DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS (continued 6)

"That is evident; you have no occasion to revenge yourself on the good name of your family."

"Of course not!"

Then with much hesitation and timidity he confessed that he had a plan. It cost great trouble to make him reveal it.

Finally, by dint of entreaties, he declared that if Maximina would do him the honor of being the madrina at his wedding he should consider himself the happiest mortal in the universe. After he had said that he repented, the more as he saw that Miguel remained lost in thought; he then became so conscience-stricken that he flung his hat on the floor, and began to call himself names, and tear his hair.

"What does this mean, Enrique? Have you gone mad? As far as I am concerned there is no objection to it in the least. Ask her yourself, and if she consents, it is done."

"No, I won't ask her. Manolita is an honest girl, but of a very humble station in life. All those who will be present at the wedding will be also 'children of the people.' 'The lowest of the low,' do you see, my lad? We must call things by their right names. Your wife will not want to be there, and right she is."

Miguel got up from his chair, went to the door, and shouted:—

"Maximina!"

Instantly the little wife appeared.

"Enrique has come to ask you to be madrina at his wedding. Will you accept his invitation?"

"Oh! and so you are to be married, are you? Then I think that I should be very much pleased to be madrina."

Enrique's face lighted up as though at that instant he had seen a procession of all the angels, archangels, thrones, and dominions of Heaven; but suddenly growing serious, he replied, a little stiffly:—

"No, Maximina, it is impossible for you to be madrina. People of your station will not be present at my wedding."

The young matron looked at him in surprise:—

"Of my station?"

"Yes; only women of the common people will be there: fish-wives, fruit-women, tavern keepers' wives, etc."

"What difference does it make to me who comes? I will be madrina if you wish. Do you take me for some princess?"

"An angel is what you are!" exclaimed Enrique, instantly losing his senses: as proof of it, his hat, which just before he had dashed to the floor, he now flung to the ceiling, then he immediately sprang after it into the air, making three or four portentous pirouettes; quickly realizing the enormity of his behavior, he took Maximina's hands, and began to kiss them in a perfect frenzy.

"You will forgive me this sudden freak, won't you, Miguel? Your wife is better than if she were made of gold and diamonds!"

"I suppose so; what could I do with a wife made of gold and diamonds?"

"Man alive! don't be so literal; that is a saying! Maximina, every one speaks so well of you ... even my sister Eulalia, which means a great deal, as you can imagine. But no one knows what your worth is! As soon as I take part in another corrida, I will present you the bull."

"No, no, Enrique," protested Maximina, laughing.

The young man's face darkened.

"That is a fact; a bull killed by me has little value. But I assure you that I am going to, or at least I can get Lagartijo, the great Lagartijo himself to present you one in a benefit fight."

"You misunderstood me; I said no, because I never go to bull-fights."

"What! doesn't Miguel take you? Shameless wretch! Never you mind, child; leave it to me, and at the first corrida that takes place, you shan't fail of a private box, or at least two front seats."

The padrino chosen to stand with Maximina was a cavalry captain, an old comrade of the bridegroom's.

"I am afraid that he may not be to your mind, Madrina" (from that moment till the end of his days, Enrique never called Miguel's wife anything else); "for though he is a very distinguished man, he is rather a misogynist,[47] do you see?"

"I don't understand you...."

Miguel burst into a laugh.

"That is, he does not enjoy ladies' company."

"Ah, very good," rejoined the young wife; "I will promise not to trouble him."

"How could you trouble him, star of the morning?" exclaimed Enrique, losing his balance again; "It is worth more to hear you talk than Tamberlik, in the credo of 'Il Poliuto'! What I fear is, that he will not hold his tongue."

The time set was Wednesday, and the hour seven in the morning. The day broke clear and magnificent; in the Madrid streets not a speck of mire could be seen; that which soiled the good name of the Rivera family was purely metaphorical. Miguel and Maximina went to the bridal apartment, which was the third-story room on the same Calle del Baño, not facing the street.

Enrique had rented it after consultation with his lady-love, and had furnished it little by little, bringing every day, like a goldfinch, his bit of straw in his bill: one day the wardrobe; another, a table; another, a couple of cane-seated chairs; and then again, a few dozen of dishes; and so on. The nest was plain and small, but pleasant, like all that is new and prepared for and by love.

Enrique had not told a falsehood: no lady was present or gentleman in dress-coat, except the padrino, who had one on, though it was the worse for wear, to be sure. On the other hand, the worthy women who were present, and the handsome young chulas, showed in their dress a picturesque magnificence very pleasant to see,—rich mantles of burate, brocaded in a thousand colors, and reaching almost to the floor; over that lace or plush mantillas, unlimited shoes of patent leather; in their ears huge pearl pendants; on their fingers enormous diamond rings. The arrangement of the hair was in almost all cases the same—parted in the middle, the hair on the crown bunched up behind, and little corkscrew curls at the temples.

The men for the most part wore a short coat and narrow-brimmed hat; but there were quite a number of toreros, friends, all of them, of the bridegroom; and they wore well-girdled jackets of velvet or broadcloth, according to their standing in the art, tight-fitting pantaloons, and embroidered shirts with huge brilliants in the bosom.

Miguel was the only member of the family that graced the occasion. Julita, who had been told of it by her brother, wanted to go, but her mother forbade it. Enrique likewise did not invite his friends in his own rank of society, for the reason that he gave Maximina; that is, because he did not want to mortify them.

When Miguel's wife made her appearance, a murmur of respect and admiration went round among the guests; some among them were polite enough to take off their hats. Manolita, who, be it said parenthetically, was exquisite in her black merino dress and velvet mantilla, when she saw her come in, was as confused as though it had been the queen, and went to meet her, trembling and with her face aflame.

"Señorita.... I am much obliged.... How do you do?"

"But," our readers will say, "have we not insisted that Manolita was a bold and redoubtable chula, if there are such?"

Now then, you shall see; the majority of these chulas are really, to use the vulgar expression, 'unfortunates'; their exterior is the only terrible thing about them.

The strange thing in this case was that Maximina was as confused and flushed as Manolita was. Instead of having a haughty look or affecting a condescending expression as many ladies would have done to find herself among a set of plebeians, our little matron acted as though she were just making her appearance in an assembly of princes.

The procession started on its march to San José's.

But before we forget it, let us say that among the guests was dexterous José Calzada (a) el Cigarrero, with his band, which unfortunately missed the congenial Baldomero. The famous bull-slayer respectfully shook hands with Maximina, and she, who had shed tears when Miguel described the death of Serranito, gave him a look that spoke louder than words the admiration which his noble conduct had inspired in her.

Manolita also introduced her father to her, that awe-inspiring Cyclops whose acquaintance we have already made; fortunately he had not as yet had a chance to get tipsy; to greet her he doffed his sombrero, which must have weighed half an arroba,[48] and emitted a series of such odious grunts that Miguel's wife was frozen with terror.

The house in the Calle del Baño was all in commotion with this wedding. The procession escorting the pair made an infernal noise clattering down the stairs; the neighbors opened their doors to watch them pass. In the street, also, the people stopped, and shouts, "A wedding! a wedding!" and the questions of the passers-by were heard.

"Who are they," demanded an old shopkeeper.

"A milkmaid marrying a señorito: look; that's him in front," replied a chula, who had stopped in front of the shop.

"And the bride?"

"There she goes in the middle of 'em all, walking with a señorita!"

"Handsome piece! The señorito shows good taste. I would not object to marrying her myself."

"Aha! That would be a good one, wouldn't it!"

"Well, I'd take you, Barbiana!"

"Ay! You'd see me die first! My dear old fellow, 'Young sheep and old bell-wether never get along together.'"[49]

"Señorita," Manolita was meantime saying to her madrina, "I can never repay you for the honor which you are doing me. Enrique was right in praising you!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake don't call me señorita; I am your cousin; I want you to call me Maximina; say 'thou' to me."

"Oh, I could never do that! What I am going to ask you as a special favor is, that when we get home, you will let me give you a dozen kisses."

Maximina smiled, and pressed her hand affectionately.

The priest blessed the union of the couple in the sacristy; then they went into the church and heard mass and took the sacrament.

When they went out into the street, the clock was just striking eight. The procession had greatly increased; there were more than sixty people surrounding the bridal couple. As it was impossible for so many to drink chocolate in the rooms in the Calle del Baño, it had already been decided days before that they should go to the Café de Cervantes, which is near the church. They accordingly went in there, and almost completely filled it. A most animated conversation sprang up on all sides, so that soon no one could hear himself talk.

