IT was very convenient for Quentin to have Pacheco in Cordova. The latter carried on the conspiracy as smoothly as silk; he had come to an understanding with the secretary of the Count of Do?a Mencia, who was expecting to contribute the money realized from a sale of some Government bonds in Madrid. It was also convenient for Quentin to have Pacheco agitate the people; if the agitation was successful, he would profit by it; if not, he would peacefully retire.
Some days later, Quentin had not yet arisen when Pacheco presented himself at his house. María Lucena’s mother opened the door and conducted him into the bedroom.
“Don’t get up,” said Pacheco. “Stay right in bed.”
“What’s doing? What brings you here?”
“I came this early because I did not want to meet any one in the streets; it might prove to be a provocation. I talked with one of the members of the Junta, and he assured me again that I have no need to be afraid, that they will not arrest me; then he asked me if I had any plan, any project, and I told him that I couldn’t explain as yet. Understand? Now the result is that some of them think that I have the Revolution all prepared.”
“That’s funny,” said Quentin.
“What shall I do?”
“The first thing you ought to do, is to get that money from the Count.”
“They are going to give it to me this week.”
“Good; then go on buying arms and organizing a following.”
“Right in Cordova?”
“Yes; but without showing yourself in the streets; let every man stay in his house. We must figure out our strength, and wait for the proper opportunity.”
“And then—”
“Then, circumstances will tell us what to do. If it suits us to start a row now, why we’ll start it; if we have to shoot a few guns in the streets tomorrow, why, we’ll shoot them. Nobody knows what may happen. The troops are out there on the bridge, and messages and letters and packages come and go. The idea in the city is to be strong, and to keep hidden.”
“So I must go ahead and recruit?”
“Of course.”
“All right. I’m living outside of the town now, in a hut on the Campo de la Verdad; you see I don’t like to stay in the city.”
“You have done well.”
“The house faces the river, and has a horseshoe over the vestibule. Come and see me tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“In the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
During the subsequent days, Quentin went every afternoon to Pacheco’s house in the Campo de la Verdad; sat down in a cloth-bottomed rocking-chair; put his feet on the window sill, and smoked his pipe.
He listened to the conversation, and gazed indifferently at the town.
Through his half-closed eyes he saw the half-ruined gate of the bridge; beyond, and above it, rose the grey walls of the Mosque, with their serrated battlements; above these walls hung the dark cupola of the cathedral, and the graceful tower rose glistening in the sun, with the angel on its peak inlayed in the huge sapphire of the sky.
On one side of the bridge, the Alcázar garden displayed its tall, dark cypresses, and its short shrub-like orange trees; then the Roman Wall, grey, spotted with the dusty green of parasite weeds, continued toward the left, and stretched on, cut here and there by cubes of rock, as far as the Cementerio de la Salud.
On the other side, the houses of the Calle de la Ribera formed a semi-circle, following the horseshoe bend of the river, which flowed on as though trying to undermine the town.
These houses, which were reflected in the surface of the river—a serpent of ever changing colour—were small, grey, and crooked. Upon their walls, which were continuously calcined by the sun, grew dark-coloured ivy; between their garden walls blossomed prickly pears with huge intertwined and pulpy leaves; and from their patios and corrals peeped the cup-shaped tops of cypress trees and the branches of silver-leafed fig trees.
Their roofs were grey, dirty, heaped one above the other; with azoteas, look-outs, and little towers; a growth of hedge mustard converted some of them into green meadows.
Beyond these houses the broken line of the roofs of the town was silhouetted against the crystal blue sky. This line was interrupted here and there by a tower, and reached as far as the river, where it ended in a few blue and rose houses near the Martos mill.
Some bell or other was clanging almost continuously. Quentin listened to them sleepily and drowsily, watching the hazy sky, and the river of ever-changing colour.
Pacheco’s house had a room with a window that looked out on the other side: upon a little square where a few tramps peacefully sunned themselves.
Among them was one who interested Quentin. This fellow wore a red kerchief on his head, side-burns that reached the tips of his ears, and a large, ragged sash. He used to sit on a stone bench, and, his face resting in his hand, would study the actions and movements of a cock with flame-coloured plumage.
This observer of the cock was at the same time the pedagogue of the feathered biped, which must have had its serious difficulties, to judge by the reflective attitude which the man struck at times.
Quentin listened to what they said in the meetings that went on about him.
How far away his thoughts were in some instances! From time to time, Pacheco, or one of the conspirators put a question to him which he answered mechanically. His silence was taken for reflection.
Quentin excited the bandit’s self-esteem. He was waiting for the time when they would get the Count’s money so that he could take his share and skip off to Madrid. He did not wish this intention of his to become known, so he gave the bandit to understand that he wanted the money for revolutionary purposes only.
Every day Quentin played at the Casino and lost. He had bad luck. He had become tied up with money-lenders and was signing I. O. U.’s at eighty percent, with the healthy intention of never paying them.
After conferring with all the rowdies that came to see him, Pacheco consulted with Quentin. The bandit had romantic aspirations; at night he read books which narrated the stories of great battles; this stirred him up, and made him believe that he was a man born for a great purpose.
“Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” Pacheco said one afternoon to Quentin.
“What?”
“That if I have my people organized beforehand in order to win the battle of Alcolea, I shall become master of the town.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin told him. “You aren’t strong enough for that.”
“No? You’ll see. I have more followers in the city than you think I have.”
“But you have no arms.”
“Wait until the Count’s money comes—it won’t be long now.”
“Are you going to oppose the troops?”
“The troops will join us.”
“Then what? What are you going to do then?”
“If I win,—proclaim the Republic.”
Quentin looked closely at Pacheco.
“The poor man,” he thought, “he has gone mad with the idea of greatness.”
At this moment El Taco, a corrupt individual who had been made Pacheco’s lieutenant, came in to say that some men were waiting for him below.
“I’ll be back,” said the bandit.
Quentin was left alone.
“That chap is going to do something foolish,” he murmured, “and the worst of it is, he’s going to break up my combination. I mustn’t leave him alone for a minute until I get hold of that money. Suppose he keeps it here, and then they shoot him in the street? Good-bye cash! How does one prove that money belongs to one? I could ask him for a key to this room, but he might get suspicious, and I don’t want him to do that. Let’s have a look at that key.”
Quentin went to the door; the key was small, and the lock new; doubtless Pacheco himself had put it on.
“I’ve got to take an impression of it,” said Quentin to himself.
The next day he presented himself at Pacheco’s house with two pieces of white wax in his pocket. He listened to the discussions and intrigues of the conspirators as usual, stretched out in his armchair. When he noticed that they were about to go, he said to the bandit:
“By the way, comrade, let me have a little paper and ink, I want to do a little writing.”
“All right; here you are. We’re going to El Cuervo’s tavern. We’ll wait for you there.”
Quentin sat down and made a pretence at writing, but noticed that some one had stayed behind. It was El Taco. He went on writing meaningless words, but El Taco still remained in the room. Annoyed and impatient, Quentin got up.
“I’ve forgotten my tobacco,” he said; “is there a shop near here?”
“Yes, right near.”
“I’m going to buy a box.”
“I’ll bring you one.”
“Good.” Quentin produced a peseta and gave it to El Taco. The moment the man had left the room, he kneaded the wax between his fingers until he had softened it, took out the key, and made the impression. He was softening the other piece of wax, in case the first had come out badly, when he heard El Taco’s footsteps skipping up the stairs. Quentin quickly inserted the key in the lock and sat down at the table. He went on pretending to write, thrust the paper in the envelope, and left the house. El Taco locked the door.
“Let’s go to El Cuervo’s tavern,” said Quentin.
They crossed the bridge and entered the tavern.
