back, he’ll come to see you.”
“Good; give me the key.”
“Here it is. Adiós, and good luck.”
The innkeeper disappeared whence he had come. Quentin, following the example of a cat, went tearing across the tiles.
From that height he could see the city, caressed by the silver light of the moon. Through the silence of the night came the murmuring of the river. In the background, far above the roofs of the town, he could make out the dark shadow of Sierra Morena, with its white orchards bathed in the bluish light, its great bulk silhouetted against the sky, and veiled by a light mist.
Quentin reached the attic, pushed open the window, descended the stairs as he had been told, opened the door, lit a match, and had scarcely done so when he heard a shriek of terror. Quentin dropped the match in his fright. There was some one in the garret!
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Oh, sir,” replied a cracked voice, “for God’s sake don’t harm me.”
When Quentin saw that he was being begged for help, he realized that there was no danger, so he lit another match, and with it, a lamp. By the light of this, he saw a woman sitting up in a bed, her head covered with curlpapers.
“Have no fear, Se?ora,” said Quentin; “I must have made a mistake and entered the wrong room.”
“Well, if that is the case, why don’t you go?”
“The fact is, I’m surprised that it should be so. This was the only garret in the roof. Would you like an explanation? El Cuervo, the landlord of yonder corner tavern, told me to come here; that this was his garret.”
“Well, I came here because José Pacheco brought me.”
“Pacheco?”
“Yes.”
“Then, this is the right garret.”
“Do you know Pacheco?” asked the woman.
“He is a good friend of mine. Do you know him too?”
“Yes, sir. He is my lover,” sighed the woman. Quentin felt an overpowering desire to laugh.
“Then, my lady,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I am pursued by the police, and cannot leave this place.”
“Nor can I, my good sir, permit you to remain in my bedroom.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go and sleep outside.”
“Where? Upon the roof? You don’t know what kind of a night it is.”
“You are not very gallant, Se?or.”
“Pneumonia would be less gallant with me, Se?ora.”
“Do you think that I am going to allow you to remain in this room all night?”
“See here, Se?ora, I’m not by any means trying to violate you. Allow me to take a mattress, and stretch out upon the floor.”
“Impossible.”
“If you are afraid, leave the lamp lit. Furthermore, for your better tranquillity, and as a means of defence for your honour, I hand you these two pistols. They are loaded,” said Quentin, as he cautiously unloaded them.
“Very well, then; I agree,” replied the woman.
Quentin took a mattress, spread it upon the floor, and threw himself upon it.
“Woe unto you, Se?or,” said the woman in a terrible voice, “if you dare to take any undue liberties.”
Quentin, who was tired, began in a very few minutes to snore like a water-carrier. The woman sat up in bed and scrutinized him closely.
“Oh! What an unpoetic person!” she murmured.
When Quentin awoke and found himself in the room, where a ray of light poured in through a high, closed window, he got up to open it. The poetic woman at that moment was snoring, with a pistol clasped in her fingers.
Quentin opened the window, and as he did so, he discovered that a cord was attached to the window lock. He jerked it, found that it was heavy, and pulled it toward him until a covered basket appeared.
“Here’s breakfast,” announced Quentin.
And sure enough; inside was a roast chicken, bread, a bottle of wine, and rolled in the napkin, a paper upon which was written in huge letters:
“Do not come out; they are still hanging around the street.”
Quentin threw the basket out of the window, and lowered it the full length of the string. He was preparing to eat his breakfast with a good appetite, when the woman opened her eyes.
“Good morning, Se?ora,” said Quentin. “They have sent me my breakfast. I’ll treat if you wish. I’ll go out for a stroll on the roof, and meanwhile, you can be dressing yourself. Then, if you would like to heat the food....”
“Oh, no. No cooking,” replied she. “I feel very ill.”
“Well, then; we’ll eat the chicken cold.”
Quentin went out on the roof. He took out his pencil and notebook, and busied himself writing an article for La Víbora.
When he had finished, he went back to the garret.
“I’m not dressed yet,” said the woman.
Quentin returned to the roof; wrote two selections for the paper, one insulting the Government and the other the Mayor; then he crawled about the roof. On an azotea some distance away, a girl was arranging some flower pots. Probably she was pretty.... Quentin drew near to watch her.
He was surprised in this espionage by Pacheco, who came on all fours along the ridge pole.
“Good day, comrade,” said Pacheco.
“Hello, my friend.”
“I must congratulate you, comrade; what you did yesterday is one of the funniest things I ever heard of.”
“Who told you about it?”
“Why, they talk of nothing else in the whole town! This morning, some were still betting that your corpse was at the bottom of the river, and they went out in boats; but instead of the fish they expected to catch, they pulled out a rock wrapped in a cloak. All Cordova is laughing at the affair. You certainly were a good one.”
“But listen, comrade,” said Quentin, pointing to the garret, “what kind of a lark have you in that cage?”
“Ah! That’s true! It’s a crazy woman. She says she’s in love with me, and in order to get rid of her, I brought her to this place, where she can’t bother me.”
“How did she get here? Along the roofs, too?”
“Yes; disguised as a man. In her pantaloons she had a look about her that was enough to make you want to kick her in the stomach and throw her into the courtyard.”
“Very well, then; let’s go to the garret, where breakfast is waiting. The thing I hate about this, comrade, is not being able to get out.”
“Well, it’s impossible now; the police have their eyes peeled.”
“And haven’t they tried to arrest you, my friend?”
“Me? They can’t do it.... I have a pack of bloodhounds that can smell from here everything that goes on in the other end of Cordova. Just give one of them a message, and he tears through the atmosphere faster than a greyhound.”
They knocked at the garret.
“I’m not dressed yet,” came from within.
“Come, Se?ora,” exclaimed Quentin. “You are abusing my appetite. If you don’t want to open the door, give me the basket. I warn you, Pacheco is here.”
When she heard this, the woman opened the door and threw herself into the arms of the bandit. She had her hair crimped, covered with little bow knots, and was wearing a white wrapper.
Quentin took the basket.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you two alone if you wish.”
“No!” exclaimed Pacheco in terror; then turning to the woman, he added: “This gentleman and I have some important matters to discuss. We are gambling with life.”
“First we’ll eat a little,” said Quentin. “That’s an idea for you.”
“An alimentary one.”
They divided the chicken.
“And do they say in town who it was that ordered them to pursue me?” asked Quentin.
“Everybody knows that it was La Aceitunera,” answered Pacheco. “You insisted upon discrediting her, but she grew strong under the punishment, and wants no more stings from La Víbora. Then, so they say, as she seemed no mere stack of straw to the Governor, she allowed herself to be flirted with, and begged him to throw you into jail, and to stop your paper.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“It will be done. He does what he wants here,” replied the bandit. “You already know what they say in Cordova: ‘Charity in El Potro, Health in the cemetery, and Truth in the fields.’”
“Then we’ll go into the fields to look for it,” said Quentin.
“Not that”—answered Pacheco. “I won’t allow you to lose out; but if you want to give that woman a good scare....”
“Have you thought of some way?”
“Not yet; are you capable of doing something on a large scale?”
“I am capable of anything, comrade.”
“Good. Wait for me until tonight.”
“Very well,” said Quentin. “Will you take these papers to the printer for me?”
“What are they?”
“Poison for La Víbora, or articles, if you like that better.”
“Give them to me. I’ll be here at seven.” Then the bandit, turning to the woman, said: “Adiós, my soul!”
“Won’t you stay a little while, José?” she asked.
“No. Life is too short,” he answered gruffly, and went out through the attic window.
THE woman and Quentin were left alone.
“If you don’t want me to stay here,” said Quentin—“tell me so.”
“Do you hate me so much for last night?” she said.
“I? No, Se?ora; but since this chamber is so narrow that one can scarcely move in it, you must let me know if I’m in your way.”
“No; you’re not in my way.”
Quentin seated himself upon a chair, took out his note book and pencil, and made up his mind to attempt one of the most disagreeable and difficult things in the world for him—making verses. Not by any chance did a consonance occur to him, nor did a single verse come out with the right number of feet, unless he counted them upon his fingers.
The good woman, with her crimped hair covered with little bow-knots, and her white wrapper, was contemplating the roof of the garret with desperate weariness.
Thus they remained for a long time. Suddenly the woman exclaimed in a choked voice:
“Se?or!”
“What is it, Se?ora?”
“I seem very ridiculous in your eyes, do I not?”
“No, Se?ora,—why?” asked Quentin, and mumbled to himself: “nude, crude, stewed, conclude—No, they don’t seem to come very easily.”
“I am very unhappy, Se?or.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Se?ora?” and Quentin went on mumbling: “rude, gratitude, fortitude.... No, they do not come easily.”
“Will you listen to me, my good sir? At present you alone can advise me.”
“Speak, Se?ora, I am all ears,” answered Quentin, shutting his note book, and putting away his pencil.
The woman heaved a deep sigh, and began as follows:
“I, my good sir, am called Gumersinda Monleón. My father was a soldier, and I spent my childhood in Seville. I was an only child, and very much spoiled. My parents satisfied every caprice of mine that was within their means. It was ‘Sinda’ here, and ‘Sinda’ there—as they had abbreviated my name.... As I imagined myself at that time to be a somewhat exceptional person, and believed that I was out of my proper sphere in the modest home of my parents, I took up reading romantic novels, and I think I was by way of having my head turned by them.
“I lived with all the personages of my books; it seemed to me that all I had to do was to reach Paris and ask the first gendarme for Guillaboara, and he would immediately give me her address, or at least, that of her father, Prince Rudolf of Gerolstein.
