CHAPTER XII.
AN UNWELCOME GUEST.
CLEMENTINA gave a sigh of relief. Walking slowly, with the delightful sense of a difficult task happily accomplished, she made her way through the rooms, smiling right and left, and shedding amiable speeches on every friend she met. This splendid ball, the most magnificent perhaps ever given in Madrid by a private individual, was almost exclusively her work. Her father had provided the money, but the motive power, the taste and planning, had been hers. She received the congratulations which hailed her from all sides with a pleasing intoxication of flattered vanity. Happiness stirred a craving for love, its inseparable associate. She was possessed by a vehement wish to have a brief meeting, tête-à-tête, with Raimundo, to speak and hear a few fond words, to exchange a brief caress. She looked round for him among the crowd.
He had been wandering about the rooms all the evening, generally alone. He had looked forward to this ball with puerile anticipations of delirious and unknown pleasures, for he had never been present at any of these high festivals of wealth and fashion. The reality had not come up to his hopes, as must always be the case. All this ostentation, all the scandalous luxury displayed to his eyes, instead of exciting his pride, wounded it deeply. Never had he felt so completely a stranger in the world he had now for some months lived in. His thoughts, with their natural tendency to melancholy, reverted to his modest home, where, by his fault, necessaries would ere long be lacking; to his humble-minded mother, who had never hesitated to fulfil the most menial tasks; to his innocent sister, who had learned from her to be thrifty and hard-working. Remorse gnawed at his heart. Then, too, he observed that the young men of his acquaintance treated him here with covert hostility. Many of them he had begun to regard as friends; they welcomed him pleasantly, he played cards with them and sometimes joined in their expeditions, but he clearly understood at last that he was no one, nothing to them, but as Clementina's lover; and he could detect, or his exaggerated sensitiveness made him fancy that he detected, in their demeanour to him, a touch of scorn, which humiliated him bitterly. The passionate devotion which Clementina professed for him compensated no doubt for these miseries, and enabled him often to forget them, but this evening his adored mistress, though she did not ignore him, was necessarily out of his range. He endured the phase of feeling which a mystic goes through when, as he expresses it, God has withdrawn His guiding hand—intense weariness and the darkest gloom of spirit. He danced dutiously two or three times, and talked a little to one and another. Tired of it all, at last he withdrew into the quietest corner of one of the rooms, sat down on a sofa and remained sunk in extreme dejection.
Clementina sought him for some few minutes, and was beginning to be out of patience. She went into the card-room, and he started up to meet her with a beaming countenance. All his melancholy had vanished on seeing that she was in search of him.
"If you would like two minutes' chat, come to the Duke's study," she said, in rapid but tender accents. "It is on the right-hand side, at the end of the corridor." She went thither, and Raimundo, to save appearances, lingered for a few moments by one of the tables, watching the game.
Clementina made her way in and out of the rooms till she reached the corridor, and hurried to the study, a handsome room, so called for mere form, since the Duke always sat upstairs. It was a blaze of light, as all the other rooms were. As she went in, she fancied she heard a smothered sob, which filled her with surprise and apprehension. Looking about her, she discovered, in a deep recess, a woman lying in a heap on a divan, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and weeping violently. She went up to her, and recognised her by her dress. It was Irenita.
"Irene, my child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, bending anxiously over her.
"Oh, forgive me, Clementina, I came here, hardly knowing what I was doing. I am so miserable;" and the tears streamed down her face.
"But what has happened then, my poor dear?"
"Nothing, nothing," sobbed the girl. There was a short silence. Clementina looked at her compassionately.
"Come," she said, leaning over her, "It is Emilio. He has done something to vex you this evening."
Irene made no reply.
"Do not break your heart over it, silly child. That will do nothing to mend matters. However great the effort, try to seem indifferent. That is the only way to prevent his despising you. Nay, there is a better way, but I do not advise you to try it; there are things one cannot advise. But still, even if you are in love with him, do not offer him your heart to wring, for God's sake! Never let him know how unhappy he makes you, or you are lost. Let him have his whim out, and he will come back to you."
Irene raised her face, bathed in tears.
"But have you seen—do you know what he has done? It is dreadful."
At this instant Clementina heard a step in the corridor, and suspecting who it might be, she hastily went to look out, saying: "Wait till I shut the door."
She was only just in time; Raimundo arrived at the moment; she put her finger to her lips, and signed to him to go away. Irene saw nothing of it.