Enrique, flushed with emotion, sat down at one table with Miguel, and began to unburden himself with remarkable verbosity:—

"I know well enough, Miguel, that I might have married a señorita, but don't you see, I have never cared at all about señoritas? They say the trouble is that I haven't any conversation. It may be so. We shall see; Miguelillo, isn't my flamingo worth all the sugar-paste señoritas of the upper ten? And besides, she knows how to work, and that is more than any of these high-flyers know how to do; and she can live on two pesetas a day, and she can put a shawl on her head—do you understand? and take her place in the Plaza de la Cebada,[50] where vegetables are the cheapest; and when we go to the theatre, we shan't have to get a box or seats in the parquet. From the gallery we can see the play well enough, and be well satisfied; and if it is necessary, she can cook the dinner, and there is no need of going with her every day making calls. That comes in handy, my boy! You see, I am going to have forty-three duros' pay now that I am in the active service; my rooms will cost seven; that leaves thirty-six. We shall get along, Miguel; we shall get along! Besides, my mother has promised to help me; she will give me garbanzos and chocolate, and some little thing 'under the rose,' do you see? We've got our rooms all fixed up. It cost me a good deal of work. For nearly a year I have not taken coffee, nor gone to the theatre, nor smoked anything except cigarettes; everything so as to save for this furniture! Man! I tell you that I have gone with one hat all the year, and that I have had my boots tapped three times! But I have done it all with delight for my darling chulilla, who is worth all Peru! Just look, look at her! See what eyes she is making at us!"

Enrique's happiness was so contagious that Miguel always felt happy to be with him.

This lad had often made him think that to be happy in this world one needs only to believe that one is.

They had not yet finished taking their chocolate, when the doors of the café were flung open, and six or seven street-musicians appeared on the scene, and they with their brass instruments made a discordant and unsanctimonious band. They immediately began to set up a waltz or something of the sort. Now, instead of escaping, and hiding in the garret, these people received the band as though it were the Sociedad de Conciertos, and began to accompany the music with their voices, and with their spoons, enough to scare away Mephisto himself.

Maximina got up, not on account of the noise, but because she was anxious about her baby, who was probably getting hungry. Manolita looked at her with timid eyes, as though reminding her of her promise. Miguel's wife threw her arms around her and kissed her tenderly, whispering in her ear:—

"Come and see us, and I will show you my baby: you will, won't you?"

When husband and wife left the café, they were in a happy frame of mind. Hearing from a distance the noise of the band and voices, Miguel exclaimed:—

"What a jolly wedding this has been! No toasts were given, and no poems were read!"

XXI.

With suitable precautions, that is, first vaguely insinuating the idea, afterwards making it more and more definite, Miguel brought it to his wife's notice that he must go to Galicia for a few days. She received the news with consternation; but perceiving that her husband was annoyed, she made an effort to control herself, and became calm, and finally even quite cheerful. But finding herself, as always after breakfast, seated on her husband's knee, while the "little rascal" was sleeping, and ready to talk about the linen that the traveller would need for his journey, the tears came into her eyes when least expected.

"What a girl you are," exclaimed Miguel, kissing her, "only a few days' separation!"

"I was not crying for that exactly," rejoined Maximina, endeavoring to smile. "But for several days I have been having such melancholy forebodings."

"What forebodings?"

"I imagine that I am not going to live very long."

"Ave María! what a terrible idea! What makes you have such crazy notions?"

"I don't know," replied the little wife, smiling though the tears were sliding down her cheeks. "What I dread most is leaving my baby while he is so young."

"Don't be absurd!" said Miguel, impatiently. "These gloomy ideas are caused by the sadness that you feel at having me go away. As for the rest, though death is liable to come to any of us, there is no reason to think that yours is near at hand. You are a child of seventeen; you were never ill a day in your life, except when the baby was born. You enjoy perfect health.... It is much more likely that I should die before you: I am considerably older; besides, I haven't a very strong constitution, as you know...."

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Maximina, throwing her arms around him, and bursting into a passion of tears. "I don't want to hear that you may die!"

"Why, my child, there is nothing to be done about it."

"But I don't want to hear about it; I don't want to, I do not!" she replied, with such lovely determination that her husband covered her with kisses.

After a while, and when they had been speaking of other things, Maximina returned to the same topic.

"If I should die, you would marry again, wouldn't you, Miguel?" she asked, with an expression half serious and half mischievous, which nevertheless concealed a very real meaning and a genuine anxiety.

"Back to the old subject? Please don't indulge in any more of these follies, sweetheart."

"Would you marry again, Miguel?" she insisted, ceasing to smile, and showing her anxiety.

"Well, then, I am going to speak with all frankness: If you should die (but you aren't going to die), I will not answer for it, that in the course of my life I should never have anything to do with other women; but I give you my word and oath that I will never marry any one else. And this is not alone because of the deep and affectionate love which I bear you, so that to-day you are an essential part of my being, and if you were taken away from me it would be as though half of myself were taken away, but also for selfish reasons. I should be unhappy with any other woman. God has endowed you, my darling, with all, absolutely with all, the qualities necessary for making me happy."

The little wife well understood that these words were sincere, and she looked at her husband with enthusiasm and joy.

Miguel, in speaking the last words, had felt his heart growing tender: he covered his eyes with his hands, and turned away his head. On seeing him in this attitude a smile of intense delight illumined his wife's face.

"Are you crying?" she whispered into his ear.

Miguel did not reply.

"Are you crying?" she repeated. "You are crying; don't try to deny it." And with infantile curiosity she tried to pull his hands away from his face.

"Stop, stop!"

"Let me see thy tears, Miguel!"

And she struggled with all her might to see her husband's eyes full of tears.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asked, laughing; then after a moment of silence, "And you, Maximina," he said, in a tone of anxiety, "would you marry again?"

"Oh! for Heaven's sake!"

"You are very young, and it would not be at all strange if this should happen. After some time the same circumstances might drive you to it! Perhaps your relatives might urge you into it: a woman is not well off alone in the world.... If this took place, I have no doubt that you would love your husband; but I could take my oath that you would not love him as much as you love me. There are things, Maximina, that are never repeated, and one of them is first love; especially if this first love has been blessed by Heaven as yours has been. Just notice the walls of this study; preserve in thy memory the form of these pieces of furniture, the color of the carpet, the sweetness of that sunbeam that comes through the window. All this that now has so little importance, if I should die, would, perhaps, seem much more so, for the moments of bliss which we are now spending here, with thee sitting on my knees, and with me looking into thy dear eyes, would never again return, Maximina, would never return for thee!"

The little wife fell back against her husband's breast, when she heard those words, like a sensitive plant which contracts at the slightest touch.

"Oh! Miguel, light of my life, what have I done to make thee speak to me so?"

And sobs choked her.

He tried to pacify her by such means as were in his power; but to accomplish it he found himself obliged to promise her solemnly that he would not die!

At last the day set for his journey arrived. It had been agreed that during Miguel's absence Julita should come and sleep with her sister-in-law. She and la brigadiera both came over that afternoon to bid the traveller good by. It was just dusk. Miguel, after eating a hurried and solitary dinner, sent for a carriage, and prepared to depart. When he went toward his wife to kiss her, she darted away, and ran to hide in her bedroom.

"But it is your husband, tonta!" cried Julita, laughing.

Miguel followed her, and groping around in the darkness, found her in one corner.

"Don't you want me to kiss you, sweetheart?"

"Oh, yes, Miguel; but there before people I should die of mortification!"

As our young man took his place in the carriage he felt his heart depressed within him.

"If it were not for what is at stake, I should not have been mixed up in this dirty business, and I certainly should not be leaving my wife and baby," he said to himself, with some bitterness.

Before reaching his district he made a stop at the capital of the province, where he was received with extreme cordiality by the governor. He was a young man who had recently been filling the position of second or third gazetillero on a liberal paper at the capital. It was said in the city that his administrative knowledge might possibly have been more solid without doing any harm; but, on the other hand, whenever it took his fancy he replied in rhyme to letters, walked the street, in free and easy costume, gave lunch-parties to the provincial deputies almost every day, enjoyed cracking jokes with the ushers, and when the assembly was in session, sometimes permitted himself to whistle in an undertone arias from Blue Beard or The Grand Duchess. His name was Castro.

As soon as Miguel presented himself at the Gobierno Civil, Castro gave him a most hearty squeeze, as though he were an intimate friend, although they had never spoken together in Madrid more than three or four times, and began to address him from the very first with the familiar "thou." He instantly promised him the whole weight of his official influence.

"I'll get you in swimmingly, my lad, no matter what it costs. Go to the district and write me from there all that you need, and I will do for you anything in the world."

Rejoiced and flattered by this reception, our hero on the following day took the diligence for Serín, which was about seven leagues from the capital.

It was a miserable little village, but admirably situated near a river, the banks of which displayed the luxuriant vegetation of tropical countries, and the fresh verdure of the North; orange-trees, lemon-trees, and river-laurels almost shook hands with oak and chestnut groves which swept up the slopes of the mountains; they in turn were gentle and green in the foreground, dark and steep in the background, thus making a magnificent chain, rendering the landscape most picturesque. The group of white cottages that composed the village of Serín was surrounded by a thick border of trees, except on the side of the river, in whose clear blue waters it was reflected.

Now this delectable spot, which appeared like a little corner of Paradise was rather a little corner of Hades, as Miguel was quickly able to assure himself. It even had, as we shall soon see, not one, but two, serpents to torment its inhabitants.