“With my head full of mysteries, bandits, and black doctors, a suitor came to me—a rich young man who was owner of a fan-making establishment. I dismissed him several times, but he came back, and, with the influence of my parents, he succeeded in getting me to marry him. He was a saint, a veritable saint; I know it now; but I considered him a commonplace person, incapable of lifting himself to higher spheres above the prosaic details of the store.
“After we had been married two years, he died, and I became a widow of some thirty-odd years and a considerable fortune; not to mention the fan-making establishment which I inherited from my husband. A young widow with money, and not at all bad looking, I had many suitors, from among whom I chose an army captain, because he wrote me such charming letters. Later I found out that he had copied them from a novel by Alfonso Karr that was appearing in the feuilleton of Las Novedades. Handsome, with a fine appearance, my second husband’s name was Miguel Estirado. But, my God, what a life he led me! Then I learned to realize what my poor Monleón had been to me.
“Estirado had a perfectly devilish humor. If we made a call upon any one, and the maid asked us who we were, he would say: ‘Se?or Estirado and his wife,’ and if the girl smiled, he would insult her in the coarsest way.
“After six months of married life, my husband quit the active service and retired to take care of the store. Estirado had no military spirit; he sold the gold braid from his uniform, and put his sword away in a corner. One day the servant girl used it to clean out the closet, and after doing so, left it there. When I saw it, I felt like weeping. I grasped the sword by the hilt, which was the only place I could take hold of it, and showing it to my husband, said: ‘Look at the condition your sword is in that you used in defence of your country.’ He insulted me, clutching his nose cynically, and told me to get out; that he cared nothing for his sword, nor for his country, and for me to leave him in peace. From that day I realized that all was over between us.
“Shortly after that Estirado dismissed an old clerk who used to work in the store, and hired two sisters in his place: Asunción and Natividad.
“Six months later, Asunción had to leave and spend a few months at a small village. She came back with a little baby. Not long after her return the trip was repeated.
“They talked of nothing else in the whole neighbourhood. On account of the attitude of the two sisters toward me, I dared not go down to the store, and they did just about as they pleased.
“One day, after six years, my husband disappeared, taking Natividad, the younger sister, with him. The other girl, Asunción, brought this news to me with her four children hanging on her arm; and she told me a romantic tale about her mother, who was a drunkard, and about her sweetheart. She reminded me of Fleur de Marie, in ‘The Mysteries of Paris,’ and of Fantine, in ‘Les Miserables;’ so I comforted her as best I could—what else was I to do? Time passed, and Estirado began to write and ask me for money; then the letters ceased, and after half a year my husband wrote a letter saying that Natividad had run away from him, that he was seriously ill in a boarding house in Madrid, and for Asunción and me to come to take care of him. I realized that it was not honourable, nor Christian, nor right, but at the same time I gave in, and we, his wife and sweetheart, went and took care of him until he died. At his death I granted a pension to the girl, left Seville, and came to live in Cordova. That is the story of my life.”
“Se?ora, I think you were a saint,” said Quentin. “What astounds me is how, after such an apprenticeship, you managed to get mixed up in this adventure.”
“Well, you see I did not learn by experience. I met Pacheco one day in the country, when he entered my farm. He reminded me of a novel by Fernández y Gonzáles. We spoke together; his life fascinated me; I wrote to him; he answered my letter, assuredly through civility; my head was filled with madness, even to the point of disguising myself as a man and following him.”
“Fortunately, Se?ora, you have encountered extremely trustworthy persons,” said Quentin, “who will not abuse your faith.”
“What advice do you give me?”
“Why something very simple. Tonight Pacheco and I shall probably leave here. You must come with us; we’ll leave you at your house; and that will be an end to the adventure.”
“That’s true. It’s the best thing.”
“Now let’s see,” said Quentin, “if El Cuervo has put any ballast in the basket.”
He climbed upon a chair and opened the window.
“It’s heavy,” said he, jerking the cord; “ergo, there are provisions. Cheer up, Do?a Sinda,” he added, “and get the table ready.”
AT nightfall Quentin went out on the roof, stretched his spine along the ridge, and waited for Pacheco. The Cathedral clock was striking eight, when the bandit appeared, making his way toward the garret on all fours.
“Hey!” called Quentin.
“What is it? Is it you?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you waiting outside for me?”
“So we can talk without that woman hearing what we say. I have persuaded her to go home peaceably.”
“Very good. But listen, comrade; I’ve got a plan ready for something worth while.”
“I’m with you in everything. What have you thought of?”
“Of kidnapping La Aceitunera tonight.”
“But can it be done?”
“Absolutely. The Countess is going to the theatre. She will go in her carriage as usual, and if Cabra Periquito Gálvez doesn’t show up to accompany her, she will go home alone in her carriage. If Periquito does show up, and does go with her, we won’t do a thing; if she is alone, why, we’ll steal her away.”
“That’s all very well; but how?”
“First of all, I’ll see to it that the coachman gets drunk so I can take his place; meanwhile, you go to the theatre, make sure that she is alone, then station yourself on the sidewalk opposite the lobby, and stay there quietly; if she comes out escorted, you light a match as if you were about to smoke—understand?”
“Where will you be then?”
“On the box. If the Countess is escorted, why, I’ll take her home, and we’ll leave the matter for another day. If she is alone, I’ll trot the horses as far as the Campo de la Merced, where I’ll stop; you get on—and away we go!”
“Very good. You’re a wonder, comrade! But let’s look coldly at the inconveniences.”
“Out with them.”
“First of all, the departure from this place. They are still hanging around the street, according to El Cuervo.”
“Ah, but do you think I am such an idiot as to go out through El Cuervo’s tavern? Ca, man!”
“No?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, where, then?”
“You’ll see.”
“Good. That solves the first problem: second, I have to go to the theatre to see if the Countess is alone, and people know me; if one of the police....”
“Nothing will happen. Take this ticket. Steal in when the performance has begun, and go upstairs, open one of the top boxes which are usually empty, and if the usher comes in, give him a peseta. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Good. Now we’ll tell the woman, and be on our way. Shall we have supper first?” asked Quentin.
“No; we must have clear heads. We’ll have supper at the El Pino farm, or—in jail.”
“You’ve spoken like a man. Let’s go.”
They entered the garret.
“Do?a Sinda,” said Quentin, “we are going to crawl about the roof a bit.”
“Wait a moment, comrade,” said Pacheco. “They won’t do anything to me; but if they see you, they’ll tie you up,” and as he spoke, he opened a wardrobe, took out a grey cloak, a kerchief, and a broad-brimmed hat.
“Who’s that for?”
“For you.”
Pacheco made a bundle of the things, and said:
“Hurry! I’ll go first, then the Se?ora, and then you, Quentin.”
They formed themselves in single file and began to move. The night was dark, threatening a storm; distant flashes of lightning illuminated the heavens from time to time.
Do?a Sinda moved slowly and painfully.
“Come, Se?ora, come,” said Quentin; “we are near you.”
“My hands and knees hurt me,” she murmured. “If I could only walk on my feet.”
“You can’t do it,” said Pacheco. “You would fall into a courtyard.”
“Ay, dear me! I’m not going a step farther.”
“We’re going as far as that azotea.”
Do?a Sinda yielded; they crawled along the ridge of a long roof, and came out upon the azotea. They leaped the balustrade.
“Oh, dear! I’m going to stay here!” exclaimed Do?a Sinda.
“But my dear woman, it’s only a little farther,” said Quentin.
“Well, I won’t budge.”
“Very well then, we’ll go on alone,” said Pacheco.
“Are we going to leave her here?” asked Quentin.
The bandit shrugged his shoulders, and without more ado, leaped over the balustrade again. Quentin followed him, and the two men rapidly covered a great distance.
“Now be careful,” warned Pacheco. “We’ve got to go around this cornice until we reach that window.”
It was a stone border about half a metre wide. At the end of it they could see a little illuminated balcony window, which as it threw the light against the wall, made the cornice look as if it were on the brink of a deep abyss. They went along very carefully on all fours, one behind the other. As they reached the balcony, Pacheco seized the balustrade and jumped upon the stairway. Quentin followed his example.
“Do you know, comrade,” remarked Quentin, “that this is scary business?”
“Then too, that light is enough to drive you crazy. In the daytime it doesn’t scare you at all to come over it. Now then, put on your cloak and the other tackle.”
Quentin tied his kerchief about his head, put on the hat, wrapped himself in the cloak and the two men descended the stairs into a garden. Crossing this, they came out upon the street.
“What is this building?” asked Quentin.
“It is a convent,” replied the bandit. “Now, we mustn’t go together any more. You come along about twenty or thirty paces behind me.”
Quentin followed him at a distance, and after traversing several intricate alleys, they came out upon the Plaza de Séneca, and from there upon the Calle de Ambrosio de Morales, where the theatre was. A gas light illuminated the door, scarcely lessening the shadows of the street. The play had not yet begun. Pacheco entered a near-by shop, and Quentin followed him.
“You stay here,” said the bandit, “and when everybody has gone in, you follow. I’m going to the Countess’ house.”
People were crowding into the theatre; two or three carriages drove up; several whole families came along, with a sprinkling of artisans. When he no longer saw anyone in the lobby, Quentin left the little shop, entered the theatre, relinquished his ticket, climbed the stairs with long strides until he reached the top floor, and when he saw the usher, handed him a peseta.
The usher opened the door of a box.
“How is Se?or José?” he asked.
“Well.”
“He’s a fine fellow.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’ve known him for a long time; not that I am from Ecija exactly, for I come from a little village near Montilla; I don’t know if you’ve heard its name....”
“See here,” said Quentin, “I came here because I am a relative of the actor who takes old men’s parts, and I am interested in hearing the performance and seeing how he acts; if you talk to me, I won’t be able to hear anything.”