There they found, seated in a group, Cornejo, now recovered from his beating, Currito Martín, Carrahola, El Rano, two or three unknown men, and a ferocious individual whom they called El Ahorcado (The Hanged Man), because, strange as it may seem, he had been officially hung by an executioner. This man had a terrible history. Years ago, he had been the proprietor of a store near Despe?aperros. One night a man, apparently wealthy, came into the store. El Ahorcado and his wife murdered the traveller to rob him, only to discover that their victim was their own son, who had gone to America in his childhood, and there enriched himself. Condemned to death, El Ahorcado went to the gallows; but the apparatus of the executioner failed to work in the orthodox manner, and he was pardoned. He was sent to Ceuta where he completed his sentence, and then returned to Cordova.
El Ahorcado had the names of those in his district who were affiliated with Pacheco, and he read them by placing one hand on his throat—the only way in which he could emit sounds.
“Now then, let’s have the list,” said Pacheco.
El Ahorcado began to read.
“Argote.”
“He’s a good one: a man with hair on his chest,” commented Currito.
“Matute, El Mochuelo, Pata al Hombro,” continued El Ahorcado, “El Mocarro.”
“He’s got the biggest nose in Cordova,” interrupted Currito, “and has to wipe it on his muffler, because handkerchiefs aren’t big enough.”
Thus the list of names went on, with Currito’s responding commentary.
“El Penducho.”
“Good fellow.”
“Cuco Pavo, El Cimborrio.”
“There’s a man who cleans his face with a used stocking, and dirties the stocking by doing it.”
“Malpicones, Ojancos.”
“He’s a money-lender who loans at a thousand percent.”
“Mu?equitas, La Madamita.”
“They’re from Benamejí.”
“They just got out of the Carraca prison,” said El Rano.
“El Poyato.”
“Now we’re coming to the sweepings,” interrupted Currito.
“Don’t you believe it,” replied El Ahorcado, “El Poyato is no frog; and even if the wheat does hit him in the chest when he walks through the fields, he is a very brave man.”
“That’s right,” said Carrahola, defending a small man from a sense of comradeship.
“Boca Muerta,” continued El Ahorcado. “El Zurrio, Cantarote, Once Dedos.”
“That chap has one arm longer than the other, and an extra finger on it,” said Currito.
“Ramos Léchuga.”
“He’s a great big good-for-nothing,” said one.
“And very soft mouthed,” replied another.
“What about women?” asked Pacheco.
“They are put down on this other paper,” answered El Ahorcado. “La Canasta, La Bardesa, La Cachumba....”
“There’s a fine bunch of old aunties for you,” said Currito with a laugh.
“La Cometa, La Saltacharcos, La Chirivicha....”
“That’s very good,” said Pacheco. “Within three days you may come here and get your money.”
Quentin understood by this that the bandit was sure of getting hold of the money by that time. He left the tavern, and inquired at the Lodge for Diagasio’s hardware shop. It was in a street near La Corredera. He called on the long-handed individual, and, taking him into a corner very mysteriously, told him what he wanted.
“I’ll give you the key tomorrow in the Lodge.”
Quentin pressed the hardware merchant’s hand, and went home.
TWO evenings later, Quentin was in the Café del Recreo. His streak of bad luck at the Casino continued. María Lucena was talking to Springer: Quentin was smoking, and thoughtfully contemplating the ceiling. Very much bored, he rose to his feet, with the intention of going to bed.
In the street he met the clerk, Diego Palomares, who was going in the same direction.
“What’s doing, Palomares?” he said.
“Nothing. I’m living a dull and stupid life.”
“I too.”
“You? What you have done is to understand life as few people can. While I....”
“Why, what’s the matter with you?”
“You are a revolutionist, aren’t you?” said Palomares. “Well, if you ever take up arms against the rich, call on me. I’ll go with all my heart, even to the extent of making them cough up their livers. There are nothing but rich men and poor men in this world, say what you will of your Progressists and Moderates. Ah! The blackguards!”
“Have they done anything to you at the store?”
“Not just now; but they have been for many years. Twenty years working as if it were my own business, and helping them to get rich; they in opulence, and me with thirty dollars a month. And that man, just because he saw me take home a chicken to my sick girl, said to me: ‘I see that you are living like a prince.’ Curse him! Would to God he had sunk in the ocean!”
Palomares had been drinking, and with the excitement of the alcohol, he exposed the very depths of his soul.
“You are terrible,” said Quentin.
“You think I’m a coward! No; I have a wife and three small children ... and I’m already decrepit.... Believe me, we should unite against them, and wish them death. Yes sir! Here’s what I say: the coachman should overturn his master’s carriage, the labourer should burn the crops, the shepherd should drive his flock over a precipice, the clerk should rob his employer—even the wet nurses should poison their milk.”
“You’re all twisted, Palomares.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I thought you were a sheep, and you are almost, almost a wolf.”
“Why, there are some days when I would like to set fire to the whole town. Then I’d stay outside with a gun and shoot anybody who tried to escape.”
“The tortoise will get there,” remarked Quentin.
He said good-bye to Palomares, and went home. As he opened the door and stepped into the entryway, he heard some one weeping sadly. Attracted by the wails, he went through the corridor, crossed a patio, and asked in a loud voice:
“What’s the matter?”
A door opened, and a weeping woman with disheveled hair came out with a lamp in her hand. In a voice choked with sobs, she told Quentin that her two-year-old son had died, that her husband was not in town, and that she had no money with which to buy a casket.
“Would you like to see the boy, Se?orito?”
Quentin entered a small whitewashed room; the boy’s body lay on a mattress across the table.
“How much do you need to bury him?” asked Quentin.
“A couple of dollars.”
“I’ll see if I have them. If not, we’ll pawn something from my house.”
Quentin went back through the patio followed by the woman; and the two climbed up to the main floor. Quentin lit the lamp, and went through all the drawers. He found four dollars in María Lucena’s bureau, and gave them to the woman. This done, he closed the door and got into bed.... The voices of María Lucena and her mother awakened him.
“There were four dollars here,” cried the actress. “Who took them?”
“I took them,” said Quentin calmly.
“Eh?”
“Yes. One of our neighbours was crying because her baby boy had died and she could not buy him a casket; so I gave them to her. I’ll return them to you tomorrow.”
“That’s it. That’s fine,” said the actress. “Give that woman the money I earn.”
“Am I not telling you that I will return them to you?”
“Little that woman cares for her baby,” screamed María.
“She’s probably buying drinks with the money by this time,” added her mother.
“Se?oras,” said Quentin, sitting up in bed, “I find you absolutely repulsive.”
“You are the one who is repulsive,” screeched the old woman.
“Very well; the thing to do now is to get out of this den of harpies; they are beginning to smell.”
“Well, son; get out, and never come back,” cried María.
Quentin dressed rapidly, and put on his boots and his hat.
“Well; give me the key.”
“I give the key to no one,” rejoined the actress.
“See here, don’t you exhaust my patience, or I’ll give you a thumping.”
When the old woman heard this, thrusting her face close to Quentin’s, she began to insult him, shaking her hands in his face.
“Rowdy!” she said, “you’re an indecent rowdy. A fandango-dancing rowdy!”
“Hush, ancient Canidia,” said Quentin, pushing the old woman away from him, “and get you gone to your laboratory.”
“Don’t you call my mother names; do you hear?”
“Nobody can call me names.”
“Well: will you give me the key or won’t you?” asked Quentin.
“No.”
Quentin went to the balcony window and opened it wide. He jumped to the other side of the railing, hung by his wrists, felt for the grated window of the floor below, and dropped to the sidewalk.
“Until—never!” he called from the street.