When Clementina returned to her side, Irenita poured out, between sighs and tears, the grievances her husband had heaped upon her that evening. In the first place Emilio had chosen to come to the ball in a Hungarian costume. As soon as she came in, she had perceived that Maria Huerta also wore a Hungarian dress, and this, it must be owned, was a piece of insolence, which more than one person had remarked upon. Then they had danced together twice, and all the while, Emilio had never ceased murmuring in her ear. He had waited on her like a servant the whole evening, offering her ices and fruit with his own hands. Once, as he handed her a plate, their fingers had met. Irenita had seen it with her own eyes. Oh, it was monstrous! Irene only longed to kill herself. She would rather die a thousand deaths than endure such torments.
Clementina comforted her as best she could. Emilio loved her fondly, she was sure; only men liked to show off in this way and prove their powers of fascination. As their hearts were not engaged, there was nothing for it but to let them go for a while, and then they returned to the wife they really loved.
Clementina would not take her to the ladies' cloak-room to have her hair rearranged and to bathe her face; she led her up to the Duchess's dressing-room, and in a few minutes they came down stairs again. Irenita promised not to betray herself. When Clementina reported to Pepa all that had passed, the widow flew into such a fury that she was with difficulty hindered from rushing off to abuse her son-in-law.
"Well, it is all the same," she said, with a shrug. "If I do not scratch his face now, I will do it later. Come what may, I cannot allow that scoundrel to be the death of my daughter; and as for that bare-faced slut, she will not get off till I have spit in her face, and in her husband's ugly phiz, too! A pretty state of things!"
"Would it not be better to get rid of them altogether? Huerta is in office. See if you cannot get him packed off somewhere as Governor?"
"You are right. I will speak of it to Arbos at once; but as to that precious son-in-law of mine, I will pay him out this very night, or my name is not Pepa."
The Duke, surrounded by a group of faithful flatterers, was inhaling clouds of incense, growling out some gross witticism every now and then, which was hailed with applause. The ladies were the most enthusiastic in their admiration. Requena's genius for speculation dazzled them with amazement, as though they would like to calculate how many new dresses his millions would purchase. And he, usually so subservient, he—who, by his own confession, had reached the position he held by dint of kicks behind—lording it here among his worshippers, bullied them without mercy. His coarse jests were flung at men and women alike; he gloried in the brutal exercise of his power. And if these devotees were ready to humble themselves so patiently for nothing—absolutely nothing—what would they not have done if he had given largesse of his millions, if the golden calf had begun to vomit dollars.
In the card-room, whither he went after attending the retirement of their Majesties, a crowd of speculators literally blocked him in.
"How are the Riosa shares looking, Señor Duque?" one made so bold as to ask.
"Do not talk of them," grumbled the man of money, with a furious glare.
Llera's scheme had been punctually carried out. The Duke, after buying up a large number of shares, had set to work to produce a panic among the shareholders. For some months he had been employing secret agents to buy, and sell again immediately at a loss. Thanks to these tactics, the quotations had fallen very low. He was now almost ready for his great coup, buying up all he could get to throw them suddenly into the market, and then securing half the shares, plus one.
"Everything cannot turn out well," said the man who had addressed him, not without a smile of satisfaction. "You have always been so lucky."
"The Duke does not owe his success to luck," said a stock-broker bent on flattery, "but to his genius, his incomparable skill and acumen."
"No doubt, no doubt," the other hastened to put in, snatching the censer, as it were. "The Duke is the greatest financial genius of Spain. I cannot understand why he has not the entire management of the Treasury. If it is not placed in his hands, the country is past praying for."
"Well, if I tried to save it after the fashion of the Riosa Mining Company, it would be a bad look out for the Spaniards," said the Duke, in a sulky, mumbling voice.
"Why, is it such a rotten concern?"
"For the Government, no, damn it; but for me, after buying it at par, it does not seem to be much of a success."
And he cast all the blame of the transaction on his head clerk, that idiot Llera, who had insisted on having a finger in that pie, in spite of his, the Duke's, presentiments.
"Ah! a man like you should never trust anything but his instincts," they all declared. "When a man has a real genius for business—" And again the word genius was on the lips of every idolater of the golden calf.
Suddenly, at the door of the card-room, Clementina was seen, closely followed by Osorio, Mariana, and Calderón. All four looked disturbed and dismayed, and they all four fixed their eyes on Salabert, whom they eagerly approached.
"Papa, one word, one minute," said Clementina.
Salabert quitted the group, of which he was the centre, and joined the quartette in the further corner of the room.