“Gonzáles? Are you a relative of Gonzáles?”
“Of Gonzáles, or Martínez, or the devil! Take another peseta, and leave me alone, for I’m going to see what kind of an actor my relative makes.”
“He’s a good comedian.”
“Very well, very well,” said Quentin, and pushing the garrulous usher into the aisle, he closed the door.
As there was scarcely any light up there, no one could recognize Quentin. The theatre was almost empty; they were giving a lachrymose melodrama in which appeared an angelic priest, a colonel who kept shouting “By a thousand bombs!” a traitor money-lender with crooked eyes who confessed his evil intentions in asides, a heroine, a hero, and a company of sailors and sailoresses, policemen, magistrates, and others of the proletariat....
While Quentin was being bored in his heights, Pacheco, leaning against the wall of La Aceitunera’s house, was awaiting the return of her carriage from the theatre.
He did not have long to wait. The horses stopped before the gate, and before it could be opened, the bandit approached the coachman and said:
“Hello, Se?or Antonio!”
“Hello, Se?or José!”
“I want to talk with you a moment.”
“What about?”
“About some horses I am ordered to buy, and as you know so much....”
“I’ll be right out.”
The house gate opened, the coachman drove his carriage inside, and in a few moments rejoined Pacheco.
He was a talkative and gay little man.
“Let’s go somewhere and have a little wine with our talk,” suggested the bandit. “You’ve got time?”
“I’m free until eleven-thirty.”
“It’s nine, now.”
They went into a tavern where Pacheco explained to his friend how the horses must be. The matter must have been arduous and difficult, for the coachman lost himself in a labyrinth of endless equinal considerations. The bandit kept filling and refilling his glass for him as he drank.
“Man,” said Pacheco, “today I was taken to a tavern where there was a superior wine that you can’t find anywhere else.”
“Really?”
“I should say so. Would you like to go and see if we can find it?”
“Well, you see I’ve got to go at eleven-thirty.”
“There’s more than time enough.”
“All right; let me know when it’s eleven o’clock.”
“Certainly, don’t you worry. Do you have to go back and get the Se?ora?”
“Yes.”
“And harness up the horses again?”
“No. I left them harnessed. When I get back from the theatre, I go through the gate, turn the carriage around in the patio, and leave it in the entryway facing the street,—see? Then I go, open the gate, and I’m off.”
Pacheco conducted the coachman through side streets to El Cuervo’s tavern.
“But where is that tavern, my friend?” asked the little old man.
“Right here.”
They went into the tavern.
“Bring me wine—the best you have,” said Pacheco, winking at El Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought a large jar and filled the glasses. The coachman smelled the wine, tasted it slowly, relished it; then he smacked his lips, and emptied the glass in one gulp.
“What wine!” he murmured.
“Don’t you think it’s a little bit strong?”
“Well, that’s a good kind of a fault to have, comrade!”
Pacheco got up and said to El Cuervo:
“You’ve got to keep this fellow interested.”
El Mochuelo and Cantarote, the gipsy, came over to Pacheco’s table with the pretext that there was no light where they had been sitting, and began to play cards.
“Would you like to play?” said Cantarote to Pacheco.
“No, thanks.”
“And you?” the gipsy asked of the coachman.
“I? To tell the truth, I’ve got something to do. What time is it?”
“A quarter past ten,” said El Cuervo.
“All right, I’ll play a hand.”
“After all, what have you got to do?” asked Pacheco. “Just knock till they open the gate, and then climb up on the box....”
“No, I’ve got the key to the gate here,” remarked the coachman, patting his vest pocket.
Pacheco looked at Cantarote, and made a gesture with his hand as if he were picking up something. Cantarote lowered his eyelids as a sign that he had understood, and with the utmost neatness put his hand into the old man’s vest, took out the key, and, holding his cards in his left hand, handed it to Pacheco behind the coachman’s back.
The bandit got up.
“Let me have a cap,” he said to El Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought one.
“Keep him busy for an hour.”
This said, Pacheco hurried to the Countess’ house, opened wide the gate, climbed to the box, and drove the carriage outside; then he closed the gate, climbed back again, and took his place near the theatre.
From his hiding-place, Quentin had discovered something curious and worthy of note. In one of the boxes near the curtain was the Countess, alone, with her back to the stage, and gazing at some one through her glasses. Quentin followed her look, and by bending low and leaning his body over the box, he discovered that the box at which she was directing her glances was occupied by the Governor and two other persons; but the Countess also looked elsewhere: toward a parquette where there were a toreador and several young gentlemen.
“Which is she looking at?” Quentin asked himself. “Is it the Governor, or the toreador?”
The Countess rested her opera glasses absently upon the railing of the box.
“Perhaps she isn’t looking at any one,” thought Quentin.
On the stage, they were spilling an ocean of tears: the priest, with his snow-white hair, saying, “My children” everywhere he went, was busy making his fellows happy.
The Countess cast an absent-minded glance at the stage, picked up her glasses, and took aim.
“It’s the Governor,” said Quentin.
The woman’s glasses were lowered a bit, and he had to correct himself.
“It’s the toreador,” he remarked.
After many vacillations, Quentin realized that the Countess was playing with two stacks of cards, and was dividing her glances between the First Authority of the province, and the young toreador, so recently arrived in cultured society from a butcher shop in the district of El Matadero.
The Governor, very serious, very much be-gloved, looked at the woman; the little toreador, with his foot on the parquette rail, preened himself and smiled, showing the white teeth of a healthy animal.
At the beginning of the last act, the toreador, who had been concealed behind the curtains of the parquette, appeared with a square piece of paper that looked like a note in his hand; he showed it cautiously, and twisted it about his fingers.
Presently the woman, looking at the stage, nodded her head in the affirmative.
The play was about to come to an end; every one on the stage, from the priest and the two turtle-doves to the colonel—by a thousand bombs!—was happy; only, he of the crooked eyes had been seized by the police at the height of his evil machinations. Quentin opened his box, descended the stairs by leaps and bounds, and took up his post opposite the entrance to the theatre. Fat drops of rain commenced to fall, and the thunder kept grumbling overhead. There were two carriages at the door of the theatre. Pacheco was not in the first, and Quentin could not tell whether he was in the second one or not.
The audience began to come out of the theatre; when they saw the heavy rain drops that spattered the sidewalk, some hesitated to leave, then they made up their minds and began to hurry along, pressing close to the walls of the houses.
A fat lady with her escort entered the first carriage, and drove off toward the Plaza de Séneca. The second carriage drew up. Pacheco was on the box. He and Quentin glanced at each other. Everything was going splendidly.
Just then the Countess appeared in the lobby of the theatre wrapped in a white cape; she opened the door of the carriage and climbed rapidly into it. Behind her appeared the toreador, and as the carriage was about to move off, he held out his hand and threw a note through the window.
Pacheco clucked to the horses, and the carriage started up the street toward the confluence of the Calle del Arco Real and the Cuesta de Luján. Quentin started off rapidly in the direction of the Campo de la Merced; he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, fearing all the while that he might meet some watchman who would recognize him. When he reached the appointed place he was played out. He waited, soaked in a torrential downpour. Before long, a carriage came in sight and stopped before him. Quentin opened the door and stood upon the step. A woman screamed shrilly. Quentin closed the carriage door; there came two tremendous cracks of a whip; and the coach moved off through the rain and obscurity, drawn by the horses at a full gallop....
“BUT good heavens! What is it?—Who are you?—” cried the Countess, trembling.
“Don’t be alarmed, Se?ora,” said Quentin. “We have no idea of harming you.”
“What do you want of me? I have no money with me.”
“We are not looking for money.”
“Then what do you want?”
“We’ll tell you that later. Have a little patience.”
Several moments passed in the carriage without the woman saying a word. She was huddled motionless against a window.
After some time had elapsed, the horses moderated their pace, one could hear the rain on the cover of the carriage. Suddenly Quentin heard the door-fastening rattle.
“Don’t be foolish, my lady,” he said rudely. “And don’t try to escape. It will be dangerous.”
“This violence may cost you dear,” murmured the Countess.
“Most assuredly. We men are prepared for anything.”
“But if you don’t want my money, what do you want? Tell me, and let us bring this affair to a close at once.”
“That is a secret that does not belong to me.”
“But, sir,” exclaimed the woman—“I’ll give you anything you want if you will only take me home.”
At this moment a flash of lightning violently illumined the night, and the Countess and Quentin were enabled to see each other’s faces in the spectral light. Then came a thunderclap as loud as a cannon shot.
“Oh, my God!” gasped the Countess as she devoutly crossed herself.
Quentin felt a tremor run through him at the sight of the woman’s terror, and said to her:
“My dear lady, do not let us cause you any alarm. Please rest assured that we have no intention of harming you. I rather think that the man on the box is some gentleman who is in love with you, and not being able in any other way to attain good fortune, is abducting you in this manner.”
Quentin’s accent, his gallant meaning in those circumstances must have surprised the Countess, as she made no answer.
“Don’t you think so?” said Quentin. “Don’t you believe that this is a matter of some one courting you?”
“It’s a fine way to court,” she replied.
“All ways are good if they come out right.”
“Do you believe that this method of treating a lady can come out right?”
“Why not? Other more difficult things have been seen in the world, and they do say that women like the novel.”
“Well, I don’t like it a bit.”
“Are you so prosaic that you are not enchanted by the thought of meeting soon a young, good-looking, respectful abductor who offers you his heart and life?”
“No, I am not enchanted. What is more, if I could send that abductor to prison I would do so with much pleasure.”
“You know that love is intrepid and....”
Quentin was silent. He thought of the poem written by Cornejo for La Víbora.