He had blood on his cheek from one of the old woman’s scratches. He washed at a fountain, dried himself on his handkerchief, and went to the Casino. He went through a door on the right, and entered a large salon which was lined with enormous mirrors.
A sleepy waiter approached him.
“Do you wish something, Don Quentin?” he asked.
“Yes; put out that light as if there were no one here.”
“Are you going to stay here?”
“Yes.”
“But that is not allowed.”
“Bah! What’s the difference?”
The lights were put out, and, after a little, Quentin fell asleep on the divan.
Two waiters in coarse, white aprons awoke Quentin. One was placing the chairs upon the tables, and the other was cleaning the divans with a mop and brush.
“Have you been asleep, Se?orito?” said one of them with a laugh.
“Yes; what time is it?”
“Very early. Do you know that there is a great hub-bub in the streets?”
“What is happening?”
“Pacheco has entered Cordova with a gang of toughs, and they are all running through these God-forsaken streets yelling and rioting.”
Quentin jumped up. There was a bucket of water on the floor.
“Is it clean?” he asked the waiters.
“Yes.”
Quentin kneeled on the floor and ducked himself twice. The waiters laughed, thinking that it was all from the effects of a convivial evening.
“Now my head is clear,” said Quentin.
“I’ll bring you a towel,” announced one of the boys. Quentin dried himself, and went into the street.
He walked rapidly toward Las Tendillas, where he found great excitement, and heard all sorts of comments and gossip. He asked a man where Pacheco was.
“He’s near the Plaza de la Trinidad now.”
Quentin ran on, opening a path through the crowd with his elbows.
“The man is an idiot,” he thought. “Could he have imagined that he was really going to head the Revolution?”
After a hard struggle, Quentin could see two horsemen riding at the head of the rabble. One of them was Pacheco; the other was his brother.
“Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!” shouted the bandit, waving his arm.
The crowd echoed his cry with enthusiasm, and added:
“Long live the second Prim! Long live General Pacheco!”
“Why, the man is crazy,” murmured Quentin. “I wonder if he’s got the money yet?” Then he thought—“Suppose he has it with him? He’s fixed me if he has.”
Quentin continued to advance, digging right and left with his elbows, in order to get near enough to speak with Pacheco. Suddenly he heard the sound of a shot, and immediately after, almost instantaneously, another; a bit of smoke came from one of the screened windows of the Trinidad barracks.
The crowd drew back, terrified; people began to run pell-mell, and in the alleyways the noise made by the heels of those who fled sounded like a squadron of horses at a gallop. Quentin was forced to take refuge in a doorway in order to keep from being trampled. Several other persons also pushed their way into the same place.
“What happened?” they asked one another.
“They are beginning to shoot, and there’s a great rumpus yonder.”
Another who had just arrived, said:
“They’ve killed Pacheco.”
“Did you see it?” asked Quentin.
“Sí, Se?or. I was going by without knowing what was up, when I saw Pacheco fall. His brother jumped from his horse, leaned over the corpse, and said, weeping: ‘He is dead.’”
Quentin went into the street.
“If that fellow had the money in his pocket, there is no way of getting it. I’ll have to explain where it came from.... But if it is still at his house?—Cristo! I mustn’t waste any time.”
He reached the Gran Capitán in a hurry, and took a carriage. “To the Mosque,” he said, “and hurry.” The coachman left him at one of the doors of the cathedral.
“Wait for me,” Quentin instructed him, “I shall be some time.” He jumped from the carriage, went through the church, rushed like a cannon ball through the Patio de los Naranjos, went down by the Triunfo Column, crossed the bridge, and entered Pacheco’s house. He took out the key which Diagasio, the Mason, had made for him, and opened the door.
The bed was untouched; he looked through the little night stand, and found nothing; then he went to the table, took out his penknife and removed the lock from the drawer. Upon some books lay a Russian leather pocketbook, tied with a ribbon. He opened it; there were the bills. He did not count them.
“I am the favourite of Chance,” said he, smiling.
He closed the door, crossed the bridge, and threw the key into the river. The news evidently had not reached that part of the city, for the people were quiet, and there were no gossiping groups. Quentin went up by the Triunfo, again traversed the Patio de los Naranjos, then the church, and got into the carriage.
“To the Gran Capitán,” he said.
By this time the news was spread all over the city; the old wives were shouting it to each other from door to door, and from window to window.
“Where can I leave this money with safety?” Quentin asked himself.
Whomever he trusted would be apt to ask indiscreet questions. His stepfather? Impossible. Palomares, perhaps? But Palomares, in his indignation against the rich, would be likely to keep the money. Se?ora Patrocinio? She would probably be angry at him. Springer? He was the best.
“I’ll go to his house,” he thought; and he gave the coachman the address of the Swiss watch-maker.
SPRINGER was somewhat taken aback when he saw Quentin enter his store, and he rose to his feet and said, turning a trifle pale:
“I can imagine why you have come.”
“You can? It would be rather hard. But first do me the favour of giving me a few pesetas with which to pay the coachman.”
The Swiss opened a drawer and gave him two dollars. Quentin paid the coachman, and returned to the watch store.
“Boy,” he said to his friend, “I came here because you are the only trustworthy person I know.”
“Thanks,” said Springer sourly.
“I would like you to keep a large amount of money for me,” continued Quentin as he held out the pocketbook.
“How much is it?”
“I don’t know, I’m going to see.”
Quentin opened the purse and began counting the bills.
“Before you place this trust in me,” said the Swiss with the air of a man making a violent decision, “I have something to tell you—as a loyal friend. Something that may annoy you.”
“What is it?” asked Quentin, fearing that the low trick he had played on the Count of Do?a Mencia had become known in the city.
“María Lucena and I have come to an understanding—I cannot deceive a true friend like you....”
Quentin gazed in astonishment at the Swiss, and seeing him so affected, felt like bursting into laughter; but laughter seemed improper under the circumstances.
“I’m glad you told me,” he said gravely. “I was thinking of leaving Cordova, and now, knowing this, I shall go as soon as possible.”
“And it will not cool your friendship?”
“Not in the least.”
Springer affectionately pressed his friend’s hand.
“Well, will you keep this money for me?”
“Yes; give it to me.”
The Swiss placed the bills in an envelope.
“What must I do with it?”
“I’ll let you know; I shall probably tell you to send it to me in Madrid in various quantities.”
“Good; it shall be done.”
The Swiss climbed the spiral staircase that went from the back room to the main floor, and returned presently, saying:
“I’ve put it away.”
They were chatting together, when Springer’s father entered hurriedly.
“There’s a riot in the town,” he announced from the door.
“Is there? What is going on?”
“They have killed a bandit ... Pacheco, I think they told me his name was.”
“Your friend. Did you know it?” the Swiss asked Quentin.
“No,” he answered calmly. “He must have done something foolish.”
“Let’s ask about it in the streets.”
The father and son and Quentin went out to Las Tendillas. They passed from group to group, listening to the comments, and at one of them where there seemed to be a well-informed gentleman, they stopped.
“How did his death occur?” asked Springer’s father.
“Well, like this. Pacheco entered by the bridge, and crossed the city till he reached the barracks in the Plaza de la Trinidad, where it seems that the General, when he noticed the riot and uproar, and when he heard them shout ‘Long live General Pacheco!’ asked: ‘Who is that fellow they call General? I’m the only General here. ‘It’s Pacheco,’ a lieutenant answered. ‘The people are calling him a General of Liberty.’—‘The bandit?’—‘Sí, Se?or.’ Then the General, seeing that the crowd was coming toward the barracks, ordered two soldiers to take their posts with their guns sticking through the cracks in the shutters. When Pacheco came opposite the barracks, he shouted several times: ‘Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!’ instantly two shots rang out, and the man fell from his horse, dead.”