"That woman is here," said his daughter in an agitated whisper, but her eyes flashed fire.
"It is scandalous," said Osorio.
"Some people have left already, and as soon as it is known every one will go!" added Calderón, more calmly.
"What woman?" asked Requena, opening his eyes very wide.
Clementina explained in a tone of passionate scorn—a woman whom the Duke was known to visit. It was Amparo.
"What!" he exclaimed, with well acted surprise. "That hussy has dared to come to this house? Who let her in? I will dismiss the door-keeper to-morrow morning."
"No. What you have to do is to dismiss her this instant!" cried Clementina, stuttering with rage.
"Of course, this instant! How dare she set foot in this house, and on such an occasion? But how did she get in? A ball which began so well!"
"She has a card, it would seem."
"Then she has stolen it, or it is a forgery."
"Well, well," said Clementina, who knew her father well enough to guess that he had been cajoled into giving the invitation, a bounty which had cost him nothing. "Settle the matter at once. She is in the drawing-room. You must go and explain to her that she must have the goodness to take herself off. Say what you choose, but at once. Before any one discovers her—above all mamma."
"No, my child, no. I know myself too well. I could not control my indignation. We must do nothing to attract attention. Go yourself—go, and get rid of her at once."
This was enough for Clementina. Without another word she swiftly returned to the drawing-room, her face pale and set, her lips quivering. In a moment she discovered the foe.
Certainly she was a handsome creature, magnificently dressed as Mary, Queen of Scots, and her beauty was fuel to Clementina's wrath. After wheedling Salabert to give her a card, it had occurred to the demi-mondaine that her appearance at the ball might cause a scandal, but she longed to display herself in the costly costume she had chosen, and taking a respectable-looking old friend as a chaperon, she went very late, just to walk once or twice through the rooms. It was a bitter surprise to find that even the men of her acquaintance, the members of the Savage Club, here turned their backs and walked away.
Her enjoyment, such as it was, was brief. Just as she was moving forward, with a triumphant smile, to make her longed-for progress through the rooms, she found herself face to face with Clementina, who, without the slightest greeting, holding her head very high, laid her hand on her shoulder, saying:
"Have the kindness to listen to me."
Mary Stuart turned pale, hesitated an instant, and then said with resolute arrogance:
"I have nothing to say to you. I came to see the master of the house—the Duke de Requena."
Margaret of Austria fixed a flashing eye on the rival queen, who met it without blinking. Then, bending forward, she said in her ear:
"If you do not come with me this instant I will call two men-servants to turn you out of this house by force."
The Queen of Scots was startled; still she was bold:
"I wish to see the Duke," she said.
"The Duke is not to be seen—by you. Follow me, or I call!" And she looked round as though she were about to act on her threat. The intruder turned very pale, and obeyed.
The scene had, of course, been witnessed by several persons, but no one dared follow the hostile queens. Clementina went straight into the cloak-room.
"This lady's wrap," she said.
Not another word was spoken. A man-servant brought the cloak. Mary Stuart put it on herself unaided, with trembling hands. She went forward a few steps, and then suddenly turning round, she flashed a look of mortal hatred at Margaret of Austria, who returned it with interest in the shape of a contemptuous smile.
It was foreordained of Heaven that the unhappy Queen of Scots should always be a victim—first to her cousin, Elizabeth of England, and now the Queen of Spain had turned her into the street. She found her duenna in the carriage; she had prudently made her escape at the beginning of the scene.
What moral purification Requena's rooms may have gained by the eviction of Mary Stuart it would be hard to say; but they certainly lost much from the æsthetic point of view, for, beyond a doubt, she was lovely.
The ball was coming to an end. Preparations were being made for the final cotillon. The crowd had thinned; several persons went away before the cotillon—elderly folk for the most part, who did not like late hours. Among the young ladies there was the agitation and stir which always precedes this last dance, when the most ceremonious ball assumes an aspect of more intimate enjoyment. Art and fancy now step in to eliminate every sensual element and make the waltz an innocent amusement—a reminiscence of the fancy ballets which, in the fourteenth century, entertained the Courts of France and England. And to many a damsel this is the crowning scene of the first act in the little comedy of love she has begun to perform.
Pepe Castro, as we have seen, had laughed to scorn Clementina's suggestion that he should pay his addresses to Calderón's daughter; but it had not, therefore, fallen on stony ground. Though he talked and danced with other girls, he did not fail to ask her to waltz more than once. When the cotillon was being formed he went to Esperanza and asked her to be his partner, though he knew very well that it would be impossible, as the engagements for the last dance were always made as soon as the young people arrived. However, it fell in with the scheme he was plotting in his fertile brain. The girl had, in fact, promised the dance to the Conde de Agreda, but, on Castro's invitation, her desire to dance with him was so great that, with calm audacity, she accepted it.