“I don’t know why,” said the woman at length, “but it seems to me that I am beginning to realize who my abductor is. It strikes me that he is a half-relative of mine who dislikes me very much. A waif....”
“I think you are getting warm, my lady.”
“Who writes insults and calumnies about a woman who has never offended him.”
“You are not quite so near the point, there. Listen: The day before yesterday, that relative of yours was rushing madly about these God-forsaken streets, hounded by a dozen men; on a night that was as cold as the devil, he was on the point of throwing himself into the river and scraping an acquaintance with the shad that live in it.”
“So you are Quentin?”
“I am the lady’s most humble servant.”
“How you frightened me! I shall never forgive you for this night.”
“Nor will I forgive you for the one I spent the day before yesterday.”
“Where is my coachman? Is he on the box?”
“No, my lady.”
“Where is he?”
“He is conveniently drunk in a tavern on the Calle del Potro.”
“Then who is driving the carriage?”
“Pacheco.”
“Pacheco! The bandit?”
“In person. In all ways a gentleman, and whom I shall have the pleasure of presenting to you tonight as soon as we reach the farm where we are to stop.”
“What are you two going to do with me there?”
“We shall think it over.”
“I believe you intend to kill me....”
“Kill you?—Nothing of the sort. We shall entertain you; you will take rides over the mountain; you’ll get a trifle brown—Besides, we are doing you a great favour.”
“Doing me a favour? What is it?”
“Keeping you from answering that little toreador who had the presumption to send you a note.”
“To send me a note?”
“Yes, my lady; you. As you came out of the theatre. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“It must be true if you saw it.”
“Of course it is! In the first place, that toreador is a stupid good-for-nothing who would go about boasting that you looked upon him with sympathy, and that....”
“Enough, or I’ll even have to thank you for bringing me here.”
“And it’s true.”
The Countess was growing calmer and less timid with every minute.
“How many days are you going to keep me kidnapped?” she asked rather jovially.
“As many as you wish. When you get too bored, we’ll take you back to Cordova. Then, if you still bear us a grudge, you may denounce us.”
“And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t, then you will permit us to come to call some day.”
“We’ll see how you act.”
Just then the carriage stopped. Quentin prepared to get down, and said to the woman:
“I don’t know what Pacheco wants. Perhaps he’s tired of riding on the box.”
“Don’t leave me alone with him,” murmured the Countess.
“Never fear; Pacheco is absolutely a gentleman, and will take no undue liberties....”
“That makes no difference.”
“Then I shall tell him of your wish. If you want to be alone, tell me, and I’ll ride on the box.”
“No, no: I prefer you to ride with me.”
Pacheco jumped down from the box, and coming up to Quentin, said:
“It seems to me that I have done my duty like a man, and that it’s your turn to take my place on the box.”
“That’s what I think. Come, I’m going to present you to the Countess.”
Quentin opened the carriage door and said:
“Countess, this is my friend.”
“Good evening, Pacheco.”
“A very good evening to you, my lady.”
“How tired you are making yourselves on my account!”
“Se?ora Condesa!” stammered the bandit in confusion.
“You are very nice,” she added graciously.
“You are most flattering,” replied Pacheco.
“No; you two are the flatterers!”
“But are you sorry, my lady?” asked Pacheco gravely.
“I!—On the contrary; I am having a very good time.”
“That’s better, my lady. You mustn’t be afraid; if you order me to, we’ll go back this minute.”
The Countess considered for a moment, and then cried gayly:
“No; let us go on. We’ll go wherever you wish. You stay with me, Quentin, for I want to talk to you.”
Again Pacheco climbed to the box, clucked to the horses, and the carriage went on its way. It was beginning to clear up; here and there a patch of star-sprinkled sky appeared between the great, black clouds.
“He seems like a fine fellow,” said the Countess, who was now completely at her ease, when she and Quentin were alone.
“Do not deceive yourself; there are only two places where true gentlemen can be found: in the mountains, or in prison.”
“How awful!” she cried.
“That is the way the two extremes meet,” he went on. “When a man is a great, a very great rascal, and utterly disregards the ideas of the people and everything else, he has reached the point where the bandit is joining hands with the gentleman.”
“See here, Sir Bandit,” said the Countess easily, “why did you take this dislike to me, and put me in the papers? Because I said that Rafaela was a hussy, and that she had married Juan de Dios for his money?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Did I not speak the truth?”
“It is true that she married; but it was not because she wished it, nor because she was ambitious to be rich, but because the family made her.”
“You should laugh at that idea, my friend!” replied the Countess. “Not that the girl isn’t docile! When a woman does not care to marry a man, she simply doesn’t marry him.... Of course, you were after her cash.”
“I?—Ca!”
“I don’t know why, but I think I see through you. You are very ambitious, and with all those foolish deeds of yours, you are only trying to fish for something. You cannot deceive me.”
“Well, you are wrong,” said Quentin. “I, ambitious? I covet nothing.”
“Tell that to your grandfather, not to me. You are very ambitious, and she is a very romantic damsel, but very close with her money. If you two had married, a fine disappointment you would have had!... And she liked you, believe me; but as you were not a marquis, or a duke, but a poor son of a shop-keeper, she would have nothing to do with you.”
Quentin felt deeply mortified by the phrase, and fell silent. Presently she burst into gracious laughter.
“What are you laughing at?” said Quentin, piqued.
“With all your boasting, you are worth less than I am: all your cravings are for things that are not worth while. I don’t mind it in the least when they call me La Aceitunera, but you, on the other hand, are utterly cast down because I called you the son of a shop-keeper.”
“Yes, that’s true,” assented Quentin ingenuously.
“And why is it true, my friend?” asked the Countess. “Why, we of the proletariat are worth more than dukes and marquises, with all their ceremonies and fripperies. Where is the salt of the earth? Among the masses.... Why am I what I am? Because I married that bell-ox of an uncle of yours. The ambitions of my family annoyed me; they filled my head with titles and grandeurs; it’s one and the same thing whether you are a duke’s son, or the daughter of an olive merchant like me, or the son of an importer, like you.”
The Countess was growing in Quentin’s eyes. The sincere contempt that she felt for aristocratic things, seemed to him to be a stroke of superiority. As far as the question of birth, and family, and social position was concerned, Quentin was peevishly susceptible; and though he concealed these sentiments as best he could, they were often clearly apparent in him.
The Countess realized that this was one of Quentin’s vulnerable spots, and took delight in wounding him.
“They must sell a great many things in that store. It is a beautiful shop, very large and....”
“My dear lady,” said Quentin comically, when the annoyance that the woman’s words cost him commenced to take on an ironical and gay character—“You are very sarcastic, but I realize that you have a right to be.”
“So, you realize it?”
“Yes, my lady; and if you keep it up, I shall beg Pacheco to take my place in this delicate mission.”
“I will not allow you to leave me,” said the Countess mockingly.
“Well, if this turns out to be a long journey, I shall be found dead on the bottom of the coach.”
“Dead! From what, Quentin?”
“From the pin pricks you are giving me right square in the heart. You are about to remind me for the fifth time that the chocolate we make in the store is adulterated.... I know you are.”
“No, I’ve said nothing about it.”
“Then you are going to talk to me about the coffee which is mixed with chicory, and then, eventually, and in order to complete the offence, you will bring my step-father’s nickname before my eyes.”
“El Pende—that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady that is what they call him.”
“Well, to show you that I am more generous than you think me, I shall not mention it again. Henceforth you shall guard the secret of my olives, as I will guard the secret of your spices. Tell me: Is it true that you have a good voice?”
“For Heaven’s sake! What are you trying to do, my lady? Have pity and compassion on a poor little chap like me.”
“Go on, please sing.”
Quentin hummed the swaggering song from “Rigoletto”:
“Questa o quella per me pari sono.”
“But sing out loud,” said the Countess.
Quentin sang with his full voice:
“La costanza tiranna del core
detestiamo qual morbo crudele
sol chi vuole si servi fedele
non v’ha amor se non v’é libertá.”
And this last phrase, which Quentin launched forth with real enthusiasm, echoed in the damp and tepid night air....
“Is that a song of circumstances?” said the Countess with a laugh.
“Yes, my lady,” answered Quentin, without fully understanding what she meant.
“Listen ... another thing. Why don’t you make love to Remedios?”
“To Remedios! She is only a child.”
“She’s fourteen. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“That’s just right.”
“Yes, but how about the groceries?”
“She would overlook that. Believe me, that child has a soul. My husband’s older daughter is good, I won’t deny it, but she is a cold thing. Just as she married Juan de Dios, she would have married any one, and she will be faithful to him, as she would to any one else, because she hasn’t the courage to do otherwise; but not so with the little one, she’s full of it.”
Quentin recalled the two sisters and thought that perhaps the Countess was right. With the memory, he fell silent for a long time.
“Well,” said the Countess, “if you continue this silence, it will seem as if I were the one who is abducting you, and that doesn’t suit me. Why, just think if one of those verse-scribbling penny-a-liners should find out about this! They would paint me green.”
“I’ll not say another thing against you, my lady, because....”
“Because why, my friend? What were you going to say?”
“Nothing; I’ll say that you are one of the most....”
“One of the most what?”
“One of the most—but here we are at the farm.”
And Quentin opened the carriage door.
“I thought you were a braver man than that,” said the Countess.
The carriage stopped and Quentin jumped to the muddy road. It was beginning to rain again.
“Can’t you get the carriage closer to the house?” Quentin asked Pacheco.
“Take hold of the bridle of one of the horses. That’s it.”
“Shall I knock here?”
“Knock away.”
Quentin gave two resounding knocks.
Several minutes passed, and no one appeared at the door.
“Knock again,” said Pacheco.
Quentin did so, adorning his blows with a noisy tattoo.
“Coming! Coming!” came a voice from within.