All listened to the story, and after it was finished there was a series of remarks.
“That was treachery,” said one.
“A trap they set for him.”
“They’ve wickedly deceived that man.”
“Deceived him? Why?” Springer’s father asked of a man in a blouse who had just made the assertion.
“Because they had promised him a pardon,” replied he of the blouse. “Everybody knows that.”
“But promising a pardon, and entering the city the way he did—like a conqueror—are two very different things,” rejoined the watch-maker.
“This is going to make a big noise,” replied the man.
They returned to the watch-maker’s shop, and as the other stores were closed, the Swiss closed his also.
“Would you like to dine with us?” said Springer to Quentin.
“Indeed I should!”
They climbed the spiral stairs to the floor above, and Springer presented Quentin to his mother; a pleasant woman, thin, smiling, very active and vivacious.
They dined; after dinner, the three men lit their pipes, and Springer’s father spoke enthusiastically of his home town.
“My town is a great place,” he said to Quentin with a smile.
“What is it?”
“Zurich. Ah! If you could see it!...”
“But father, he has seen Paris and London.”
“Oh! That makes no difference. I’ve known many people from Paris and Vienna who were astounded when they saw Zurich.”
Springer’s father and mother, though they had been in Cordova for over thirty years, did not speak Spanish very well.
What a difference there was between that home, and the house where Quentin had lived with María Lucena and her mother! Here there was no talk of marquises, or counts, or actors, or toreadors, or ponies; their only subjects of conversation were work, improvements in industry, art, and music.
“So you are leaving us?” asked Springer’s father.
“Yes. This place is dead,” replied Quentin.
“No, no—not that,” replied the younger Springer. “It isn’t dead; Cordova is merely asleep. All the kings have punished it. Its natural, its own civilization has been suppressed, and they have endeavoured to substitute another for it. And even to think that a town can go on living prosperously with ideas contrary to its own, and under laws contrary to its customs and instincts, is an outrage.”
“My dear lad,” rejoined Quentin rather cynically, “I don’t care about the cause for it all. What I know is that one cannot live here.”
“That is the truth,” asserted the older Springer. “One can attempt nothing new here, because it will turn out badly. No one does his part in throwing off this inertia. No one works.”
“Don’t say that, father.”
“What your father says, is right,” continued Quentin “and not only is that true, but the activity of the few who do work, annoys and often offends those who do nothing. For instance: I, who have done nothing so far but live like a rowdy, have friends and even admirers. If I had devoted myself to work, everybody would look upon me as a good-for-nothing, and from time to time, secretly, they would place a stone in my way for me to stumble over.”
“No, it would not be a stone,” said Springer, “it would be a grain of sand.”
“Still more outrageous,” rejoined Quentin.
“No,” added his friend, “because it would not be done with malice. These people, like nearly all Spaniards, are living an archaic life. Every one here is surrounded by an enormous cloud of difficulties. The people are all dead, and their brains are not working. Spain is a body suffering from anchylosis of the joints; the slightest movement causes great pain; consequently, in order to progress, she will have to proceed slowly,—not by leaps.”
“But among all this rabble of lawyers and soldiers and priests and pawn-brokers, do you believe there is one person who is the least bit sane?” asked Quentin.
“I think not,” the father broke in. “There are no elements of progress here; there are no men who are pushing on, as there are in my country.”
“I think there are,” replied his son; “but those who are, and they stand alone, end by not seeing the reality of things, and even turn pernicious. It is as if in our shop here, we found the wheel of a tower clock among the wheels of pocket watches. It would be no good at all to us; it would not be able to fit in with any other wheel. Take the Marquis of Adarve, who was a good and intelligent man; well, now he passes for a half-wit, and he is, partly—because as a reaction against the others, he reached the other extreme. He carries an automatic umbrella, a mechanical cigar-case, and a lot of other rare trifles. The people call him a madman.”
“All you have to be here,” said the older Springer, “is either a farmer or a money-lender.”
“The vocations in which you don’t have to work,” Quentin asserted. “The Spaniard’s ideal is: to work like a Moor, and to earn money like a Jew. That is also my ideal,” he said for his own benefit.
“As we were saying before,” added the younger Springer; “it is an archaic life, directed by romantic, hidalguesque ideas....”
“Ah, no!” replied Quentin. “You are absolutely wrong there. There is none of your romance, nor of your hidalgos; it is prose, pure prose. There is more romance in the head of one Englishman, than in the heads of ten Spaniards, especially if those Spaniards are Andalusians. They are very discreet, friend Springer; we are very discreet, if you like that better. A great deal of eloquence, a lot of enthusiastic and impetuous talk, a great deal of flourish; a superficial aspect of ingenuous and candid confusion; but back of it all, a sure, straight line. Men and women;—most discreet. Believe me! There is exaltation without, and coldness within.”
It was time to work, and the two Springers went down to their shop.
“Do you see?” said the Swiss to Quentin, as he sat in his chair and fastened his lens to his eye, “perhaps you are right in what you say, but I like to think otherwise. I am romantic, and like to imagine that I am living among hidalgos and fine ladies.... There you have me—a poor Swiss plebeian. And I am so accustomed to it, that when I go away from Cordova, I immediately feel homesick for my shop, my books, and the little concerts my mother and I have in which we play Beethoven and Mozart.”
Quentin gazed at Springer as at a strange and absurd being, and began to walk up and down the store. Suddenly he paused before his friend.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you think that I could deceive you, give you disloyal advice through interest or evil passion?”
“No; what do you mean by that?”
“Don’t compromise yourself with María Lucena.”
“Why?”
“Because she is a perverse woman.”
“That’s because you hate her.”
“No; I know her because I have lived with her without the slightest feeling of affection; and even so she was more selfish and cold than I was. She is a woman who thinks she has a heart because she has sex. She weeps, laughs, appears to be good, seems ingenuous: sex. Like some lascivious and cruel animal, in her heart she hates the male. If you approach her candidly, she will destroy your life, she will alienate you from your father and mother, she will play with you most cruelly.”
“Do you really believe that?” asked the Swiss.
“Yes, it is the truth, the pure truth. Now,” Quentin added, “if you are like a stone in a ravine, that can only fall, you will fall; but if you can defend yourself, do so. And now—farewell!”
“Farewell, Quentin; I shall think over what you have told me.”
Quentin put up at one of the inns on the Paseo del Gran Capitán. He intended to leave the city as soon as he possibly could.
Accordingly, that night after supper, he left the house and walked toward the station; but as he crossed the Victoria, he noticed that four persons were following him. He returned quickly, as he did not care to enter any lonesome spots when followed by that gang, and took refuge in the inn.
Who could be following him? Perhaps it was Pacheco’s brother. Perhaps one of his creditors. He must be on his guard. His room at the inn happened to be in an admirably strategic situation. It was on the lower floor, and had a grated window that looked out upon the Paseo.
The next day Quentin was able to prove that Pacheco’s friends were constantly watching the inn. Their number was frequently augmented by the money-lenders who came to ask for Quentin.
In the daytime, he did not mind going into the street, but when night fell, he locked his room, and placed a wardrobe against the door. Quentin was afraid that his last adventure might result fatally for him.
“I’ve got to get out of here. There are no two ways about it; and I’ve got to get out quietly.”
One day after the battle of Alcolea, Quentin was being followed and spied upon by Pacheco’s men, when as he passed the City Hall, Diagasio the hardware dealer, who was standing in the doorway, said:
“Don Paco is upstairs.”
Quentin climbed the stairs, slipped through an open door, and beheld the terrible Don Paco surrounded by several friends, up to his old tricks.