These had been divided from time immemorial into two parties—"those of the Casona" and "those of the Casiña," thus named because the first met in a great, dark mansion with two machiolated towers, which stood at the upper end of the village, while the others met in a one-storied and highly ornamented edifice with a handsome portal with an iron grating and two great balconies, and was situated on the Muelle by the river.

They were likewise called "Don Martín's Party" and "Don Servando's," after the name of their respective leaders.

The division of these parties was not based upon the fact that the one, that of the Casona, represented the traditional and conservative element, while that of the Casiña stood for the progressive and liberal, the first having often been seen taking the side of "liberal administrations," and the other sustaining the cause of the "moderate" candidate. The quarrel was kindled solely by the eagerness for controlling local politics, and thus of being in last analysis the masters of the village. The rest was not of the least consequence. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that Don Martín's party had marked tendencies towards absolutism. In Don Servando's, on the other hand, there was no noticeable predilection for liberty.

It was this Don Servando, who, as Miguel alighted from the diligence and received him, took him home, willy nilly. He was a fat man of medium height, and was approaching his seventieth birthday; his face, with its deep red complexion, was adorned with short gray whiskers; he wore a very long, black frock coat, and black hongo besides.

"Have I the honor of addressing Señor Corcuera," he asked him very politely, with a strong Galician accent.

"No, sir; my name is Miguel Rivera, at your service."

"That is very good," the Galician replied, and addressing himself to a servant, he said: "Muchacho, look up the gentleman's luggage, and take charge of it. I will tell you where it has to be carried."

"I suppose that you are Señor Bustelo," Miguel hastened to say.

"We will have a chance to talk as we go around yonder corner. You will do me the favor to follow me."

And Don Servando set forth with firm and deliberate step toward the corner indicated. Miguel followed him without understanding what it all meant.

When they had reached there, Don Servando said to him, without looking at him, and as though he were speaking with the above-mentioned corner:—

"I received word from the Señor Governor that you were to arrive this afternoon, and I take it for granted that you will do me the honor of accepting modest hospitality at my house."

"Provided that you are Señor Bustelo."

"The house that you see yonder, where there is a belvedere, is mine, my dear sir. Have the goodness to go on ahead, and I will immediately follow."

Miguel did what he commanded, without understanding the meaning of all this mystery. Afterwards he had just as little an idea, but it no longer surprised him.

Don Servando's predominant characteristic, which was manifested in all his acts, and never failed him, was caution. He never asked directly more than he already knew; what he was anxious to find out he always accomplished by means of a long series of circumlocations, and hiding his design. He never gave a straightforward and prompt answer to questions, no matter how insignificant or meaningless they were.

After being a few hours in his company Miguel became convinced that it was idle to try to find out anything about his personality. It was, above all, on account of this quality that he was greatly admired by all his friends and feared by his opponents. He talked little, and never looked a man in the face.

After they had eaten supper, and the guest's luggage had been brought in with infinite precautions, the two shut themselves into Don Servando's office, where, in less than an hour, he imbibed six bottles of beer.

"It seems to me that you are fond of beer, Señor Bustelo."

"Psh! so, so.... I prefer wine," he replied, with the gravity and the Galician accent peculiar to him.

On the following days Miguel had the opportunity of observing that he scarcely touched wine.

One after another, and as though some desperately dangerous conspiracy were in progress, the official candidate received the calls of Don Servando's partisans, who promised great success in the coming election. Nevertheless Miguel was quick to see that the forces were very evenly balanced; indeed, so well that while in what we might name the urban region of Serín, in the brain of the community, the Casiña party was predominant, it was in a large minority in the rural districts. Official influence was as little at the complete disposition of this party; while the town authorities[51] of Serín were theirs; those of two other precincts, Agüeria and Villabona, gave allegiance to Don Martín, and it was in these, after all, that the key of the election finally lay.

General Ríos had been put up for this district without opposition, and from that moment the partisans of the Casona had rivalled Don Servando's in zeal and efficacy in serving him. This was the usual tactics among them. When they found it impossible to struggle they humiliated their proud heads, and did all that they could to win the deputy's friendship, or at least his good will, to beg a few of the crumbs of favor, so that they might not be wholly at the mercy of their implacable enemies. They well knew by experience that if this happened, they were liable to all kinds of annoyances, and sometimes to the guard-house, since each party excelled in letting the star of the morning witness their dissipations.

Owing to this state of affairs, though the general inclined toward the Casiña party, he had not consented to the others being maltreated, and he had even gone so far as to leave in their hands certain offices which were in the gift of the state, and this stirred up the wrath of Don Servando's friends, and made them so indignant that they secretly murmured against the count, and even proposed to "pay him off" when the suitable occasion came.

Thus it was that as the horizon was now darkened by a second deputy, who they hoped would be absolutely in their interests, and tear up by the roots Don Martín's influence in the concejo,[52] at least for a long season.

It was for this reason that Don Servando had the keen foresight to lodge him in his house, in order that neither Don Martín nor any of Don Martín's friends could call upon him.

On the next morning after his arrival Miguel wrote Maximina, and sallied forth to drop the letter in the post-office, thinking that it was a good time to explore the town. In the first street, which ran into the Muelle, he discerned a letter-box, and made for it; but, as he came near to it, he found that it had a board nailed over the aperture. He walked along a little farther and soon saw another; but here this same state of things was repeated, and likewise in three or four others which he happened upon in various parts of the village.

"Will you please tell me where I can mail this letter?... All the boxes that I have found are nailed up," he said to a domestic who was passing.

"It's because Don Matías is postmaster now ... you'll find it in a provision store near the Muelle, do you see?... Don't miss your way ... follow this street down, and you'll see it."

The postmastership, as he discovered afterwards, was one of the perquisites which the two parties of Serín quarrelled over furiously, it having passed alternately from the hands of one of Don Servando's friends to those of one of Don Martín's, and vice versa. As each time it came into the hands of a different person,—for it was necessary to satisfy all,—it happened that many of the houses in Serín had been pierced for letter-boxes. The postmaster received the salary of three thousand five hundred reals[53] a year.

As he was walking along one of the streets he met Don Servando, who greeted him solemnly, and started to pass on.

"What is the good word, Señor Bustelo; are you going home?"

"No, sir, no; I am taking a little walk; then I have some business to attend to.... Good by, Señor de Rivera."

Miguel went home, but before he reached the house he saw Don Servando go in. Why had he lied? God only knows.

When he learned that Miguel had posted a letter, the chief of the Casiña party turned livid.

"What!... Señor Rivera ... a letter?"

"Yes, sir; a letter," replied Miguel, not understanding the reason for his surprise.

"But don't you know, my dear sir, that Don Matías is ... belongs to the others?"

"What of that?"

"Here we never receive or drop letters at the village post-office; we send them to Malloriz, and there we have also a person who gets those directed to us, and forwards them to us afterward."

"Man alive! what distrust!"

"We can't be too careful, my dear sir; we can't be too careful."

Assured by the thought that his letter was for his wife, he immediately invited Don Servando to take a bottle of beer. For the leader of the Casiña beer-drinking was an august function of life. He had surprised the community by saying, perhaps with truth, that he drank five duros' worth a day of this beverage. Such prodigality, truly tremendous in that region, helped him not a little in maintaining his prestige. Don Servando was the only rich man who spent all his income in Serín, and this was because he was a bachelor.

XXII.

The first thing that the Casiña party demanded of Miguel, as a condition of his election, was to accomplish the dismissal of the jailer, get the post-office from Don Matías, and the tobacco-shop[54] from a man named Santiago, all of whom belonged to Don Martín's party.... And in fact Miguel wrote to the governor and his Madrid friends; in five or six days came the decapitation of the tobacconist and Don Matías, and shortly after that of the alcaide, there being named in place of them three other individuals, who swore by Don Servando's beer. This gentleman, when he received the news, found it in him to smile and drink three schooners without breathing.

His friends perceived in that smile and the absorption of the three schooners such a great and deep mystery, that they looked at each other, filled with faith and enthusiasm for their chief.

But the Casona party were bold enough in spite of being in opposition, and they proclaimed to the four winds the candidacy of Corrales, who, having been minister several times, enjoyed much notoriety in the country, although he had no official power to back him. The fact was that he was master of the ayuntamientos of Agüeria and Villabona, and that the combined vote of these districts fully counterbalanced the majority which his opponents might raise against him in Serín. The election was by universal suffrage, but both parties had perfectly calculated their forces. Consequently, the first question on the carpet that night in Don Servando's office, the dismissal of the alcaide having been obtained, was the suspension of the municipal governments above mentioned, and this had to be done before the opening of the electorial period.

They were there discussing the most suitable methods of carrying out this plan, when one of the numerous spies whom Don Servando kept in the village came into the room and informed them that Don Martín had booked for the following day in the Ferrocarrilana.