They saw a beam of light in the door jamb; then the wicket opened and a man appeared with a lantern in his hand.
“It’s I, Tío Frasquito,” said Pacheco. “I have some friends with me.”
“Good evening, Se?or José and company,” said the man.
“Is the ground impossible?” inquired the Countess from the inside of the carriage.
“Yes, it’s very muddy,” replied Quentin.
“How can I get out in these white slippers? I’m done for.”
“Would you like me to carry you in my arms?” said Quentin.
“No, sir.”
Then Pacheco, who had climbed down from the box, removed his cloak, seized it as if he were about to tease a bull with it, and with a flourish spread it out upon the damp earth from the step of the carriage to the door of the house.
“There! Now you can get out.”
The Countess, smiling and holding up her silk dress, walked across the cloak in her white shoes, and quickly entered the vestibule.
“Long live my Queen!” cried Pacheco, carried away by his enthusiasm. “And hurrah for all valiant women!”
It began to pour.
“What will poor Do?a Sinda do?” said Quentin.
“Who is Do?a Sinda?” asked Pacheco.
“The woman we left out on the roof. She must be soup by this time.”
IN WHICH A COUNTESS, A PROFESSIONAL BANDIT, AND A MAN OF ACTION HAVE A TALK
ONE afternoon a few days later, Quentin knocked at the Countess’ door.
“May I come in?”
“Come!”
Quentin opened the door and entered. The room was large, whitewashed, with a very small window divided into four panes, the floor paved with red bricks, and blue rafters in the ceiling. Everything was as clean as silver; in the centre was a table covered with white oil-cloth, upon which was a glass bottle converted by the Countess into a flower stand full of wild flowers.
“My lady,” announced Quentin, “I came to find out if you wanted anything in Cordova.”
“Are you going there?”
“Yes, my lady. If you are bored, we’ll take you in the carriage whenever you wish.”
“No, I’m not bored. To the contrary.”
“Then, why don’t you stay here?”
“No, I cannot.—When do you go?”
“I was thinking of going today, but if you want me to go with you, I’ll wait until tomorrow.”
“Very well, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”
The Countess had made friends at the farm. Late in the afternoon she would take her sewing to the door, and, sitting in the shade, would work among the women of the house. They told her about their lives and their troubles, and she listened with great interest. Quentin and Pacheco used to join the group and chat until the farm bell signalled the labourers, and night fell, and the flocks of goats returned with a great tinkling of bells.
The labourers’ children used to play in front of the doorway; three of them had made friends with the Countess. They were three children who had been left motherless; Miguel, the eldest, was seven, Dolores, the second, was five, and Carmen, the third, was three.
The eldest was very lively, already a little rascal; the second had a tangled mass of blond hair, sad, blue eyes, and a sun-burned face; she wore one of her father’s vests, a dirty apron, stockings around her ankles, and a pair of huge shoes. The littlest one spent hour after hour with her finger thrust into her mouth.
These three children, accustomed to being alone, were content to play with each other; they played around, striking and throwing each other about the ground, and never cried.
“She bosses ’em all,” said one of the old wives to the Countess, pointing to the second child.
“Poor girl. What is your name?”
“Dolores.”
The Countess looked at the child, who lowered her eyes.
“Would you like to come with me, Dolores?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’ll give you pretty dresses, dolls—Will you come?”
“No.”
The Countess kissed the girl, and every afternoon the three children came, waiting for her to give them some money....
“Look there,” said the Countess to Quentin, pointing to a hen that was strutting along the barnyard with her still featherless chicks—“I envy her.”
“Do you?” asked Quentin. “You are more romantic than I thought you were.”
“Romantic, my friend? Why? That is Truth, Nature.”
“Ah! But do you believe in the goodness of Nature?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I do not. Nature is a farce.”
“You are the farce!” said the Countess. “I could never live with a man like you, Quentin.”
“Couldn’t you?”
“No. If I had married you, we would have ended badly.”
“Would we have beaten each other?”
“Probably.”
“Look here; two things would have pleased me,” replied Quentin. “To allow myself to be struck by you would have been magnificent, but to give you a drubbing would also have been good.”
“Would you have dared?” said the Countess with a slight flush in her cheeks, and her eyes shining.
“Yes, if I were your husband,” answered Quentin calmly.
“Don’t pay any attention to this fellow,” said Pacheco, “for all that is just idle fancy.”
Pacheco manifested a respectful enthusiasm toward the Countess, but at times he wondered if Quentin, with his wild ideas and outbursts, might not interest the Countess more....
... And as they chatted, the afternoon advanced; the sun poured down, its reflected rays were blinding as they fell on stones and bushes; and the air, quivering in the heat, made the outlines of the mountain and the distant landscape tremble.
“Would you like to take a ride, my lady?” said Pacheco.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Shall I saddle your horse?”
“Fine!”
The Countess mounted, followed by Pacheco and Quentin, and the three made their way toward the top of the mountain by a broad path that ran between stout evergreens.
It was late Autumn; the days were sweltering, but as soon as the sun set, the air became very refreshing.
The mountain was splendid that afternoon. The dry, clean air was so transparent that it made even the most distant objects seem near; the trees were turning yellow and shedding their dried leaves; the harvested meadows had not yet begun to turn green. In the highways and byways, brambles displayed their black fruit, and the dog-rose bushes their carmine berries among their thorny branches.
“What are you thinking of doing, Quentin? What have you up your sleeve?” asked the Countess suddenly.
“Everybody knows,” replied Pacheco—“that he’s a lively fish.”
“Ca, man,” answered Quentin. “Why, I’m an unhappy wretch. Just now, I admit, I am capable of doing anything to get money and live well.”
“He contradicts himself at every turn!” exclaimed the Countess, somewhat irritated. “I’m beginning to disbelieve everything he says; whether he tells me that he is bad, or whether he assures me that he is unhappy.”
“You see I’m not to be classified by common standards. One half of me is good, and the other half bad. Sometimes it seems as if I were a demagogue, and I turn out to be a reactionary. I have all sorts of humility and all sorts of arrogance within me. For example, if you were to say to me tomorrow: ‘By selling all the inhabitants of Cordova into slavery, you can make a fortune,’ I would sell them.”
“A lie!” replied the Countess. “You would not sell them.”
“No, I would not sell them if you told me not to.”
“Really, now!”
“Do you know what I used to think of doing when I was in England?” said Quentin.
“What?” asked Pacheco.
“Of putting up a money box. You must have seen one of them in Madrid, I think in the Calle del Fuencarral; people throw lots of money into it. Well, I saw it on my way through the city, and in school I was always thinking: ‘When I get to Spain, I’m going to set up four or five money boxes, and take all the money that’s thrown into them.’”
“What ideas you do have!” said the Countess.
“I have always thought that the first thing to do was to get rich.”
“Why not work?”
“One can never make one’s self rich by working. I have two aphorisms that rule my life; they are: first, be it yours or another’s, you will never get on without money; second, laziness has always its reward, and work its punishment.”
“You are a faker, and one cannot talk to you,” said the Countess. “What about you, Pacheco?”
“He? Why, he’s another romanticist,” replied Quentin.
“Really?” asked the woman.
“Yes, somewhat,” replied the bandit with a sigh.
“Some fine day,” added Quentin, “you will hear that Pacheco has done something either very foolish, or very heroic.”
“May God hear you,” murmured the bandit.
“Do you see?”
“Isn’t it better to do something famous, than to live in a hole like a toad all your life?”
“What would you like to do?” asked the Countess with curiosity.
“I?—Take part in a battle; lead it if possible.”
“Then you want to be a soldier.”
“You mean a general,” interrupted Quentin with a laugh.
“And why not, if he has good luck?”
“What does one need to be a general?” asked Pacheco. “To have a soul, to be valiant, and to be ready to give up your life every minute.”
“And furthermore, to have a career,” replied Quentin ironically ... “to have good recommendations.”
“But you always look upon everything as small and niggardly!” exclaimed the bandit hotly.
“And you, my friend, hope to encounter great and strong things in a mean society. You are deceived.”
Pacheco and Quentin fell silent, and the Countess contemplated the two men as they rode quietly along....
It was late afternoon. The dry earth, warmed by the sun, exhaled the aroma of rosemary and thyme and dried grass. Upon the round summit of the mountain, trees, bushes, rocks, stood out in minutest detail in the diaphanous air.
The sun was sinking. The naked rocks, the thickets of heather and furze, were reddened as if on the point of bursting into flame. Here and there among the yellow foliage of the trees, appeared the white and smiling walls of farmhouses....
Soon night began to fall; bands of deep violet crept along the hillsides; one could hear in the distance the crowing of cocks and the tinkling of bells, which sounded louder than usual in that peaceful twilight; the air was tranquil, the sky azure.... Herds of cattle spread over the fields, which were covered with dry bushes; and along the damp pathways, bordered by huge, grey century-plants, a torrent of sheep and goats flowed, followed by their shepherd and his great, gentle-eyed, white mastiff.
When they returned to the farmhouse, Tío Frasquito said to Pacheco:
“We have been waiting for you.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“They just baptized a baby in the farm next to ours, and are having a little dance. If you people would like to go....”
“Shall we go?” Pacheco asked the Countess.
“Why not?”
“Then we’ll have supper right away, and be there in a moment.”
They ate their supper; and on foot and well cloaked, as it was rather cool, they walked along paths and across fields to the neighbouring farm.
As they drew near, they could hear the murmur of conversation and the strumming of a guitar. The entryway in which the fiesta was being celebrated was large and very much whitewashed. It had a wide, open space in the centre, with two columns; suspended from the beams of the ceiling, were two big lamps, each with three wicks. Seated upon benches and rope chairs were several young girls, old women, sun-blackened men, and children who had come to witness the baptism.