The revolutionist had ordered the head porter to take down a portrait of Isabella II, painted by Madrazo, which occupied the centre of one wall. After heaping improprieties and insults upon the portrayed lady, much to the astonishment and stupefaction of the poor porter, Don Paco had a ferocious idea; an idea worthy of a drinker of blood.
He produced a penknife from his vest pocket, and handing it to the porter and pointing to the portrait, said:
“Cut off her head.”
“I?” stammered the porter.
“Yes.”
The poor man trembled at the idea of committing such a profanation.
“But, for God’s sake, Don Paco! I have children!”
“Cut off her head,” repeated the bold revolutionist contumaciously.
“See here, Don Paco, they say that this portrait is very well painted.”
“Impossible,” replied Don Paco, with a gesture worthy of Saint-Just. “It was executed by a servile artist.”
Then the porter, moaning and groaning, buried the penknife in the canvas, and split it with a trembling hand.
At that moment several persons entered the hall, among them Paul Springer.
“Are you playing surgeon, Don Paco?” asked the Swiss with a mocking smile.
“Sí, Se?or; one must strike kings in the head.”
After cutting the canvas, the porter took the piece in his hand, and hesitatingly asked Don Paco:
“Now what will I do with it?”
“Take that head,” roared Don Paco in a harsh voice, “to the President of the Revolutionary Junta.”
Quentin looked at the Swiss and saw him smile ironically.
“How do you like this execution in effigy of yonder chubby Marie Antoinette?”
“Magnificent.”
“Just as I said. We are the City of the Discreet.”
The two friends bid each other good-bye with a laugh, and Quentin went home.
QUENTIN returned to the inn and shut himself up in his room. He wrote a farewell article for La Víbora entitled “And this is the End.”
When night fell, he lit his lamp and sent for his supper. He ate in his room to avoid any unpleasant encounters in the dining-room.
With his supper, the waiter brought two letters. One, by the rudely scrawled envelope, he saw was from Pacheco’s brother. It read as follows:
If you do not return the pocketbook you found in my brother’s house, you will not leave Cordova alive. Don’t fool yourself; you will not escape. Every exit is watched. You can leave the money in El Cuervo’s tavern, where some one will go and get it.
A Friend.
“Very good,” said Quentin, “let’s see the other letter.” He opened it, and it was still more laconic than the first.
We know that you have money, and do not wish to pay. Be careful.
Various Creditors.
“Well, sir,” murmured Quentin, “a whole conspiracy of bandits and money-lenders is plotting against me.”
It suited neither him nor the others to have the law mixed up in the affair. The cleverest, the strongest, or he who had the most cunning, would gain the day.
Quentin figured that he possessed those qualities to a greater degree than his enemies; this thought calmed him a little, but in spite of it, he could not sleep that night.
When he got up, he looked, as was his daily habit, through the windows of his room. Directly opposite, seated upon a bench, there were several loathsome individuals spying on him. At that very moment others took their places. Evidently there was a relief.
After eating, Quentin left the inn. When he reached the corner of the Calle de Gondomar, he looked cautiously behind him. Three men were following him, though apparently unconcerned with his movements. Quentin went down the street to Las Tendillas, turned to the left, entered the Casino, and sat down to take his coffee near a window that looked out upon the street.
The three individuals continued their espionage.
Quentin pretended not to see them. He seized several newspapers; and while he appeared to be deeply engaged in reading them, he was thinking up plans of escape and turning them over and over in his mind. The important thing was to keep the law from interfering, that there might be no scandal.
Don Paco, who had come in to take coffee, surprised him in this caviling. The man was oozing joy. The Revolution was made, the most glorious, the most humane that the centuries had ever witnessed. The entire world, the French, the English, the Swiss, the Germans;—all envied the Spaniards. Spain was going to be a different sort of country. Now, now, the great conquests of Progress and Democracy would be realized: Universal Suffrage, Freedom of Worship, Freedom of Association.
“And do you believe that all that will make life any better?” asked Quentin coldly.
“Why, of course!” exclaimed Don Paco, astonished at the question. “I tell you that the whole Progressist program is to be realized!”
Quentin smiled mockingly.
Don Paco continued his oration. His eternal sorrow was to see that after what he had done for the Revolution, they did not appreciate his true worth.
While the old man discoursed, Quentin continued to ruminate on his plans, and to absently watch his pursuers. Suddenly an idea occurred to him.
“Well, good afternoon, Don Paco!” he said; and without another word, he rose from his chair and left the room. He crossed the patio of the Casino, went up a stairway, asked a waiter for the key to the terrace, waited for it a moment, and went out upon the azotea. He could escape in that way, but there was still the danger of his exit from the city....
“Suppose I go to El Cuervo’s tavern and leave by the convent route?” he said to himself. “That would be admirable. Place myself in the wolf’s mouth to make my escape! That’s just what I’ll do. I’ll wait for it to get dark first.”
He went down to the salon again and took his place by the window. The espionage still continued. Late in the afternoon, Carrahola and El Rano passed along the street.
Quentin went to the door of the Casino and called to Carrahola.
“Do you mind telling me what this persecution means?” he said.
“You know better than any one else, Don Quentin,” answered Carrahola. “You are wrong not to return that money.”
“Bah!”
“Sí, Se?or; that’s the truth. Everything is guarded; the station, the roads,—you won’t leave Cordova unless you pay.”
“Really?” asked Quentin apparently frightened.
“You hear me. So you’d better hand over that money and not expose yourself to a stab with a dagger.”
“The devil! You very nearly convince me.”
“Do it, Don Quentin.”
“To whom shall I hand the money?”
“To Pacheco, Se?or José’s brother. He goes to El Cuervo’s tavern every night about eight o’clock.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Don’t stop to think, my friend! You ought to take that money back right away.”
“Well, you have persuaded me. I’ll go right away.”
Quentin made his way to the inn, followed by Carrahola and El Rano. He entered his room, closed the window, and lit the lamp. He still had in his pocket the pocketbook that he had found in Pacheco’s house. He took it out and placed it on the table.
He opened the wardrobe, searched the drawers, and in one of them found some copy paper written by a child, and in another a torn, and well-worn catechism by Father Ripalda.
He took the copy paper and the catechism, tied them together with a pack-thread, and thrust the package into the pocketbook which he tied up with another bit of thread.
“Very good,” he murmured with a smile.
This done, he put out the light, thrust the purse into his coat pocket, and left the inn. He began to walk rapidly, as one who has made a quick decision. He made his way to El Cuervo’s tavern, escorted by Carrahola and El Rano.
He looked into the office, and when he saw El Cuervo, exclaimed sourly:
“Hello!”
“Hello, Don Quentin!”
“Is Pacheco’s brother here?”
“No, Se?or.”
“What time will he come?”
“Oh, somewhere around eight o’clock.”
“Good. I have come to have an understanding with him, and I can’t make up my mind whether to give him the money or a stab with a dagger. Look here, here’s the pocketbook he’s looking for. Keep it. I’m going to wait in here for Pacheco, because I have some letters to write.”
“Go right upstairs.”
Quentin and El Cuervo went upstairs to a room with a balcony overlooking a patio.
“I’ll bring you some paper and ink presently,” said the landlord.
“Good. Until Pacheco comes, I do not wish to be disturbed by any one. Do you understand?”
“Very good.”
“When he comes, call me, and he and I will come to an understanding. But he must agree not to open the pocketbook until I am with him.”
“Never fear.”
The innkeeper went out and left Quentin alone in the room. He listened for a moment and heard the gay voices of Carrahola and El Rano. Evidently they were already celebrating their victory.
“Come, there’s no time to be lost,” said Quentin. Climbing to the outside of the balcony, which was not very high, and clinging to a water pipe, he lowered himself to the patio. This he skirted, hugging close to the wall. He pushed open the little door, closed it noiselessly behind him, and began slowly to climb the stairs. The steps creaked beneath his weight.