This bit of news caused deep perturbation among those present, and it was immediately understood, though no one dared to ask the question of him, that Don Servando would join him in this journey, since such had been the custom from time immemorial. As soon as Don Martín made a move from the village, his rival packed his valise, and followed him wherever he went, taking it for granted that when he went away it must be for something, and this something could not be else than some harm for himself or his friends. When Don Servando undertook a journey, his enemy Don Martín did the same; everybody in the town knew this custom, and no one saw anything strange in it.

In truth, as soon as all had taken their departure, Don Servando sent his servant to secure an outside seat in the Competencia. He did not bid Miguel farewell, but made arrangements so that he should not suffer from any lack during his absence.

This lasted two days.

At the end of this time he returned, or, more correctly, both chiefs returned. Don Martín had gone down to the capital to have a tooth filled.

Every day Miguel received a little letter folded double, and directed in a handsome English hand—that taught at the Colegio de Vergara. Maximina did not write a great deal, though much more than before she was married. Her instinct told her that Miguel could not laugh at the trifles that she told him now, especially if they had reference to the baby. In all of them there was expressed an irresistible desire for him to return home as soon as possible, and yet she tried to hide it lest she should disturb him in his duties.

"Yesterday, Julita took me out to drive. It was crowded, and she was very gay. When I got home, I felt such a deep sadness that I cannot explain it to you. I remembered that the last time that I rode through the Castellana was with thee, my life, my all!"

The maiden from Pasajes, under the influence of her husband, who had never been sparing in the matter of affectionate words, had grown more lavish in her caresses. The same thing will happen to every loving woman, if she has a husband like Miguel, a little sentimental.

"Last night I woke up between four and five, and without knowing what I did, I was just going to give Julia a kiss, imagining that it was you. Before I did so, I came to my senses. Such keen pain came over me that I cried more than an hour. I don't see why Julia did not wake up. Forgive me for telling you these things, my darling; I am a fool. The main thing is that you are getting along well, as you say, and that you attain your desire. There will still be time, if God is willing, for us to be together. For God's sake, don't neglect to say your prayers when you go to bed."

Each of these letters made our candidate melancholy and thoughtful for a while.

"How glad I should be to give these Caffres their walking-ticket, and go and give a hug to the daughter of my mother-in-law (God bless her!)," he said to himself more than once.

But as his affairs were progressing with 'a fair wind,' he suffered patiently. He wrote to various friends in Madrid to exert themselves for the suspension of the unfriendly ayuntamientos above mentioned. Mendoza and others also replied that the President and the ministry gave their consent. Nevertheless, the days passed, and the order did not come.

The Casiña party had on their hands another project for which they were very strenuous, though not to the same degree as the above. This was the highway between Serín and Agüeria, which the inhabitants of both places wished to be put out at public contract. Many times they had made attempts through each faction, but without success. At last the general promised them that he would not cease his endeavors until he had accomplished it; but his departure for Germany had disappointed Don Servando's partisans, who hoped that the district would owe the benefit to them, and not to the Casona party. But now it came to light that the latter were actively at work in Madrid through the intervention of Corrales, who, as ex-minister and an individual well known in politics, had never ceased to be on friendly terms with the present ministers.

Thereupon, the Casiña party became alarmed, and brought pressure on Miguel to use all his influence again, so that this favor might in nowise be granted to Corrales, but rather to the official candidate whom they supported.

Miguel received word from Madrid that the matter was in a fair way of being settled; later he got another letter in which it was said that the minister had promised to give the order immediately; then came still another which said that the order would appear very soon in the Gazeta. Nevertheless, just as in the matter of the suspension, nothing came of it: it failed to appear.

And Don Servando's janizaries, though very certain of victory, began to grow impatient, and to assail Miguel, who, in his turn, was still more vexed by their innuendos, and felt the most savage inclination to say something impudent in their faces.

One afternoon, when they were as usual drinking beer in Don Servando's office, they heard the sound of a bomb exploding in the air. They suddenly became solemn and silent with their ears pricked up. In a moment another was heard, and some one present said:—

"They are rockets!"

"Rockets at this time of day?"

And the seven or eight men present looked at each other in amazement and no little alarm, for the two factions lived in perpetual excitement.

"Is there any special celebration at church to-morrow?"

"No, sir."

"Suppose one of you go out and investigate...."

Two men left the room, and returning in a few moments pale and excited, said, with trembling voices:—

"The rockets are being sent up from the balcony of the Casona."

"Those ... have received notice about the public contract."

Anxiety and terror seized all hearts: by a simultaneous movement they turned their eyes to the chief, famous for his sagacity.

Don Servando deliberately drank two schooners of beer, and after wiping his lips again and again with his handkerchief, he broke the strained silence, saying:—

"Señor Alcalde, go to the town-house and send two constables to the Casona, and warn them not to send up any more sky-rockets. Article 62 of the Municipal Ordinances forbids their being shot without permission from the authorities."

The janizaries heaved a sigh of relief; not in vain had they placed their trust in their astute chief. The Alcalde went out on his errand, and the others remained discussing the incident, endeavoring to explain how the news had reached the others sooner than it had them. The general opinion was that there had been some blunder in the mails.

Don Martín's friends, irritated by the Alcalde's prohibition, collected the village band, which was composed of ten or a dozen instruments, mostly brass, and offering the musicians a good fee besides a pellejo[55] of wine, which they showed to inspire them, they made them march up and down the village playing, and then stationed them in the middle of the plaza, where the people, attracted by the music, began to assemble; the lads started a dance, and Don Martín and the highway were cheered.

New and dolorous assault upon the sensibilities of Don Servando's adherents in conclave assembled.

"Señor Alcalde!" said the latter once more, "send and have the music stop! The Municipal Ordinances, articles 59 and 60, require that permission of the authorities should be demanded for this kind of manifestations."

But still Don Martín's followers were not to be cowed. As soon as the order came, feeling secure because the populace, fond of merry-making, supported them, they took the band across the bridge that spans the river there, by a curious accident dividing the municipal limit of Serín from that of Agüeria. From there to the village it would not be fifty steps. Once out of the hostile Alcalde's jurisdiction the music stormed and shrilled in discordant tones, and Don Martín's clients, inspiring the crowd to follow, began once more to organize dances, and indulge in "vivas." Thus passed the afternoon in festive gayety and carousal, while the Casiña party, gathered in their chief's office, tasted the bitterness of defeat, making faces of disgust.

And to cap the climax of misfortunes, El Occidente, Don Martín's paper, which happened to be published on the next day, was more than ever insulting, and made sport of them in a cruel fashion.

Serín boasted of two weekly papers: one, El Occidente, in the interest of the Casona party, and this appeared on Thursdays; and the other, La Crónica, belonging to Don Servando and coming out on Sunday. These were the two serpents to which we made allusion in our description of the Paradise of Serín. La Crónica was written almost entirely by an ex-pilot, and consequently nearly all of his jokes were made up of sea terms; he used to call Don Martín "Martín the Fishing-smack," and his wife "The high board Frigate Doña Manuela," which made all his partisans die with amusement. El Occidente was under the direction of a school-master who, to find insults, sought out the most eccentric and extraordinary expressions in the dictionary. That day he called Don Servando "tozudo y zorrocloco," which means stupidly obstinate, and one who feigns indisposition so as to conceal his indisposition to work, and he made certain uncomplimentary allusions to Miguel also.

Don Servando took his "zorrocloco" philosophically, but Miguel, little wonted to the coarse personalities of village politics, flushed deeply, and declared that 'he was resolved to slap the editor of the scurvy sheet in the face.'

Don Servando's friends looked at him in amazement.

"Gently, gently, my dear sir!" said the latter, with his inevitable coolness.

"I should advise you not to do anything of the sort, for that would be the greatest pleasure that you could give them. The judge of 'first claims'[56] is on their side."

"And what have we to do with the judge? The question concerns a matter of honor, which is settled by this person and me fighting with swords or pistols."

The men present looked at him with greater amazement than ever. In Serín there was an absolute lack of knowledge of such proceedings, and consequently it had never entered into their heads that there was to be any fighting. Had Miguel carried out his threat, he would have run a strong risk of being put in jail, and still further incapacitated. He was at last convinced, and gave up his project, although with a bad grace.

The Casona party soon laughed on the other side of the cheek. In three days came the order for the suspension of the ayuntamientos of Villabona and Agüeria. Then I assure you that there was a carousal and a drinking of beer in the Casiña. Don Servando, in order to banter his enemies, got out the band, and kept it for twelve consecutive hours jangling through the streets. That day the sound of exploding rockets did not for a moment cease in Serín, until the last one was sent off.

By this stroke Miguel's election was made absolutely certain. The Casona party thus understood it, and crest fallen, they tried as always to curry favor. Only nine days were lacking before the opening of the electorial period. But here it is necessary more than ever to exclaim with the poet:—

"O instability! O fickle fortune!

Who doth not hope for thee in hours of sorrow?

Who doth not fear thee in his hours of comfort?"