In the centre was a space left free for the dancers. Seated near a small table, which held a jug and a glass, an old man was strumming a guitar, a man with a face and side-whiskers that just begged for a gun.
The entrance of the Countess and her escorts was greeted with loud acclaim; one of the farm hands asked, and it was not easy to tell whether in jest or in all seriousness, if that lady was the Queen of Spain.
The caretaker of the farm, after installing the three guests in the most conspicuous place, brought them some macaroons and glasses of white wine.
Boleras and fandangos alternated, and between times they drank all the brandy and wine they wanted. The Countess went to see the mother of the baptized child.
“Aren’t you going to dance, Pacheco?” asked Quentin.
“Are you?”
“Man alive, I’m not graceful enough. I’ll play the guitar. You ask the Countess to dance with you.”
“She won’t do it.”
“Do you want me to ask her for you?”
“Good idea.”
Quentin did so when she returned. She burst out laughing.
“Well, will you do it?”
“Of course, man.”
“Hurrah for all valiant women. Ladies and gentlemen,” said Quentin, turning to the bystanders, “the Se?ora is going to dance with Pacheco; I shall play the guitar, and I want the best singer here to stand by me.”
Quentin sat in the chair where the old man had been, and near him stood a little dark-haired girl with large eyes. He tuned the guitar, turning one key and then another, and then began a devilish preparatory flourish. Little by little this uncouth flourish grew smoother, changing into a handling of the strings that was finesse itself.
“Go ahead,” cried Quentin. “Now for the little highlander!”
The Countess arose laughing heartily, with her arms held high; Pacheco, very serious, also arose and stood before her. An old woman, a mistress of the art, began to click her castanets with a slow rhythm.
“Girlie,” said Quentin to the singer, “let’s hear what you can do.”
In almost a whisper, the girl sang:
“Con abalorios, cari?o,
con abalorios.”
(With glass beads, love, with glass beads.)
The dancers made their start rather languidly.
The girl went on:
“Con abalorios,
tengo yo una chapona,
tengo yo una chapona,
cari?o! con abalorios.”
(With glass beads, I have a dressing sack, I have a dressing sack, love! with glass beads.)
The dancers were a little more lively in the “parade,” the castanets clicked louder, and the high, treble voice of the girl increased in volume:
“Están bailando
el clavel y la rosa,
están bailando
el clavel y la rosa,
ay! están bailando!”
(They are dancing, the pink and the rose, they are dancing, the pink and the rose; Ah! they are dancing!)
This last phrase, which was somewhat sad, was accompanied by a ferocious sound of castanets, as if the player wished to make the dancers forget the melancholy of the song.
The girl went on:
“Porque la rosa
entre más encarnada,
Porque la rosa
entre más encarnada
ay! es más hermosa!”
(For the rose, the more she blushes, for the rose, the more she blushes, Ah! the more beautiful she becomes.)
Then the castanets clicked wildly, while all the bystanders cheered the dancers on. Pacheco pursued his partner with open arms, and she seemed to provoke him and to flee from him, keeping out of his reach when he was about to conquer her. In these changes and movements, the Countess’ skirts swished back and forth and folded about her thighs, outlining her powerful hips. The whole room seemed filled with an effluvia of life.
Quentin enthusiastically continued to strum the guitar. The singer had offered him a glass of white wine, and without ceasing to play, he had stretched out his lips and drained it.
The dance was repeated several times, until the dancers, worn out, sat down.
“Splendid! Magnificent!” exclaimed Quentin with tears in his eyes.
Suddenly the little girl who had sung told him she was going.
“Why?”
“Because some joker is going to put out the lights.”
Quentin put down the guitar and went over to the Countess.
“You’d better go,” he told her, “they are going to put out the lights.”
She got up, but did not have time to go out. Two big youths put out the lamps with one blow, and the entryway was left in darkness. Quentin led the Countess to a corner, and stood ready to protect her in case there was need. There was a bedlam of shrill shrieks from the women, and laughter, and voices, and all started for the door which was purposely barred. Quentin felt the Countess by his side, palpitant.
“That’ll do,” said the landlord, “that’s enough of the joke,” and he relit the lamps.
The fiesta became normal once more, and soon after, all began to file out.
The following was the day fixed upon for the departure. Pacheco had, as he said, reasons for not going to Cordova, so he did not go. Quentin sat upon the box and drove off with the Countess. At nightfall, they were on the Cuesta de Villaviciosa. From that height, by the light of the half-hidden sun, they could see Cordova; very flat, very extensive, among fields of yellow stubble and dark olive orchards. A slight mist rose from the river bed. In the distance, very far away, rose the high and sharp-peaked Sierra of Granada.
Carts were returning along the road, jolting and shaking; they could hear the Moorish song of the carters who were stretched out upon sacks, or skins of olive oil; riders on proud horses passed them, seated upon cowboy saddles, their shawls across their saddle bows, and their guns at their sides....
When they entered Cordova, night had already fallen; the sky was sprinkled with stars; on either side of the road, which now ran between the houses, great, many-armed century plants shone in the darkness.
Quentin drove the carriage to the Countess’ palace, and jumped from the box, much to the astonishment of the porter.
“Good-bye, my lady,” said he, holding out his hand and assisting her from the carriage.
“Good-bye, Quentin,” she said rather sadly.
“SO you know nothing about him?” asked the Swiss.
“Not a thing,” replied María Lucena. “He left here the very night they tried to arrest him, and he hasn’t showed up yet. They say that he and Pacheco kidnapped the Countess.”
“The devil! An abduction!”
“Yes. Let me tell you, that man disgusts me, and I wish I hadn’t met him.”
Paul Springer contemplated the pale face of the actress sympathetically.
“He’ll show up,” he said.
“I hope he never does!” she replied.
The Swiss was disturbed.
“How did you meet Quentin? Through the fracas he started here?”
“Yes. They told me that there had been a dispute between a young chap and a vile man who had insulted me. I asked Cornejo, the fellow who writes topical songs for the musical comedies, who my defender was, and he said: ‘I’ll show him to you.’ Every night I asked him: ‘Who is he? Who is he?’—but he never showed up. After awhile I got impatient and said to Cornejo: ‘Look here; you tell your friend that I want to meet him, that if he doesn’t come to the theatre, to go to my house, and that I live near here in a boarding house called Mariquita’s House.’ Would you believe it? There I was, waiting day after day, and he never showed up!”
“You must have been indignant,” said Springer.
“Naturally! I said: ‘If he doesn’t know me, why did he defend me? And if he does know me, why doesn’t he come to see me?’”
“How did you get to meet him finally?”
“You’ll see; one day Cornejo came in here with Quentin, and introduced him to me as the man who had insulted me and had been struck by my defender. I said a lot of outrageous and insulting things to him, and just then a friend of his came in and greeted him with a ‘Hello, Quentin!’ Then I realized that he was my defender and we made friends.”
“Yes, he’s very fond of those farces.”
“Why did he do it? I can’t understand that man.”
“Nor does he understand himself, probably; but he’s a good fellow.”
At the very second that the Swiss was saying these words, Quentin entered the café, looked about him indifferently and came up to the table at which María Lucena and Springer were seated.
When she saw him, María suddenly turned red.
“Ah! So you’ve come at last!” she cried angrily. “Where have you been?”
“If you had had your way, my dear, I would have been in prison.”
“That’s where you ought to be always. Thief! May a nasty viper sting you! Tell me, what have you been doing all these days?”
“Why, I’ve been on a farm, hiding from the police.”
“I’m likely to believe that! You’ve been with a woman.”
The procedure of extracting the truth with a lie produced results, for Quentin said candidly:
“Where did you find that out?”
“You see, it’s the truth! And now you are tired of her and have come back here. Well, son, you can clear out; for there’s no more meat on the hook for lack of a cat, and I want nothing more to do with you. I have more than enough men who are better than you are, who have more money than you have, and more heart.”
“I don’t deny it,” replied Quentin coldly.
“Ah! You don’t deny it? You don’t deny it?” she shouted, raising her voice in her fury. “But what do you think I am? What do you think?”
“Come, don’t shriek so,” said Quentin gently.
“I’ll shriek if I want to. Tell me, you evil-blooded scoundrel; what did you take me for? Do you think you can laugh at me like this?”
“That is admirable logic!” replied Quentin. “One believes here that his life is the axle of the universe; other people’s lives have no importance.”
“Why—”
“Please; I am talking. I left the café the other night, and thanks to the influence of Se?or Gálvez, with whom you were....”
“I!” said María. “That’s not true.”
“I myself saw you.”
“Where could you see me from?”
“From the door, my dear.”
“But you don’t know Gálvez!” she replied, believing that Quentin must have had the news at second-hand.
“True; but I know the waiter, and I asked him: ‘Who is the gentleman talking with María Lucena?’ And he answered: ‘Se?or Gálvez.’ So don’t lie about it. Very well; thanks to the beneficent influence of that gentleman friend of yours, I was on the point of being carried off to prison, or of throwing myself into the river ... yet, I do not go screeching about the place—because I do not believe that my life can be the axle of the universe.”
“Fool, more than fool!”—she shouted. “I’ll pound your brains out this very minute!”
“You’ll pound nothing; and listen, if you will.”
“What for? You’re going to lie.”
“Very well then: don’t listen.”
“I wish they’d take you to prison and keep you there all your life with your head stuck through a pillory.”
“If you care to listen, I’ll tell you whom I was with.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, I was with the Countess.”
“Then you haven’t the least bit of shame,” said María furiously.
“The Countess,” Quentin continued, “was upset by the verses in La Víbora, and wished to avenge herself, and had asked the Governor to have me thrown into prison.”