The Duchess selected the Condesa de Cotorraso to lead the cotillon, and she took Cobo Ramirez for her partner. He was always welcome in a ball-room as a most accomplished leader of cotillons; and on this particular occasion he had held long conferences with Clementina as to the arrangements for this dance.
The circle of chairs was placed, and Pepe Castro went to lead out Esperanza, who proudly took his arm. But they had not gone two steps before Agreda intercepted them.
"Why, Esperancita, I thought you had promised me the cotillon?" he said in great surprise.
The girl's audacity did not desert her—the courage of a love-sick maid.
"You must, please, forgive me, Leon," said she, in a tone which the most consummate actress might have envied. "When I accepted you I quite forgot that I was engaged already to Pepe."
The Count retired, murmuring a few polite words, which did not conceal his annoyance. As soon as he was gone, Esperancita, frightened at the compromising interest in Castro which she had thus betrayed, began with many blushes to explain:
"The real truth is that I had forgotten that I was engaged to Leon," she said. "And as I had taken your arm—and besides, he is a most tiring partner."
Pepe Castro took no mean advantage of his triumph; his demeanour was modest and grateful. Instead of courting her openly, he adopted a more insinuating style, loading her with small attentions, establishing a tone of easy confidence, and showing her all possible fondness without breathing a word of love. Esperanza was supremely happy. She began to believe herself adored; fancying that the sympathy and regard which had always existed between Pepe and herself was at last turning to love. Her heart beat high with joy.
Ramoncita also was pleased at the substitution. Agreda had for some little time been particularly antipathetic to him, almost as much so as Cobo Ramirez, since he was beginning to be as jealous of the one as of the other. Pepe, on the other hand, he regarded as his second self, another and a superior Maldonado. All the affection Esperanza bestowed on Pepe he accepted as a boon to himself. So to see her on his arm was to him a touching sight, and as he went up to them to say a few insignificant words he actually blushed with satisfaction. Pepe made a knowing face, as much as to say: "Victory all along the line!" and the young civilian felt that he was advancing with giant strides to the fulfilment of his hopes and the apogee of his happiness.
The cotillon was a worthy climax to this most successful ball. The inventiveness of Cobo Ramirez, spurred by the magnitude of the occasion, enchanted the dancers by the variety and ingenuity of its devices; he kept them amused for more than an hour. A game with a hoop arranged in the middle of the room absorbed every one's attention and earned him much applause. He divided the gentlemen into two parties, who shot alternately with arrows from pretty little gilt bows at the hoop suspended by a ribbon from the ceiling. The winners were entitled to dance with the partners of those they had defeated, while the humiliated victim followed in their wake, fanning them as they waltzed. Then he had planned another figure for the ladies; the successful fair left the room and returned sitting in a car drawn by four servants dressed as black slaves. In this she made a triumphal progress round the room, surrounded by the rest. This and other not less remarkable and valuable inventions had placed the fame of the heir of Casa Ramirez on a permanent and illustrious footing.
As soon as the cotillon was ended the company left—it was a noisy and precipitate retreat. Every one crowded out to the vestibule and stairs, talking at the top of their voices, laughing and calling, each louder than the other, for their carriages. The extensive garden, lighted by electricity, had a fantastic and unreal effect, like the scene in a fairy cosmorama. The beams of intense white light, making the shadows look black and deep, pierced the avenues of the park and lent it an appearance of immense extent. Night was ended, the pale tints of dawn were already grey in the East. It was intensely cold. The young "Savages," wrapped in fur coats, were letting off the last crackers of their wit in honour of the ladies who stood waiting, where their rich and picturesque wraps glittered in the electric light. Horses stamping, footmen shouting, the carriage-wheels, as they slowly came round to the steps, grinding the gravel of the drive. Then there was the sound of kisses, doors slammed, loud good-nights; and the noise of the vehicles, as they drove off from the terrace steps, seemed by degrees to swallow up all the others and carry them off to rest in the various quarters of the town.
Pepe Castro had kept close to Esperanza and was murmuring in her ear till the last. The girl, muffled up to her eyes, was smiling without looking at him. When at last the Calderón's carriage came up they shook hands with a long pressure.
"I hope you will not forget us for so long as usual; that you will come to see us oftener," she said, leaving her hand in his.