Two days before the opening of this period, when the Casiña partisans were going about with glad and careless hearts, and those of the Casona angry and sorrowful; when it was whispered about, and taken for granted that Corrales was going to withdraw, and Miguel was already planning to return to Madrid, as his presence was no longer necessary in the district; lo and behold! there fell into Serín like a bombshell the news that the suspended ayuntamientos had been restored.

Unfortunately, the news was correct. Don Servando's friends, after recovering a little from the surprise (since at first no one had found anything to say), came to the conclusion that there was some equivocation, or that some one had lied in Madrid. As there was no telegraph communication with the governor, Miguel decided immediately to hire a carriage and go to the capital in post-haste.

In spite of the exaggerated cordiality with which he was received, and the hearty embraces and his open, frank smile, our candidate saw clearly in the governor's eyes that there was something that was not quite as it should be, and immediately determined to get at the root of the matter as soon as possible. Accordingly, he began to press him with questions, which the Civil Chief of the province answered in vague terms: 'Nothing was known of the reason for this restoration; possibly difficulties had arisen in the Council of State.... Perhaps the minister considered the suspension unnecessary for carrying the elections....'

"If the minister has done this on his own responsibility, without the President's support, he has not acted well. Do you suppose that the President has been informed of what has happened?" asked Miguel.

"My dear fellow, I don't know."

"You see I have his formal promise that the government would support me with all the powers at its disposal. Had I not received this pledge, I should never have presented myself as candidate for a district where I was unknown."

"My dear lad, I don't know ... I don't know...."

"Castro," said Miguel, seizing him firmly by the hand, and looking at him with a severe directness, "you are my friend, and you must tell me the truth.... What is up?"

"You will understand perfectly well that my position does not allow me to speak frankly. If I could, I would."

"You are either my friend or you are not. Tell me what is going on," insisted Miguel, energetically.

"Very well then; if you will give me your word as a gentleman not to make any use of it, I will tell you."

"I promise."

"Take warning that it is putting a heavy obligation on yourself."

"I promise you. Speak!"

"We understand that you will not give the slightest hint that you know what I am going to reveal to you.... Having noticed for some time, and especially during the last few days, that the minister was weakening on your election, and knowing the friendship that unites you to the President and the conferences which you have had with him, I was anxious to get his advice, so as to know once and for all how I should look upon this matter. Yesterday I telegraphed to his secretary. Here is the answer that I received...."

The governor produced a telegram in cipher, which written out, was as follows:—

Official Candidate—Don Miguel Rivera.

Deputy—Don Manuel Corrales.

Miguel held it for some time in his hands; a melancholy, ironical smile hovered over his lips.

"Very well," said he, flinging it on the table. "One stone more which the world has cast at me."

"I feel it to the bottom of my heart, my boy. The President must have found too much pressure brought to bear upon him. Corrales, you see, is a man of great importance in the present situation!... To-morrow he may be minister.... And that is the way politics go, my boy.... To-day you, and to-morrow me."

"Yes, yes; I see how politics go. The President has given me his word of honor to support my candidacy against Corrales; he has got me to write a host of letters, and to use all sorts of influences; he has forced me to leave my wife and child. The President has done all this with the intention, so it seems, of selling me. I don't know what this is called in politics, but in plain language I know that it is called base, vile!" (accenting the words). "Good by, my boy," he added, offering him his hand. "I shall always be grateful to you for what you have done for me, and the kindly reception which you gave me."

"Hold on," said the governor, as he was going out. "I forgot to tell you that I received a telegram for you that must be from your family."

Miguel was startled.

"What does it say?"

"It must be here; take it."

It was from his step-mother, and read:—

"Come home immediately. You are needed on most urgent business."

Up to a certain point its contents were tranquillizing, for if any one had been ill, it would have said so. But as the import of the message was open to doubt, anxious and sick at heart, he secured a place that very afternoon in the train for Madrid.

XXIII.

Don Alfonso Saavedra's exquisite, overwhelming courtesy, his delicate attentions to every one, his respectful behavior toward ladies masked Satanic pride and boundless impudence. From an early age he had looked upon himself "as the hub of the universe," as the saying goes, and professed absolute scorn of humanity. Among rich young men, the sons of aristocratic families, this conduct is not uncommon. The only thing in which they bear a perpetual resemblance to each other is their scorn of everybody. The majority are not able to go beyond that, and full of zeal, they have no other ambition than to be able to show their fellows, whenever they can, this most noble disdain, which forms an integral part of their superiority. But so adorable is their frankness that sometimes it obliges them to put up with petty disappointments, and yet it happens that their scorn is not very well appreciated and understood; for among the many absurd whims from which humanity suffers stands that of not allowing itself to be scorned. There is no use in trying to explain this scorn by saying:—

"I owe ninety thousand duros; I am viscount, and hold my head high; I make portentous wagers at baccarat; one of my ancestors blacked King Felipe's boots; I am as good a whip as the head coachman; and a few days ago another viscount and I 'fleeced' a wise man at Vallehermoso; I wear such extraordinary pantaloons that passers-by are obliged to turn round and look at me; and I am in love with a ballet-girl of the Real."

It is idle; humanity is determined not to recognize the importance and seriousness of the reasons wherein these distinguished young men take pleasure in despising it.

Don Alfonso, naturally more cautious and more experienced by his residence in foreign countries, understood that it was expedient to flatter this whim, but at heart he professed the same ideas. That precept of the Krausist philosophy very much in vogue at that time, "Regard humanity not as a means, but as an end," was for him a dead letter.

After the calamity of the Retiro, though his pride was wounded to the very quick, he was able to hide it completely; and if he no longer made his appearance at Miguel's, it was not owing to his resentment, but lest Maximina, now on her guard, would take some violent measure that would compromise him.

She did not perfectly comprehend his character. When he accidentally met the young couple in the street, he was as polite and genial as ever, excusing his prolonged absence very gracefully by saying that an uncle had suddenly come to town, and he gave a lively and circumstantial description of the occurrence. Saavedra, without being talented or learned, had a peculiarly ludicrous turn of speech, and what he said was apt to be comical and mirth-provoking, though it was often repulsive. When he "used the scalpel" on a friend, the impression that he left on his hearers was painful.

Maximina, on meeting him, turned crimson, and it cost her great effort to calm herself, but fortunately Miguel did not notice it.

The very day that he was going to Galicia, he met Saavedra again at the Ateneo,[57] where the dandy sometimes repaired to read the French periodicals. He told him about his journey, and said good by. Don Alfonso remained a long time seated on the sofa; a frown, constantly growing deeper, furrowed his forehead. Then suddenly he smoothed out the frown; his face regained its ordinary disdainful and indifferent expression, and he got up. There was some deep resolution under that brow; something that was far removed from Krause's commandment, and still less from those of God's law.

At his aunt's house he learned that Julita was going to sleep with her sister-in-law, and spend with her all the time not occupied by her other duties, which consisted of piano and singing lessons. For nothing in the world would la brigadiera permit her to relax her four hours of practising and going through the prescribed scales.

Don Alfonso spent four or five days in meditating, in playing espionage on Maximina, and in scheming; meantime he showed himself more than ever amiable and obsequious to his cousin; but he refused to accompany her to Miguel's, offering various excuses.

Saturdays he always breakfasted at la brigadiera's. On the first Saturday after Miguel's departure, Julita, though she usually took breakfast with Maximina, came home in honor of her cousin, and because it was no longer possible for her to hide the passionate love which she felt for him. During breakfast time he was as jovial and amusing as ever; nevertheless, Julita's loving eyes were able to detect in his gestures a peculiar excitement, as though his mind were preoccupied. Naturally she attributed it to what most concerned her; to the love constantly growing more tender and ardent which her cousin manifested toward her. When they had finished, he asked her in a careless tone:—

"Is your piano teacher coming to-day?"

"Yes; at four."

"Then," said he, still more indifferently, if possible, "you will not return to Maximina's until you have had your lesson, I suppose."

"Of course not ... there is no need of making the journey twice," replied la brigadiera.

They went to the sitting-room, and Julita sat down at the piano with Alfonso at her side. The charming girl struck an opportune forte which drowned out the tender words which her cousin began whispering in her ear.

"Julita, your eyes shine so to-day, that if you wanted to set my heart on fire, you could do it this very instant."

"Pedal! pedal!" cried the girl, laughing; and she quenched the dandy's last words with a deafening crash.

She again put on the soft pedal, and began gently to touch the piano. Don Alfonso took advantage of the diminuendo to say:—

"Julita, I adore you; I love you more than my life...."

"Pedal! pedal!" exclaimed the girl again, and she did not allow him to finish. But after a few moments of this rapturous amusement, Don Alfonso exclaimed, raising his hand to his forehead:—

"Oh, how unfortunate!"

"What is it?"

"Why, my uncle is going to Seville to-day, and I have not yet been to the notary's to arrange my mother's papers."

"Oh, you snipe! Hurry! go and get them; you have time."

"Oh, if it were merely a question of getting them!... I must look over a good part of them, and add my signature."

"Run, then, lazybones ... run!... You may be sure that your mamma will lay your negligence at my door."

Julita said this, pretending to be angry, but without being able to hide the pleasure that the supposition caused her.