“Then what?”
“Well, Pacheco and I joined forces, and instead of her arresting us, we arrested her, and carried her off in her carriage to a farm.”
“What happened there?” asked the actress.
“Nothing; we became good friends.”
“Bah!”
“What ideas women have of each other!—” said Quentin sarcastically. “For them, all other women are prostitutes.”
“Not all: just some.”
“Do you believe that the Countess is a chorus girl?” said Quentin acridly.
María paled and looked at Quentin with concentrated fury.
“What did the Countess do there?” asked the Swiss.
“Nothing—rode and walked. She acted like what she is: a fine lady. Pacheco was crazy about her.”
“Weren’t you?”
“You know, Springer, that I am marble as far as women are concerned.”
“What a faker!” exclaimed the Swiss.
“What a liar!” added María Lucena.
“May they pluck my wings, as the gipsies say, if I’m not telling the truth. You know, María, that I’m like a box of mixed candy that has neither cover nor flap.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I say you’re a St. Thomas in skirts.”
María was gradually calming down and speaking more pleasantly, as she prepared to leave for the theatre, when a man, tall, thin, with a black beard, kangaroo arms, and ferocious-looking hands, came up to Quentin. After making some mysterious grimaces, and winking his eyes, he whispered something in Quentin’s ear.
“What did that man say to you?” asked María.
“That man is a hardware dealer and a Freemason; he told me that I must go to the Patrician Lodge tonight.”
“There you go again with your humbugs. I’ve lost all patience with you. So he’s a Fleemason, eh? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“Hey!” called Quentin to the hardware dealer, who had already reached the door.
“What is it?” asked the Mason.
“Will you kindly tell this woman what you wanted of me?”
“Ah! I cannot,” replied the man, smiling and placing one of his paws—which were worthy of long-handed Artaxerxes—upon his breast. “No, I cannot.”
He then raised his hand to his forehead, then to his shoulder, making several strange gestures.
“Do you believe he is a Fleemason?” said María to the Swiss in a whisper.
“Yes; assuredly.”
“All right, Diagasio, that will do,” said Quentin.
“Ha ... ha ...!” laughed the actress. “That poor man really has a peculiar look.”
The hardware merchant bowed, a smile appeared within his black beard, like a ray of sunlight in a thicket, and moving his huge hands lazily, he thoughtfully retired, not without having knocked a bottle off a table and stepping on a dog.
“Poor fellow,” said Quentin, “he has become unbalanced with all this Masonry.”
“What did you call him?” asked the Swiss.
“Diagasio. His real name is Diego, but Diagasio seems more euphonious to me. In the Lodge we have baptized him Marat.”
The Swiss smiled, and Quentin left the café. He traversed several alleys, and was walking along the Calle de los Dolores Chicos toward the Calle del Cister, when a man wrapped in a cloak approached him.
“Wait a moment, Quentin,” said a voice.
“Hello, Don Paco.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Lodge, as I have just received notice to do.”
“I sent the notice to you.”
“You did? What’s up?”
“We must speak alone, Quentin.”
“Whenever you wish.”
“Things are moving rapidly, my friend. The Revolution is gaining ground; but in this city, the Revolutionary Committee does nothing—or almost nothing. Inter nos, its members haven’t enough patriotism; understand? We must stir them up; and you, who know many strong-minded people, can help a lot.”
“Pacheco has more influence than I have, in that respect.”
“But to ally oneself with a bandit!”
“As to that, you chaps will find out whether he suits you or not.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Is he in Cordova?”
“He is near Cordova.”
“Good: I shall speak here in the Lodge, and in the Junta: if they are agreed, you make an appointment with Pacheco, and we shall meet later.”
“Very well. Will you know tomorrow if they are agreed?”
“Yes. I’ll let you know; and when you get an answer from Pacheco, we’ll go to see him.”
“Very well. Until another time.”
“Until very soon.”
The two conspirators shook hands by way of a farewell, and wrapping themselves to their eyes in their cloaks, they glided along the narrow alleyways.
A FEW days later, at nine-thirty in the evening, Quentin climbed the stairs of a house on the Calle del Cister.
He entered the second floor, traversed the lay-brother’s school—a large room with tables in rows and placards on the walls—and passed into the Lodge, which was a garret with a table at one end and an oil lamp that provided the only light.
Quentin could not tell whether the honourable Masons there assembled were in a white meeting or coloured meeting; the session must have been over, for the President, Don Paco, was perorating—though now deprived of his presidential dignity—among the rabble of the Aventine Hill.
Don Paco was a veritable river of words. All of the stock revolutionary phrases came fluently to his lips. “The rights of a citizen,”—“the ominous yoke of reaction” ... “the heroic efforts of our fathers” ..., “a just punishment for his perversity”....
Don Paco pronounced all these phrases as though by the mere act of saying them, they were realized.
If they charged one of the Masonic brothers with a dangerous mission, and he made the excuse of having a family, Don Paco said, as Cato would have remarked:
“Country before family.”
But if the dangerous mission were for him, Don Paco would argue that he did not wish to compromise the sacred cause of liberty by a rash act.
Sometimes, instead of saying sacred, he said venerable, which, for Don Paco, had its own value and distinctive meaning.
If some Progressist leader in Madrid was supposed to have been a traitor against either the sacred, or the venerable cause, Don Paco cried out in the Lodge:
“A la barra with the citizen! A la barra!”
He himself did not know what la barra was; but it was a matter of a cry that would sound well, and that sounded admirably: A la barra!
When he was too excited, Don Paco admired English parliamentarism above everything else. Quentin had once told him that he looked like Sir Robert Peel.
Quentin had seen the figure of that orator on an advertisement for shoe-blacking; he had nothing but the vaguest ideas of Sir Robert’s existence; but it was all the same to Don Paco, and the comparison made him swell with pride.
Aside from these political farces, Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, Master Surgeon and Master Mason, was a good sort of person, without an evil trait; he was a small, bald-headed old man, pimply and apopleptic. He had a thick neck, eyes that bulged so far from his head that they looked as if they had been stuck into his skin. At the slightest effort, with the most insignificant of his phrases, he blushed to the roots of his hair; if he turned loose one of his cries, his blush changed from red to violet, and even to blue.
Don Paco had great admirers among the members of the Lodge; they considered him a tremendous personage.
Quentin called to Diagasio, the long-handed hardware merchant, and said:
“Tell Don Paco I’m waiting for him.”
“He’s speaking.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry.”
Diagasio left him, and presently Don Paco came over, still orating, and surrounded by several friends.
“No,” he was saying, “I claim it, and I shall always claim it. We Spaniards are not yet ready to accept the republican form of government. Ah, gentlemen! If we were in England! In that freest of all lands, the cradle of liberties, ... of sacred liberties.”
“Very well,”—said Quentin quickly, “that discourse does not concern me. I came to tell you that I have received an answer to the letter I sent, and that he has made an appointment.”
Don Paco returned to his friends, and now and then a phrase reached Quentin: “A dangerous mission,” “mysteries,” “the police,” “the result will be known later.” Then the worthy President came over to Quentin.
“Will some one accompany us?”
“No; why should they? The more people that go, the worse it will be.”
“That’s true. They will mistrust us.”
Don Paco took leave of his friends as Sir Robert Peel might have done had they taken that gentleman to the gallows: they descended the stairs, and came out upon the street.
They made their way to the Gran Capitán, from there to the Victoria, and then, passing the Puerta de Gallegos, they travelled toward the Puerta de Almodóvar.
Quentin felt a great sense of satisfaction when he observed the fact that the old man was frightened. At every step Don Paco said to him:
“Some one is following us.”
“Don’t be idiotic. Who is going to follow us?”
“Ah! You don’t know what a terrible police force those men have!”
To Don Paco, life was all mystery, darkness, espionage, conspiracy. To sum up: it was fear, and the fear in this instance was neutralized by speaking aloud, and humming selections from comic operas.
This mixture of petulance and fright amused Quentin greatly. When he saw that the old man was very animated, humming an air from “Marina,” or from “El Domino Azúl,” he said to him:
“Hush, Don Paco, I think I saw a man spying on us from among those trees.”
Immediately the animation of the worthy President changed into an evil-omened silence.
As the two men followed the wall, the enormous, red moon rose over the town like a dying sun; the Cathedral tower looked very white against the dark blue sky.... They passed a tile-kiln, and Quentin, seeing that Don Paco was dispirited, said:
“I think we can be at ease now, for from here on there are no guards nor watchmen to spy on us.”
These words heartened the old man; a moment later, he was humming a piece from “El Domino Azúl,” which contained words to the effect that he did not want his dove so near the hawk.
Then, absolutely at ease, he commenced to say in a pompous voice:
“There are moments in the lives of cities as there are in those of individuals....”
“A speech! Don Paco, for Heaven’s sake! At a time like this!” exclaimed Quentin....
The old man, seeing that he could not continue his discourse, said familiarly:
“The things that have been accomplished in our lifetime, Quentin! When we first met, there in the Café de Pepon, on the Calle de Antonio de Morales, we were a mere handful of men with advanced ideas.... Today, you see how different it is. And all through my efforts, Quentin. I inaugurated the Reading Centre for workmen, and the Patrician Lodge ...; I was one of the Hatchet Club, and one of the founders of the Committee. I was always conspiring.”
“You are very brave,” said Quentin slyly.
“No; all I am is patriotic; really, Quentin. How many times at night have I ventured out in disguise, sometimes along the Gran Capitán, or through any of the sally-ports on the left, and reached the bridge by encircling the wall! There I used to glide along the fosses of the Calahorra castle, climb down to the other bank of the Guadalquivir, and continue down stream until I struck the Montilla turnpike. At other times I crossed the river by the Adalid ford, to come out later behind the Campo de la Verdad in a bit of land called Los Barreros, where a guard received me most informally.”