When Quentin arrived at the top of the stairs, he saw that the door through which he had once passed with El Cuervo, was locked. It had a transom, which he opened, and with a superhuman effort, managed to squeeze himself through, not without injuring one of his feet. He made a slight noise as he jumped down.
He listened for a while to see if any one were following him. He heard nothing. He closed the transom.
“Any one could tell where I went out,” he murmured.
He lit a match which he held in the hollow of his hand until he found the stairway made of beam ends sticking from the wall. When he had located it, he blew out the match, and climbed to the attic in the dark.
He lit another match and hunted for the aperture through which he and El Cuervo had passed, but he could not find it. Looking more carefully, he saw that it was fastened up by some boards held in place by bricks. He tore these aside with his nails one by one then he removed the boards, and the hole appeared.
Quentin went out on the roof. It was still light.
“Let’s get oriented,” he said to himself. “That’s the garret, which is the first place to go.”
Stooping on all fours, he slid along until he reached it. He paused to get his bearings again.
“Now I’ve got to cross that azotea where we abandoned Do?a Sinda: it must be that one. Here goes.”
He went on his way, jumped the balustrade on one side, then on the other, went a little further,—and turned the wrong way. He was confused, not knowing which way to go: whether to the right or to the left. It was beginning to get dark, and Quentin went around and around fruitlessly, unable to find the cornice along which he had passed with Pacheco.
Suddenly he heard the ding dong of a bell and supposing it to be that of the convent, he followed the direction of the sound, climbed a ridge pole, and saw beneath him the patio of a convent where several nuns were walking to and fro.
Quentin climbed down the whole side of a roof, found the cornice, and reached the balcony on all fours. The little window was open, and he jumped to the stairs.
There was a little passageway opposite, on one side of which was an open door that led into a kitchen. It was probably the gardener’s house; in the middle of the kitchen, seated upon the floor, was a child playing. Upon the wall hung a dirty blouse and an old hat.
“At them!” cried Quentin.
He entered the kitchen, seized the blouse with one hand and the hat with the other, and beat a hasty retreat. The child was frightened and began to cry. Quentin descended the stairs into the garden, and as no one was looking, put on the blouse, stuck the hat on his head, and went out into the street.
He went through alley after alley in the direction of El Matadero and the Campo de San Antón. As night fell, he was already well on his way to Madrid.
Meanwhile in El Cuervo’s tavern, everything was excitement and merry making. The news, divulged by Carrahola, that Quentin was there with the money, had attracted all the ruffians who had taken part in Pacheco’s chimerical attempt. They thought they would get paid for their services, and El Cuervo trusted them for wine.
They awaited impatiently the arrival of Pacheco, who was later than usual that evening. At eight-thirty he appeared.
“Pacheco! He’s come!” they all shouted at once when they saw him.
“Who?”
“Quentin. Here’s the pocketbook.”
“Did you let him go without following him?” asked the man, fearing a trick.
“Ca!” replied El Cuervo. “He’s upstairs. He said not to open the pocketbook until he was with you.”
“All right,” and Pacheco turned pale. “Tell him I am here.”
Pacheco knew from his brother what kind of a man Quentin was, and it irked him. He expected a surprise, and prepared himself accordingly.
El Cuervo went up to the room where he had left Quentin, and called several times:
“Don Quentin! Don Quentin!”
No one answered.
“Don Quentin! Don Quentin!”
The same silence.
El Cuervo gently opened the door. The bird had flown. But where?
In response to El Cuervo’s cries, Pacheco, Carrahola, and El Taco, came hurrying up the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” they asked.
“He’s not here.”
“That’s what I thought!” exclaimed Pacheco. “What can be in the pocketbook? Let’s look at it.”
They descended rapidly, Pacheco cut the threads, opened the pocketbook, and spilled upon the counter the child’s copy papers and Father Ripalda’s catechism, worn and shabby.
A cry of rage burst from every throat.
“We must look for him,” said one, “and make him pay for this joke.”
They ran through the whole house and looked into every corner. Nothing.
“Ah!... Now I know where he went,” said the innkeeper, “that way,”—and he pointed to the door in the patio. He lit a lantern and examined the steps one by one to see if there were any tracks in the dust. There was some discussion as to whether the traces they found were Quentin’s or not, but when they saw the closed door upstairs, nearly all of them were of the opinion that he could not have passed that way.
“Nevertheless,” said El Cuervo, “we’ll keep on going.” He opened the door, climbed to the attic, and saw the boards which had been torn down to allow free passage to the roof.
“He escaped through here.”
“What can we do?” asked Pacheco.
“A very simple thing,” replied El Cuervo; “surround this whole block of houses. He is probably waiting for it to get dark before he leaves, so perhaps we can catch him yet.”
“Good,” said Pacheco; “let’s go downstairs right away.”
The idea seemed an admirable one to all those who were in the tavern. Pacheco placed them on guard, and told them to warn the watchmen.
With the hope of pay, the whole gang of ruffians firmly stood their posts. Now and then they returned to the tavern for a glass.
Day dawned, and Pacheco’s men were still walking the streets, now hopeful, now with no hope at all.
The morning of the following day the rowdies were still on guard, when two lancers came up the street at a smart trot and drew rein before the tavern.
“Is this El Cuervo’s tavern?” asked one of them.
“Sí, Se?or.”
“Good. Here’s a letter.”
The innkeeper, his face the picture of surprise, took the missive, and as he could not read, handed it to Pacheco, who opened it and read:
Dear Friends:
By the time you receive this letter, I shall be many leagues away. I have left Cordova alive, in spite of your warnings. I left no money in the pocketbook, but something better for the salvation of your souls. Regards to my dear friends.
Q.
Pacheco went white with anger.
“Now we can’t do a thing,” he murmured.
That night in the coterie at the Casino, they were talking about Quentin.
A gentleman was reading the farewell article that Quentin had published in La Víbora under the title, “And this is the End.”
“Let’s hear it; let’s hear the end of it,” said several.
The gentleman began to read the ending. It went like this:
Adiós, Cordova, City of the Discreet, Mirror of the Prudent, Cross-roads of the Cunning, Nursery of the Sagacious, Encyclopedia of the Witty, Shelter of Those who Sleep in Straw, Cave of the Cautious, Conclave of the Ready-witted, Sanhedrim of the Moderate! Adiós, Cordova! And this is the end.
“Fine!” said some one with a laugh. “The fact is, Quentin is a very likable lad.”
“He’ll prosper.”
“Rather!”
“Some day he’ll be a deputy.”
“Or a minister.”
“He really is a most likable boy.”
And Escobedo, he of the black beard, who was present, added:
“He who triumphs is always likable.”
SIX years after, on the terrace of the Casino at Biarritz, Quentin was listlessly smoking a cigar. They were playing La Fille de Madame Angot, and the seducing music and the warm autumn air, made him sleepy.
Upon the table before him was the liste rose of an hotel; and among the names of dukes and marquises could be seen: “Quentin García Roelas, Deputy, Madrid.” This made Quentin smile as at the memory of a childish vanity.
Quentin’s face had changed, especially as to expression; he was no longer a boy; a few wrinkles furrowed his forehead, and crows’ feet were beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. For six years the quondam dare-devil had displayed a tireless activity. He went from triumph to triumph. During Amadeo’s reign, he had made his father a marquis; he had amassed a considerable fortune by his operations in the Bourse; and if his political position was not greater, it was because he was keeping quiet, waiting for an Alphonsist or Carlist situation.