"I was going to spend such a delicious afternoon! And now to have to go to a notary's office to eat dust and make my head ache!"

"Go, go! The first thing to do is the first thing to be done!... At any rate, you were in a fair way of telling a good many fibs this afternoon...."

"Honest, genuine truths, cousin divine!"

Don Alfonso's berlina was waiting at the corner of the street, according to the orders that he had given the coachman. He lighted an Havana and as he slammed the door to, he said:—

"To the Riveras'."

Any one seeing him leaning back in his carriage, with his cigar between his teeth, would have taken him for an elegant swell about to have a drive through the Castellana.

Still the same frown, a sign of intense questioning, which had appeared on his brow when he said good by to Miguel at the Ateneo, now furrowed it again, perhaps deeper and darker than ever.

"At six, as always, at the Swiss restaurant," he said to his driver, as he dismounted from the landau.

And with slow step, his face a trifle pale, he entered the doorway of Miguel's house, and mounted the staircase.

He rang the bell vigorously, like a familiar and honored friend.

Plácida came to open for him.

"Señorito, it is good to see you!" she exclaimed, with the sympathy inspired in maid-servant by visitors when they are handsome men.

"Holá! little one," said the caballero, in a condescending tone, giving her a little pat on the cheek; "your master in?"

"But don't you know that the señorito went last Monday to Galicia? It is plain enough that you don't often soil the staircase of this house with the dust of your boots."

"La señorita?" asked the fine gentleman, with an absent-minded gesture, at the same time depositing his cane and hat on the rack.

"She is sewing in her boudoir.... Shall I take up your card?"

"There is no need," he replied, starting with a firm step toward the parlor, and opening the boudoir door.

Maximina was sewing on some article of clothing for the baby, who, absolutely removed from the political struggles in which his papa was engaged, was sleeping in the bedroom, and occupying a good half of the bed. The young mother's thoughts were flying over the white peaks of the Guadarrama, traversing the desert plains of Castille, and losing themselves among the leafy groves of Galicia.

"Will he have socks enough?" she was asking herself, at that moment. This had been a serious anxiety to Maximina ever since her husband's departure. "Eight pairs aren't sufficient, can't be sufficient, if he changes them every day, as he usually does. In that country I believe they don't wash clothes very often. Ay! Diós mio! and if it should rain, and he get his feet wet! how could he change them two or three times a day as he does here?... I am sure that it would never occur to him to buy some new ones.... He is very thoughtless!"

The door-bell rang. As she raised her head, her eyes met Don Alfonso's.

It is difficult to conceive the surprise that Maximina felt at that sudden apparition, and the surprise and terror that took possession of her. She turned pale, even livid, then her face grew crimson, then once more pale; all in the space of a few seconds.

Saavedra shut the door, and offered her his hand with perfect ease and self-possession.

"How are you, Maximina?"

She could scarcely articulate her answer. Her hand trembled violently.

"What does this mean? You are trembling," said the caballero, retaining it a moment in his.

She made no reply.

"If it were an enemy who came in, I should understand this agitation; but as I am such a devoted friend ... so stupidly devoted as I am to you.... I am wrong to call myself a friend: I should do better to call myself your slave, for these many days you have exercised an absolute dominion over me."

The young wife's features were contracted by a smile which seemed rather like a face of terror. Her eyes expressed the same dismay. She tried to say something, but her voice died in her throat.

"The last time that I spoke with you, Maximina," the Andalusian went on to say, after he had taken a seat at her side, "I was bold enough to give you a hint of what was passing within my heart. Perhaps I was foolish; but the step has been taken, and I cannot retrace it. I must complete to-day what then I did not do more than indicate; I must express to you,—although it is very difficult—the love, the idolatry that you inspire in me, the terrible anxieties which I have been suffering for more than a month, the state of genuine madness to which your cruelty has brought me...."

Maximina continued speechless. She looked like a statue of Desolation.

"I am going to tell you all, all! You will pardon me, will you not, lovely Maximina?"

And the audacious caballero pronounced these words with his insinuating, mellow voice, at the same time gently laying the palm of his hand on the back of Maximina's. She withdrew it as though she had touched a vile animal; and leaping to her feet, as though pushed by a spring, she ran to the door, and hastened into the parlor.

Don Alfonso followed her, and caught her by her arm. Then, pulling herself away with remarkable power, she broke from his touch, but, instead of running, she faced him with flaming cheeks, looking at him with frenzied eyes that were frightful to see.

The truth is, that among the many attitudes which he had imagined that Miguel's wife might assume, Saavedra had never thought of such an one. He expected repulses, indignant phrases, even insulting words, and he was prepared to meet them with a cold and careless mien; he expected to be commanded to go on the instant, he expected the threat that she would shout, and he was likewise prepared with what to say to calm her immediately; finally, in the depths of his heart, his presumption flattered him by saying that Maximina could not long resist his attraction and his fame as a seducer. But these strange, inconvenient flights, this mute terror, surprised and somewhat disconcerted him.

"What are you going to do, Maximina," he asked, though the poor child was not doing anything; but it was well to warn her for some event.—"If you should cry or call your servants, you would be seriously compromised; there would be a scandal, everybody would know about it, including your husband, and you would lose much more than you have any idea of.... Come now, be reasonable," he added, in the same mellow voice in which he had spoken before, and approaching her. "The thing is not worth taking in this tragic fashion. It is not strange that I am desperately in love with you, nor am I to blame for it, but the God who made you so beautiful, so sweet, so simpática.... And if you should grant me one little favor—let me kiss one hand as a reward for so much adoration, for so many sad and bitter hours which I have suffered during the last month, I think it would not be very strange, either. It would be on your part not a proof of love, which I know well I do not deserve, but rather of your kind heart, of your generous nature which, even on such an occasion as this, cannot be forsworn. This favor, though insignificant in the world's eyes and before your conscience, would be in mine immense; it would be a secret between us two until death.... My gratitude for it would be eternal.... Come, lovely Maximina, don't give the lie to your goodness.... I beg it of you on my knees. Let me touch my lips to your hand, and go away calm and happy.... Do you wish greater humiliation than this?"

The audacious and astute caballero, in saying these last words, in reality bent his knee, and seized one of the young woman's hands. But she snatched it away with surprising bravery, and glanced around with a face full of terror, as though seeking for aid. Then she went like a flash to Miguel's study. Don Alfonso followed her, likewise running. The young woman took her stand behind the table, and once more cast upon him that timid and uncertain glance, in reality like that of one insane.

Miguel had left open on the table his shaving case, and the razor that he had used lay on top, also open.

By a refinement of affection Maximina had been unwilling to touch these objects or to allow any one else to do so, but left them till his return. She quickly seized the razor, and laying it to her throat, she said in a hoarse voice:—

"If you touch me again, I will kill myself! I will kill myself!"

These were the first words that she spoke during the whole scene, though it lasted several minutes.

The tone in which she spoke and the look with which she accompanied her words, left no room for doubt. Saavedra knew that though she would not kill herself, yet that she would give herself a slash, that the blood would run, and that there would be a serious piece of mischief in which he would appear in no enviable light. Therefore he hastened to say:—

"I will not touch you; don't be afraid." And then he added with an ironical smile, in a tone overflowing with spite, "Come, come! where it is least to be expected there arises a Lucretia. If I were an artist, Maximina, I would paint you this way with your arm raised, and would send you to the exhibition. The razor is a trifle prosaic, but that is the fault of the times. Lucretias nowadays, instead of an embossed dagger use their husbands' razor!"

Perhaps the rejected seducer would have gone on flinging at his expected victim other coarse insults and cowardly jests like the above, but at that instant Maximina's quick ear caught the soft and delicate voice of her little one, who was just waking up in the sleeping-room; it was so slight a sound that only a mother could have heard it at that distance.

She threw down the razor, and exclaimed, "My heart's delight, I am coming."

She flew like an arrow past Don Alfonso. If he had attempted to stay her flight, she would certainly have knocked him over with the impetus that she had and her muscular development.

The caballero had no thought of doing any such thing. What he did was to turn on his heels, take his hat, and set out to dissipate his ill humor and vexation on the Castellana.

Maximina's calmness quickly returned. Nevertheless, a few hours afterward she began to feel such an intense chill that she was obliged to go to bed and ask for a cup of tila. On the following day she was all right again. She thought of sending word to Miguel, asking him to come home, but on second thought she saw that she would be obliged to give some reason, and she had none. And if he should have any suspicion and oblige her to confess what had taken place? He would certainly challenge Saavedra, who, as he was an expert in such affairs, would kill him.

"Oh, I would kill myself sooner than tell him!"

And the faithful wife, at the mere thought of it, shivered with horror.

XXIV.

"The first part of my plan has 'gang agley'; now let us see if I shall be luckier in the second," said Don Alfonso, on leaving Miguel's house.

That afternoon, while his eyes were wandering at haphazard over the throng of carriages flying up and down the Castellana, he was deeply engaged in concocting the most odious and villanous plans, which we shall shortly find him carrying into execution.