“Why all these masquerades, Don Paco?”
“You may believe that they were all necessary.”
Don Paco and Quentin were walking toward the river, when suddenly, between the Puerta de Seville, and the Cementerio de la Salud, they heard a loud, harsh voice that rang out powerfully in the silence of the night.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“Two men,” answered Quentin sarcastically, “at least that’s what we look like.”
“For God’s sake don’t!” exclaimed Don Paco. “They might shoot.”
The voice, louder and more threatening than before, shouted again:
“Halt, in the name of the guardia civil!”
“We are halted,” stammered Don Paco, trembling.
“Advance.”
They approached the spot where they had heard the voices; one of the guards, after looking at them closely, said:
“What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“This gentleman,” said Quentin, “has been called to a farmhouse to bleed a sick man.”
“Is he a blood-letter?”
“I’m a doctor,” said Don Paco.
“What are you?”
“I’m his assistant.”
“Why didn’t you answer us immediately?”
“On account of the effect you had on us,” said Quentin slyly.
“Well, you’re lucky to be let off,” remarked the guard.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Quentin.
“Pacheco has been about these nights.”
Don Paco began to tremble like a leaf.
“Well, we must go and bleed that sick man,” said Quentin. “Adiós, Se?ores.”
“Good night.”
They went around the wall, and suddenly Don Paco came to a determined halt.
“No; I’m not going!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“It is very imprudent for us to go and see Pacheco,” the old man stammered. “We shall discredit the cause.”
“You might have thought of that before.”
“Well, I’m not going.”
“Very well; I shall go alone.”
“No, no.... Ah, my God!”
“Are you ill, Don Paco?”
“Yes; I believe I’ve taken cold—” replied the terrible revolutionist in a trembling voice. “Furthermore, I do not see the necessity of visiting Pacheco at this time of night.”
“Then I’ll go if you wish.”
“What’s the use?” added the old man insinuatingly. “Everybody will think that we went to see Pacheco. Neither of us need deny the fact; so why should we go now and expose ourselves to a serious danger? Besides, it’s a cold night, and cold is not healthy.”
“But we have an appointment with Pacheco.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Then there is still another reason,” continued Quentin.
“What is it?”
“If we go back now, and the guards see us, they’ll get suspicious.”
“Then what shall we do?”
“I think the best thing to do is to go ahead.”
Don Paco sighed, and very reluctantly followed after Quentin. The moon was climbing higher in the sky. The old man walked along profoundly disheartened. After half an hour had elapsed, he said:
“Now we can go back.”
“What for? We’ve only a little farther to go.”
A moment later they left the road and approached the house. Quentin thrust his fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly.
“They’re coming,” said Don Paco, trembling.
In a few seconds, they heard another whistle. Quentin went to the door of the house; at the same time, a small window was opened, and Pacheco said in a low voice:
“Is that you, Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
The door opened noiselessly, and Don Paco and Quentin entered a dark vestibule.
“This way,” said Pacheco’s voice.
“Why don’t you light a lamp?” asked Don Paco.
“Light can be seen at a distance.”
They crossed the vestibule and entered a kitchen illuminated by a lamp.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the bandit. He closed the kitchen door, and threw an armful of dried branches upon the fire. “It’s a cold night,” he added.
Don Paco and Quentin sat down, and the latter began to speak:
“This gentleman,” he said, “is Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, who, as you know, is one of the members of the Revolutionary Junta and Chief of the Patrician Lodge.”
“No, not Chief,” Don Paco interrupted. “The Masons have no chiefs.”
“We won’t discuss the use of words now; the idea is to come to an understanding. This gentleman, and other members of the Junta, have thought that you, comrade, could help them start a movement, and wish to get into touch with you.”
“The fact is,” said Don Paco, who believed that Quentin was compromising him a bit too much, “that I have no power—”
“It’s not a question of legal power, nor of lawyers,” replied Quentin. “With us, one’s word is sufficient.”
“It’s absolute, comrade,” added Pacheco.
“Don Paco, you wished to know if Pacheco could organize the movement, did you not?”
“Yes; that is it essentially.”
“Very well; now you know, Pacheco. Kindly tell us if you can undertake the work, and under what conditions.”
“See here, Quentin,” said the bandit, “you already know my ideas, and that I am more liberal than Riego. I don’t want a thing for helping along the Revolution: no money, nor any kind of a reward; I’m not going to haggle over that. What I do want is, that they will not do me a bad turn. Because those Junta fellows, and I don’t mean this gentleman, are capable of ’most any thing. I’ll go to Cordova and see what people I can count on, and I’ll do all the work there is to do; but under one condition; and that is, that all those gentlemen of the Junta will guarantee that the police will not interfere with me. That is to say, I don’t mind exposing myself to being shot, but I don’t want to get shot in the belt for nothing.”
“I have no authority—” said Don Paco, “nor the attributes....”
“You will have to take that up with the Junta,” said Quentin. “Why don’t you go, comrade?”
“No; I’m not going to Cordova.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m afraid that they have sold me, and it wouldn’t go well with the man who did it.”
“A couple of guards stopped us yonder, and told us that they were waiting for you,” said Quentin.
“Where?”
“Near the Cementerio de la Salud.”
“Well, let ’em squat,” said Pacheco, “but let us get at what we are going to do. Comrade, if you will do me the favour of seeing those Junta fellows and speaking to them, you can tell them exactly what I want. If they accept, tell El Cuervo; he’ll see to it that I receive the answer, and the next day I’ll be in Cordova.”
“Then, there’s nothing more to say.”
The three men rose to their feet.
“Well, let’s be going, Don Paco,” said Quentin.
“Man alive, wouldn’t it be better for us to stay here all night?”
“As you wish.”
“Are there any beds here?”
“I should say not!”
“I sleep in the strawloft,” said Pacheco. “I’ll go with you, if you wish.”
Don Paco hesitated between going over the road again, and passing a bad night, and chose the latter.
“Let us go to the strawloft.”
Pacheco took a lantern, opened the kitchen door, traversed a patio, then another, and mounting a staircase, came to a hole; it was the strawloft.
“Stretch out,” said Pacheco; “tomorrow, day will break, and the one-eyed man will see his asparagus. Good night!”
Quentin removed his boots, and in a little while was fast asleep.
In the morning a loud voice awoke him.
“Muleteers! Day’s dawning!”
Quentin sat up; the sun was pouring through the cracks in the loft; cocks were crowing. Pacheco had gone. Don Paco, seated on the straw, with a coloured handkerchief on his head, was groaning.
“What a night! My God, what a night!” Quentin heard him say.
“What! Didn’t you sleep, Don Paco?”
“Not a minute. But you slept like a log.”
“Well, let’s be going.”
They got up, and picked the straw off their clothes, like feathers from a goose.
They left the farm. It was a superb day. When they drew near the Cementerio de la Salud, they descended to the river, and traversing the Alameda del Corregidor, between the Seminary and the Arabian mill, they came out at the bridge gate.
“This afternoon at the Casino,” said Don Paco, who once within the city was beginning to regain his presence of mind.
“At what time?”
“At dusk.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Now you see what one does for one’s ideas,” said Don Paco in the Casino. “One sacrifices one’s self for the Revolution, and for the Country; one faces the odium of the Moderates for years and years; one exposes one’s self to all the dangers imaginable; and even then they do not count one among the founders. They speak of Olózaga, of Sagasta.... I tell you it is an outrage.”
“Hello, Don Paco,” greeted Quentin. “Are you all rested from your bad night?”
“Yes. Let us interview those men.”
“Whenever you wish.”
“Let us go now.”
“Where do we have to go?”
“To the house of the Count of Do?a Mencia. The Junta is meeting there.”
The Count lived in one of the central streets of Cordova. They entered the vestibule and rang. A servant opened the gate and accompanied them to the main floor, to a large hall with a panelled ceiling, and illuminated by two wax candles. On the walls were highly polished portraits, in enormous, heavily carved frames. A young man with a black beard greeted Don Paco and Quentin, and conducted them into an office where eight or ten persons were seated.
These men did not interrupt their conversation at the entrance of the new comers, but went on talking: the Revolution was spreading throughout all Andalusia; the Revolutionary troops were marching on Cordova....
Don Paco heard this news, and then spoke to one of the gentlemen about his conversation with Pacheco. This gentleman came up to Quentin and said:
“Tell Pacheco that he can rest easy as far as I am concerned. I shall do all in my power to keep them from apprehending him.”
“Do you hear what the Count of Do?a Mencia says?” Don Paco asked Quentin.
“Yes, but it is not enough,” replied Quentin, who felt profoundly irritated upon hearing that name. “I went to see Pacheco because Don Paco told me that he could be useful to you in organizing the people. Whether or not my friend has power, I do not know; what I do know is this, that Pacheco, in order to come to Cordova, makes the condition that you gentlemen must give your word that he will not be arrested, and that they will play no tricks on him. Now you may find out whether that suits you or not.”
The violent tone employed by Quentin surprised the gentlemen of the Junta; some of them protested, but the Count went over to the protestants and spoke to them in a low voice. They discussed Pacheco’s proposition; some said that such complicity with a bandit was dishonourable; others were merely concerned with whether he would be useful or not. Finally they made up their minds, and one of them came up to Quentin and said:
“You may tell your friend,” and the man emphasized the word, “that he will not be molested in Cordova.”
“Do you all hold yourselves responsible for him?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Good afternoon.”
Quentin inclined his head slightly, left the office, crossed the hall, and went into the street. He made his way to El Cuervo’s tavern, where he told the landlord to let Se?or José know that he could come to Cordova with absolute safety.