And yet, in spite of his successes and his triumphs, his heart was empty. He was thirty-two years old. He could continue the brilliant career he had won for himself, could become a minister, and enter aristocratic society; but all this held no enchantment for him. In the bottom of his heart he realized that he was growing ill-natured. Biarritz bored him frightfully.
“Perhaps the best thing for me to do would be to take an extended voyage,” he thought.
With this idea in mind he got up from his chair, left the Casino, and went for a walk along the beach. He was standing near the Place Bellevue watching the sea, when he heard a voice that made him tremble.
It was Rafaela, Rafaela herself, with two children clinging to her hands, and another carried by a nurse and protected by a parasol. Quentin went over to her.
They greeted each other emotionally.
Rafaela was scarcely recognizable; she had taken on flesh and looked extremely healthy; she dressed very elegantly. The only thing that she retained of her former appearance was her sweet, gentle eyes, clear and blue. Her smile was now motherly.
Rafaela and Quentin talked for a long time. She told him of her great grief over the illness of her children. One had died; fortunately the other two children had become stronger, thanks to the open air; and the little girl, the baby at breast, promised to be very strong.
“And Remedios?” asked Quentin.
“Remedios!” exclaimed Rafaela. “You don’t know how provoked I am with her.”
“Why?”
“Because she has an impossible nature. She will not yield to anything.”
“Yes, even as a child one could see that she had a will of her own.”
“Well, she has a much greater one now. She has hated my husband and my mother-in-law from the very first; and they have done all in their power to please her and spoil her ... but no.”
“She is terrible,” said Quentin with a smile.
“We wanted to bring her here, and then to Paris; but at the last minute she refused to come. Then, you see, she is twenty-two years of age, and most attractive; she could marry very easily, for she has suitors,—rich boys with titles; but she will have none of them. She has too much heart. I tell her that one cannot be like that in life; one must conceal one’s antipathies, and moderate one’s affections, somewhat.... Doing as Remedios does exposes one to much suffering.”
“And yet, isn’t it almost better to deceive one’s self than to find out the truth, at the cost of withering one’s heart little by little?”
“I think it is better to know the truth, Quentin.”
“I don’t know about that. You are as discreet as ever, Rafaela.”
“No, I am much more practical than I was. But you, too, have lost something.”
“It’s true,” said Quentin with a sigh.
At this moment an elegantly dressed gentleman, with a white waistcoat and grey gloves, presented himself.
“Don’t you know each other? My husband ... Quentin, our relative.”
The two men shook hands, and they and Rafaela sat down upon a rock while the children played in the sand. Quentin was astonished at the change in Juan de Dios. The rude, coarse lad had been metamorphosed into a correct and polished gentleman with Parisian manners. There was no reminder of the Cordovese gawk.
Juan de Dios spoke pleasantly; Quentin could see that he was dominated by his wife, because every minute or two he glanced at her as if begging her approval of what he was saying. She encouraged him with a gesture, with a look, and he continued. He spoke of the situation into which the Republicans had led Spain, of the factious parties that were organizing on the frontier....
Quentin did not listen to him, as he was thinking about Remedios; that little wilful child, so big-hearted, who despised her suitors. In the midst of their chat, he asked Rafaela:
“Where is Remedios now?”
“On one of our farms, near Montoro.”
“I’m going to write to her.”
“Yes, do,” said Rafaela; “you don’t know how happy she would be. She attaches great importance to those matters. She thinks of you very often. She has read every one of the speeches you made in the Cortes.”
“Really?” asked Quentin with a laugh.
“Yes, really,” replied Juan de Dios.
“What address shall I put on the letter?”
“Just Maillo Farm, Montoro.”
Quentin waited a moment while he formulated a plan; then he exchanged a few phrases of farewell with Rafaela and her husband, and went to his hotel. He had decided to take the train and go in search of Remedios. Why not attempt it? Perhaps she had thought about him since childhood. Perhaps that was why she rejected her suitors.
Yes, he must try it. He ordered his baggage packed, boarded the train, and in a few moments got off at San Juan de Luz.
“There’s no sure way of crossing to Burgos without getting into trouble,” they told him at the station.
“What can I do?”
“Take ship to Santander, and go from there to Madrid by rail.”
He did this, and the next day, without stopping, he took the train for Andalusia.
He descended at Montoro in the morning, hired a horse, asked the direction of the Maillo farm, and immediately left town.
It was a foggy October day. It began to sprinkle.
Eight years before Quentin had come to that country on his return from school, on a morning that was also drizzly and sad.
What a wealth of energy and life he had spent since then! True, he had conquered, and was on the road to being a somebody, but—what a difference between the triumph as he had looked forward to it, and the same triumph as he looked back upon it! It was best not to remember, nor to think—but just to hope.
Ahead of him, along the misty horizon, he could see a line of low convex hills. Quentin had been told that he must go toward them, and in that direction he went at the slow pace of his horse. The road wound in and out, tracing curves in the level country between fields of stubble.
Here and there yokes of huge oxen tilled the dark soil; magpies skimmed along the ground; and overhead, flocks of birds like triangles of black dots, flew screeching by.
At this point a man mounted on a horse appeared in the road. He carried a long pike, with the point up and the butt supported by his stirrup, like a lance. He signalled Quentin to get to one side of the road. As he did so, several bulls and bell-oxen rushed past. Behind them rode two garrochistas or bull-stickers on horseback, each with a pike held in the middle and balanced horizontally.
“The peace of God be with you, Se?ores,” said Quentin.
“Good morning, caballero.”
“Am I taking the right direction for the Maillo farm?”
“Sí, Se?or; you are right.”
“Thanks very much.”
Quentin continued his way. Just before he reached the somewhat hilly country, a farmhouse appeared before his eyes. He went up to it, riding his horse across a red field which had been converted into a mud-hole by the rain.
“Hey!” he shouted.
An old man appeared in the doorway; he wore a pair of black leather overalls adorned with white bands, and fastened at the knee by clasps.
“Is this the Maillo farm?” asked Quentin.
“No, Se?or. This is the Las Palomas farm, which is owned by the same man. Do you see that hill with the trees on it? When you pass that you can see the farm.”
Quentin thanked him and urged on his horse. A drizzly rain was falling. Among the distant trees, which were yellow and nearly bare of leaves, flowed a bluish mist.
From the top of the hill he could see an enormous valley divided into rectangular fields; some still covered with stubble, others black with recently tilled soil, and some that were beginning to turn green. In the middle of it all, like dark and barren islands, were small hills covered with olive orchards; in the distance horses were grazing in huge pastures.
Quentin had stopped for a moment on the top of the hill, hesitating, not knowing which road to take, when he heard behind him a tinkling of bells, and then a voice shouting:
“Arre, Liviano! Arre, Remendao!”
It was a youth mounted on the haunches of a donkey, with his feet nearly touching the ground, and leading an ass laden with a pannier by the halter.
“The Maillo farm?” asked Quentin.
“Are you going there? So am I.”
The boy began to talk, and chatting like old friends, they reached the farm. It was a huge place, with a very large fence that enclosed all the departments and apparatus of the house. Inside was a chapel with a cross and weather-vane.
“Who can tell me where Se?orita Remedios is?” asked Quentin.
“Call the manager.”
The manager was not in, and he had to wait. At last a man of some forty years came toward him; he was powerfully built, and round-faced. Learning Quentin’s wishes, he pointed to a garden with a little gate at one end of it. Quentin knocked, the gate was opened to him, and an old woman appeared on the threshold.
“Is Se?orita Remedios in?”
“It’s you!” exclaimed the old woman. “How glad the child will be! Come in, come in!”
“You are Rafaela’s nurse, are you not?” asked Quentin.
“Sí, Se?or.”
They crossed a patio and entered an immense kitchen with a cooking-stove in one corner. Near the fire was a little old man with white hair.