During the days that followed, he began to show more attention and love to his cousin than ever, spending long hours in her company. This sudden ardor on her lover's part was sufficient to turn Julita's head completely. The asperity of her restless and ardent temperament had already for some time been changing into mildness. Don Alfonso, owing to la brigadiera's blameworthy carelessness, had got into the habit of taking certain liberties with her, innocent enough in themselves, but extremely dangerous. When he had made her his slave, he asked her one day:—

"Julita, do you want to marry me?"

"What a question!" exclaimed the girl, growing crimson as a poppy.

"Well, then, let us have it understood that you accept me as your husband."

"Who told you so, jackanapes."[58]

"You have told me with those sharp eyes of yours ever since I knew you! You can't deny it, Julia!"

"Tonto! tonto! you insufferable fellow!" exclaimed the girl, trying to be angry.

"Let us not speak any more of that. That matter is settled. In the first place, we have both agreed, La Señorita Doña Julia Rivera on the one hand, and Don Alfonso Saavedra on the other, that we wish to enter into wedlock. Now then, how to carry our project into effect? I have already reached the twenty-fifth year of my age—if you did not know it before, you know it now." (Julia laughed.) "Consequently the law authorizes me to marry whenever I wish, without my mother's consent. Still this permission is indispensable for me, in the first place, on account of the frantic affection which she professes for me; on account of the duty that I owe her of not going against her wishes or causing her a grief which the poor woman does not deserve; and in the second place, through a selfish consideration, which is likewise of much weight. I have been a wretch, Julita; a prodigal who has in a few years run through the fortune that I inherited from my father. The result of that is that I now find myself at my mother's mercy, and she, be it said in the interest of truth, has not hitherto been niggardly toward me. But as you can easily imagine, I don't know what might happen if I married against her wishes. Now then, I confess with shame, I am not used to working, nor even if I wanted to work should I know what to set my hand to. So then, we must tell my mamma, if we are to get married. To-morrow I will write her, and if, as I have no reason to doubt, she has no objection to our marriage, we can immediately set the time for it."

What a sleepless night Julita spent! and yet how happy a night it was!

Don Alfonso took it for granted that their marriage was settled, and even spoke of it as though it had already taken place. The talks which they had during the four days which elapsed between the letter and its answer were almost all concerned with the preparations to be made for the wedding,—what they would do after they were joined, etc. Julia waited impatiently for the mamma's answer from Seville. As for la brigadiera, as Don Alfonso was her right eye, she had never taken her into consideration at all. By his advice she had not said a word to her about it as yet.

At last the letter came.

Would that it had never come! Saavedra entered his aunt's house with his face pale and dark lines under his eyes, and with a mortal sadness depicted on it. In order to accomplish this theatrical effect he had spent the previous night in a drunken spree. Julia's face changed when she saw him; then instantly she knew by intuition what news he had brought. When they had taken their seat together by the piano, the place where they had carried on almost all their secret conversations, the caballero exclaimed in a tone full of sorrow, and hiding his face in his hands:—

"How unhappy I am, Julita!"

She was silent for a few moments, and then said:—

"Your mother does not consent to our marriage,—is that it?"

Don Alfonso did not reply. Silence reigned for some time. Finally Julia broke it in a trembling voice:—

"Don't take it so to heart, Alfonso. Instead of helping me, you take away my courage."

"You are right, my beauty! even in this I am selfish. I ought to consider that beside the grief that you feel as keenly as I do, if you love me, you have had an insult put upon you."

"No, no," the young girl hastened to say; "I do not feel that it is an insult. All I feel is that I cannot be yours."

Saavedra gave her a fascinating look of love, and pressed her hand warmly.

"Mamma does not speak unkindly of you. If she had said anything that could be construed as derogatory to you, I should know well how to reply to it. It will be better for you to read her letter for yourself," he said, taking it from his pocket.

This letter had been written by Saavedra himself, counterfeiting her penmanship and sending it to a friend to be mailed back from Seville; it was a document remarkable for its ingenuity. Julia's name was not mentioned in it; the mamma deeply lamented, because she had dreamed of a brilliant match for her dear boy; he well knew who she was. This had been the hope of all her life, she had pledged her word, and all the relatives were counting upon it; finally, that as now she was getting old and feeble, this disappointment would certainly cause her death.

The effect caused by this letter on the young girl was exactly what its author intended. Instead of quenching the fire, it made it burn all the more fiercely; jealousy was the principal fuel in this case.

"Who is the woman whom they want you to marry, Alfonso?" asked Julita timidly, while big tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I don't know, I don't know, let me alone!" he exclaimed, with a gesture of despair.

"Tell me, Alfonso: I am very anxious to know."

"What difference does it make who she is? I hate her, I detest her."

"At any rate, I want to know what her name is."

"She is the Countess de San Clemente."

"Is she young?"

"Much older than you are: she is at least twenty-five or twenty-six."

"Is she pretty?"

"How do I know? What difference does it make to me whether she is pretty or homely?"

"But is she pretty?"

"They say she is; but I tell you that it makes no difference to me."

The girl was silent for a long time; her heart beat violently. At length she said in a melancholy tone, giving her lover an anxious look:—

"They will persuade you, Alfonso. At last you will agree to marry her."

The Andalusian caballero looked at her with an angry face, and exclaimed with energy:—

"They might tear me in pieces before such a thing happened!"

"You cannot be perfectly sure of it," said she, looking at him with the same anxiety; "they will continue working at you, working at you; they will get you so entangled that finally there will be no way out of it but to yield."

"No, I swear to you, no! Come, don't speak any more of this, Julita, for this sort of talk annoys me very much."

For a moment the young girl's eyes sparkled joyfully. Then the same expression of unhappiness came back into them.

Five or six days passed. Don Alfonso redoubled his manifestations of affection. Nevertheless, such oppressive unhappiness weighed upon the lovers that they were obliged to remain long moments in silence, with their heads down and their eyes fixed on vacancy. Julita often shed tears, and Saavedra, also overwhelmed with sorrow put forth useless efforts to console her. The truth was they saw no way out of their difficulties. The horizon was absolutely shut in and dark.

"I haven't any profession whatever," said the caballero. "If we were to marry, we should starve to death.... That is the result of having educated me for a rich man!"

"As for starving to death, I don't believe it," said Julita, her face deeply flushing. "Mamma and I are not rich, but we can live decently.... It is clear that for you who are accustomed to another sort of life, it would be very hard ... but ..."

"Oh, don't speak of that, Julia!" exclaimed the caballero, with the gesture of a man whose dignity was wounded.... "It is lowering me too much to believe that I could consent for you to support me.... But even if I were so low as that, still I could not do it, because I do not want to be my mother's murderer."

The girl said no more, and, as often before, the tears began to slide down her cheeks.

"Does your mother have any suspicion of what is going on?"

"No."

"Then be very careful. You know as well as I do how peculiar she is; if she had a suspicion that my mamma objected, she would spoil the whole business, and I should never consent to set my foot in this house again."

One evening, after quite a number of days had passed, the caballero came with his face brighter than it had been for some time. Instead of sitting down near the piano, the lovers went and stood in the bay-window. After painting things in very black colors as usual and lamenting a long time, Don Alfonso said to his cousin:—

"As I have been thinking of nothing else than this all day and all night, certain means of escaping from this difficulty have occurred to me. I have not told them to you, for they are very absurd. Still, as last night I was walking up and down my room without being able to sleep, one scheme came into my head, and this one is very sure but very bold ... so much so that I am afraid to tell it to you."

"Is it so bad as all that?"

"Bad, no; but bold. It requires you to disregard certain social conventions and to show a great will power."

"Come, then, tell me. I am very curious to hear about it."

"Very well then, Julia; mamma, though you imagine her to be a hard woman, because of your childish recollections and because in reality she has a cold and serious exterior which prejudices against her, has a heart that is in reality very warm. She has given me unequivocal proofs of it, oftentimes forgiving me almost too quickly for very serious faults. Her character is as haughty as your mamma's; but these natures are easy to overcome; to make them yield it needs only that you humiliate yourself.... This is what I was thinking of last night:—If Julia had the courage to make a decided stroke and elope with me to Seville and present ourselves before her, I am certain that she would not hesitate to forgive us and grant us her blessing. No woman, however bad she is, would consent to let the daughter of her own cousin be dishonored."

"This scheme is madness. I cannot believe that you would propose to me such an atrocious thing!"

"I do not propose it. All I do is to report to you a thought which occurred to me. If I cannot tell you what my heart feels and what passes through my mind, whom shall I tell it to, Julia mia?"

"This is the last thing that you ought to have conceived!"

"I have thought so much that it is not strange if it were the last thing that I did conceive. The project would be very audacious, violent, and repugnant to you, but not a piece of folly as you say; it is a certain, infallible means of attaining what we desire."

"Well, then, even if it is certain and infallible, I will not hear to it, do you understand?"