“Don’t you know him?” said she who had opened the door. “It is Juan, the gardener of the other house. Juan!” she cried, “Se?orito Quentin has come!”
The old man arose and seizing Quentin’s hand, held it between his for some time.
“I cannot see well. I’m getting blind and deaf.” And Juan burst out laughing.
“You must be getting on in years, eh?”
“Seventy-five. Ha! ha! Sit down here and dry yourself a bit. The little girl will be here soon. It’s a long time since you have seen her, isn’t it?”
“Six years.”
“Well, she’s a beauty!... A lily! And then, so affectionate! If you could see her! She is teaching the children of all the farm hands to read and to sew.”
“So you are here with her, Juan?”
“Sí, Se?or, always with her. All my children are on the place. That’s what you ought to do. Se?orito: come and live here.”
“If I only could,” sighed Quentin.
As they were conversing, the door opened, and Remedios came running in.
Quentin rose to his feet and stared at her in surprise.
“It’s Quentin!” she cried.
“That’s who it is!”
“At last you have come,” she added, and held out her hand. “What are you looking at me like that for? Have I changed so very much?”
“Yes, very much.”
She was charming in her white dress, which clung to her graceful figure and well-rounded hips. There was a gracious smile on her lips, and her black eyes were shining.
“You are just the same,” she said.
“Yes, the same—but older. I saw Rafaela and Juan de Dios in Biarritz. They told me you were here.”
“And you came here immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Very well done. Let’s go to the dining-room. I am now the mistress of the house.”
They went into the dining-room. It was a large whitewashed room, with blue rafters in the ceiling, and a large, unpolished cabinet for the table-service. In the centre was a heavy table of oak, with a white oil-cloth cover, in the middle of which was a glass vase full of flowers. Near the window was an embroidery frame, and a small wicker basket full of balls of coloured yarn.
“Come, sit down,” said she. “They’ll set the table presently. Why do you look at me so much?”
“You are changed, child; but changed for the better.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really; you no longer have that restless look.”
A young girl set the table, and Remedios and Quentin sat down. Remedios talked of her life, a most simple one.
“I’ve already heard that you are giving lessons to the children,” said Quentin. “Does that entertain you?”
“Very much. They are all such clever little creatures!”
After dinner, the old servant showed Quentin to a large room with an alcove. He sat down in an armchair, preoccupied. The presence of Remedios had produced a most unusual effect upon him. He felt attracted to her as he had never felt attracted to any other woman. At the same time he was restrained by a feeling of humility; not because she was an aristocrat and he wasn’t, nor because she was young and pretty, and he was already growing old; but because he realized that she was good.
“If this visit turns out well,” he thought, “how glad I shall be that I came! But if it does not turn out well, my life will be ruined.”
Quentin arose and paced the room for over an hour. He gazed at the Carmen Virgin, with her bead-work shawl, that stood upon the walnut dressing-table; he looked absent-mindedly at the coloured lithographs on the wall, of which some represented scenes from the novel “Matilde, o las Cruzadas,” and others, scenes from “Paul et Virginie.”
“I must speak to Remedios immediately,” he thought.
Having made up his mind, with beating heart he went to look for her. She was sewing in the dining-room.
Quentin seated himself and began to talk on different subjects.
“When are you going to marry?” Quentin suddenly asked her.
“How do I know?” replied Remedios.
“Rafaela told me that you have refused many suitors.”
“You see, they want me to marry a man,” she replied, “because he has money or a title. But I don’t wish to. It makes no difference to me whether he is rich or poor; what I want is for him to be good, for him to have a blind trust in me, as I shall have in him.”
“And what do you call being good?” asked Quentin.
“Being worthy, sincere, incapable of treachery, incapable of deceit....”
Quentin fell silent, got up, and returned to his room. There he spent the entire afternoon pacing up and down like a wild beast in a cage.
At supper he said nothing; nor could he eat, no matter how hard he tried. As he rose from the table, he said in a voice choked with emotion:
“Listen, Remedios.”
“What is it?” she asked, perceiving his emotion without knowing the cause for it.
“I am going away.”
“You are going, Quentin? Why?”
“Because I am not sincere, nor am I capable of self-sacrifice and abnegation.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I am a deceiver, Remedios. I have lied so many times that now I do not know when I am lying, and when I am telling the truth.”
“And I believed in you, Quentin,” she said sadly.
“Now you know me. I have confessed this to no one but you. I cannot deceive you. No; I would deceive most any one—I’m so used to it!—but not you. Believe me, this is a great sacrifice on my part.”
“Aren’t you honest, Quentin?”
“Just enough so to keep out of jail.”
“And no more?”
“No more. I have been interested in no one but myself. I have been an ingrate.”
“Ungrateful too, Quentin?”
“Yes, that too. I am self-centred, a liar, a deceiver.... But even so, Remedios, there are men who have filthier souls than I.”
“You hurt me, Quentin.”
“What would you? I wished to be rich; and my heart, along with what few good qualities there were in it—if there were any—has gone on withering and being lacerated by the brambles along the road.”
“How sad it must be to live like that!”
“Pst!—Not sad.... No. It is like a magic lantern, understand?—Things happen; just happen, and that’s all.”
“Without love or hate?”
“Without anything.”
“Before—when you first met us, were you a deceiver then?”
“That is when I first began.”
“Adiós, Remedios. Believe that I have made, with this confession, a very great sacrifice.—Good-bye!” And Quentin held out his hand to her.
She drew back.
“Do I frighten you still?”
“No.”
“But won’t you give me your hand?”
“No. Not until you are good.”
“And then?”
“Then—perhaps.”
Quentin left the room with lowered head.
He sat at his window for many hours, smoking.
The night was clear, cool, and soft. The moon silvered the distant hills; a nightingale sang softly in the darkness. A flood of thoughts crowded Quentin’s brain.
“Conscience,” he said to himself, “conscience is a weakness. What is honesty? Something mechanical. For a woman it is the certainty of living with the mate provided by the Church; for a man, the proof that the money he owns was won by methods not included in books. But another, a higher honesty, such as that girl wants; is it not madness in a world where no one concerns himself with it? This girl has completely upset me.”
Quentin felt a strong desire to weep at the thought of having been so near happiness. He might have deceived Remedios.... No, he could not have deceived her.... Then he would not have been happy. As he thought, the full moon was climbing the heavens; its light, filtering through the leaves of a grape-vine, made beautiful little lace patterns on the ground. He could hear the continuous tinkling of the bells on the goats and cows; now and then there came to him the distant sound of footsteps and voices, the whispering of the wind in the foliage, the lowing of oxen, the neighing of horses and the knocking of the cows’ horns against the corral fence.
Suddenly Quentin made up his mind. He must go. It was necessary. He left his room, descended the stairs noiselessly, and made his way to the stable. He lit a lantern, saddled his horse, put on the bridle, and taking the animal by the bit, led him into the patio. He opened the wooden gate and followed the fence until he came to the road.
Quentin mounted and remained for a long time contemplating the front of the farmhouse, which was bathed in the moonlight.
“Ah, poor Quentin,” he murmured. “Your sophistry and cunning have been of no avail, here. Are you not good? Then you cannot enter paradise. You are not fighting brokers here, nor politicians, nor insincere folk. But a mere slip of a girl who knows not the world other than what her heart tells her. She has conquered you, you cannot enter paradise.”
The horse walked slowly along; Quentin looked back. A great cloud covered the moon; the whole country lay in darkness.
Quentin’s heart was heavy within him, and he sighed deeply. Then he had a surprise. He was weeping.
He continued on his way.
And the nightingales went on singing in the shadows, while the moon, high in the heavens, bathed the country in its silver light.
El Paular, June, 1905.
THE END