Don Alfonso did not give up conquered. He continued to argue the point, not losing his calmness, adducing reasons, mentioning various examples which he had already prepared, and in a thousand skilful ways overcoming Julia's scruples. But even when the girl found herself cornered, captured in the net of her lover's sophistries, she suddenly grew angry and exclaimed, "Well, even if it be as you say, still I don't like it, I don't like it, and that is sufficient!"

Julia, though endowed with a rash and impetuous nature, had an undisturbed conscience; she was a good girl and that was the very reason why this scheme deeply wounded her sense of propriety. Nevertheless, Saavedra kept constantly tormenting her with the hope of shaking her.

The afternoon was now declining; the boudoir began to fill with shadows. Don Alfonso had at last exhausted all the powers at his command, and was still far from attaining his end.

"Very well," said he after a long silence, doing his best to hide his scorn and giving his words a peculiarly melancholy intonation, "I have eagerly tried to find some way of escaping from the painful situation in which we are. I propose to you the only practicable and certain method. You yourself have seen that it was so and you have comprehended the necessity of adopting some energetic plan. And yet you refuse to accept it. I respect the scruples which you entertain in regard to it, but you will permit me to tell you that the woman who really and truly loves will rise above them. If the love that you had for me were as great as you say...."

"Alfonso!"

"I know well that you love me—don't go to protesting.... But the fact is, that though we love each other very much, we are very unhappy and we find no way of escaping from it. What is left for us to do? Nothing but to part and never see each other again."

"O Alfonso!"

"Yes, Julia, yes; it must be: we must separate, and forever. Here all that we do is to torment ourselves cruelly. It is an infernal life to have happiness before our eyes and not be able to touch it. Before proposing this last recourse,—which is very harsh to be sure,—but absolutely indispensable,—I firmly decided to leave the country, in case you did not accept it. So to-morrow I take the train for Paris. I confess frankly I have not the strength to endure this tormenting situation."

The astute caballero ceased speaking. Julia likewise was silent: a melancholy pallor spread over her lovely face; her eyes were fixed wildly on a point of space, and she sat motionless as a statue. Don Alfonso left her in this situation a long time without disturbing her eager and anxious thoughts, though he kept looking at her. Her pallor kept growing more and more pronounced.

When he felt that the right moment had arrived, the wily seducer went to take his hat which he had laid on the piano, and returning to the girl, and holding out his hand, he said in a trembling voice:—

"Adiós, Julia!"

She retained it a moment, and then, giving him a desperate look, her face being now livid, said:—

"Don't go, Alfonso. Do with me what you please. I am ready to follow you."

The caballero, after assuring himself that his aunt could not see them, long held her tightly enfolded in his arms.

XXV.

"Boy, bring me a glass of límon.... Bring me two, do you hear?"

The banker was choking. He was a short, stout man, with extremely red cheeks. He unbuttoned his shirt collar and went on shuffling the cards, all the time snorting furiously, as though he were threatened by some apoplectic attack.

"Game."

The players made their play, laying their stakes beside the cards. A gloved hand placed a package of bills on one of them.

"How much of that do you bet, Saavedra?" asked the fat gambler, lifting his eyes which were full of terror and seemed to ask for mercy.

"All," replied the Andalusian caballero dryly.

"How much is there?"

"I don't know."

His tone was depreciative enough. However, the banker seemed not to mind it: he took the package and began to count it under the watchful eyes of the group of players who were gathered around the table, some seated, some standing.

"There are forty-one thousand reals."

"There is not enough in the bank," said one player, stretching out his hand for his stake.

"My credit is good for it," replied the banker, growing redder and redder; it seemed as though he were going to burst. While the banker was distributing the cards, absolute silence reigned. Don Alfonso's was a seven.

"That is the end of it," said the banker, with ill-concealed dismay, throwing the pack down on the table.

Immediately he began to pay the smaller stakes, leaving Saavedra's till the last. When he came to him there were left only twenty-nine thousand reals.

"I shall owe you twelve thousand," said he, handing over all that he had.

Don Alfonso took it and thrust it into his pocket angrily. The game was over. The banker, mopping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, went over to the Andalusian, who had taken his seat on a sofa, and was calmly reading a newspaper.

"You have fifteen thousand duros in your pocket, my boy."

"I don't know," replied Don Alfonso, without looking up.

"But I know: Villar and Gonzalez lost nine thousand, and we more than twelve thousand. All the rest put together did not take six thousand."

"Pish! it is quite possible," replied the caballero.

"Any one to see your face would say that what you carried in your pocket was fifteen thousand stones. See here, lend me thirty thousand reals, and that will put you in good humor."

Don Alfonso, without saying a word, took out his pocket-book, and gave him a handful of bills.

"Saavedra, you are on the downward track. The other evening I saw you in a box at the theatre making love to a mighty pretty girl. Be careful! on the day least expected you will be getting married."

Don Alfonso took out his watch, and, after looking at it, smiled coldly, saying:—

"At this very moment I am going to run away with that same little girl. I am going abroad with her."

"I would not sell myself cheap," replied the other, without once thinking that it might be true. "But you would soon get tired of it. You and I are just alike; we are too old for such escapades."

"Good by, Gubells."

"Good by, my boy. Don't fail to be on hand to-night, for there is going to be a game of golfe."

"Haven't I told you that I am going to run away with that little girl?" rejoined the caballero, at the door, with the same cold smile on his lips.

"A nice little piece!... Come back as soon as you can ... won't you? and don't fail to bring the marquis if you meet him."

Saavedra slowly descended the carpeted staircase of the Círculo. As he went into the street it was already growing dark. His berlina was waiting for him at the door.

"See here, Julián! take me now to the Calle de Carretas, stop there, and wait near the mail-box. A señora will come, she will open the door, and get in with me. As soon as this occurs, without a moment's delay drive like an arrow for Jetafe. You are well acquainted with the road, aren't you? Good! then it will be necessary, even though you wind the horses, to get us there in a jiffy. I want to catch the train that leaves there at half-past eight. Don't you be troubled at the adventure; it is a ballet girl from the Real who wants to go with me to Seville, and I cannot break my word. When we reach Jetafe I will give you further instructions about what you are to do."

The carriage reached the Calle de Carretas, and drew up where its owner had commanded. Don Alfonso leaned back in one corner so as to avoid the glances of the passers-by, and waited.

Julia had been spending the afternoon at her sister-in-law's, for that day she happened not to have a piano lesson; she was all the time in a state of nervous excitement, which Maximina was not slow to notice.

"What is the matter? Do you feel ill?" she asked.

"No. What makes you ask? What do you see in me that is strange?" she demanded, full of alarm.

"Nothing, nothing! don't be disturbed. You are a trifle paler than usual, and there are circles under your eyes, nothing more."

"Oh, I think that I am a little nervous to-day."

Maximina smiled good-naturedly, supposing that she might have had some falling out with her lover, and so she ordered some tila to be made for her.

In spite of the deep antipathy which she felt for Don Alfonso and the strong reasons that she had for considering him a miscreant, she saw that Julita was so desperately in love with him that she could not bring herself to say a word against him.

As the afternoon wore on, her restlessness increased. The youngest offshoot of the race of the Riveras was many times on the point of suffering in some slight degree in consequence of his noble aunt's nervous condition. She hugged him to her heart tighter than was necessary; she tossed him up into the air and caught him again; she gave him hundreds of kisses on the same spot in his face until it burned brighter than a coal, and even—horrible thing—bit his nose. There is no need of saying that the illustrious baby, swelling with indignation, protested against such treatment.

The young girl likewise showed herself more tenderly affectionate toward Maximina than usual.

"Maximina, how good you are! how good you are!"

And she almost squeezed her to death in her arms.

"I wish I were. I should like to be good," replied the young wife, blushing.

"How much I would give to be like you, Maximina!"

"If you weren't better, you would be a pretty poor specimen."

"Oh! I am bad, Maximina, very bad!... But you will forgive all my failings, won't you?"

And struck by a sudden inspiration, she jumped up, saying:—

"I am going to the study to write a letter."

"Aren't you going to drink your tila?"

"Certainly I will take it; I will finish it afterward."

She went to her brother's writing-room, and began in all haste to pen the following note:—

"My dearest Maximina, my soul's sister: When you receive this, poor Julia will already have committed a great sin. I am going to Seville with Alfonso to beg his mother's permission for us to marry. Try to pacify ..."

"Julia, your tila is getting cold," said Maximina, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder.

Julia uttered a cry, and covered the paper with her hands.

Maximina stepped back in consternation.

"Excuse me; dear, you took me so by surprise," said Julia, smiling and very rosy.

"I am the one to ask pardon for having come in without knocking.... I did not think.... Go on, go on...." she added, with a mischievous smile that signified: "I know whom the letter is for!"

How far the innocent young woman was from suspecting the truth!

After she left the room, Julia finished her letter: ...

"Try to pacify mamma, and Miguel when he comes back. I think that in the end all will be satisfactorily arranged. Alfonso, though he is a little cold, is a perfect gentleman. Pardon and love your sister who takes her farewell of you alone.—Julia."