"Do you really wish that I should call more frequently?" said he, looking at her as if he meant to magnetise her.
"I should think I did!" As she spoke she coloured violently under her comforter, and snatching away her hand followed her mother to the carriage.
Pepa Frias had said to her daughter:
"When we go, child, I want Emilio to come with me. I am in such a state of nerves that I cannot sleep till I have given him my mind. We must have no more scandals, you see; I am going to propose an ultimatum. If he persists, you must come back to me and he may go to the devil."
She was in a great rage. Irene, though she would have liked to object to this arrangement, for she adored her fickle husband, did not dare to remonstrate; she submitted. When they were leaving, Pepa addressed her son-in-law:
"Emilio, do me the favour to see me home. I want to speak to you."
"Hang it all!" thought the young fellow.
"And Irene?" he said.
"She can go alone. The bogueys won't eat her," replied Pepa tartly.
"Worse and worse," Emilio reflected.
And, in point of fact, Irenita, eyeing her mother and her husband with fear and anxiety, went off alone in her carriage, leaving them together.
As Pepa's brougham rolled away, Emilio, to disarm his mother-in-law, tried, like the boy that he was, to divert the lightning by saying something to please her.
"Do you know," said he, "that I heard your praises loudly sung by the President of the Council and some men who were with him? They admired your costume immensely, but yet more your figure. They declared that there was not a girl in the room to compare with you for freshness, that your skin was like satin, and smoother and softer every day."
"Good heavens, what nonsense! That is all gammon, Emilio. A few years ago, I do not say——"
"No, no, indeed; your complexion is proverbial in Madrid. What would Irene give for a skin like her mother's!"
"Is it better than Maria Huerta's?" asked she, in an ironical tone, which betrayed, indeed, no very great annoyance.
Pepa had, in fact, changed her plan of attack; she thought that diplomacy would be more effective than a rating.
"Listen to me," she went on, "I meant to give you a good scolding, Emilio; to talk to you seriously, very seriously, and say a great many hard things, but I cannot. I am so foolishly soft-hearted that I can find excuses for every one. You have behaved so badly to Irenita this evening, that she would be justified in leaving you altogether; but I do not believe you are as bad as you seem, for you are nothing but a perverse boy. I am sure you do not yourself appreciate the gravity of your conduct."
Pepa's whole sermon was pitched in the same persuasive key, and Emilio, who had expected a severe lecture, was agreeably surprised. He listened submissively, and then in a broken voice tried to exculpate himself. He had flirted a little to be sure with Maria Huerta, but he swore he did not care for her. It was a mere matter of pique and vanity. When his engagement to Irene was announced, Maria had been heard to say, in Osorio's house, that she could not understand how Irenita could bear to marry that ugly slip of a boy. He had sworn she should eat her own words—and so—and so—and that was all, on his word of honour, all.
So Pepa was still further mollified; and what wonder if the young fellow thought that this, and perhaps worse sins, were condoned by his profligate mother-in-law.
CHAPTER XIII.
A PIOUS MATINÉE.
A FEW days after the ball, at eleven in the morning of a Friday in Lent, the most elegant of "Savages" woke from his calm and sound slumbers, fully determined to marry Calderón's little daughter. He opened his eyes, glanced at the hippic decorations which ornamented the walls of his room, stretched himself gracefully, drank a glass of lemonade which stood by his bedside, and prepared to rise. It cannot be positively asserted that the resolution had been formed during sleep, but it is quite certain that it was the birth of a mysterious travail which he had not consciously aided. When he went to bed Castro had only the vaguest thoughts of this advantageous alliance; on waking, his determination to sue for Esperanza's hand, by whatever process it had been elaborated, was irrevocable. Let us congratulate the happy damsel, and for the present devote our attention to studying the noble "Savage" in the act of perfecting the beautiful object which Nature had achieved in creating him.
His servant had prepared his bath. After looking in the glass to study the face of the day—his own—he took up some dumb-bells, and went through a few exercises. Then taking a foil, he practised a score or so of lunges, and finally he delivered a dozen or more punches on the pad of a dynamometer. Having accomplished this, the moment was come for him to step into the water. He was still splashing and sponging, when into his room, unannounced, walked the poor crazy Marquis Manolo Davalos.
"Pepe, I want to speak to you about a very important matter," said he, with an air of mystery, his eyes wilder than ever.
"Wait a minute; I am tubbing."
"Then make haste; I am in a great hurry."
Davalos rose from the chair into which he had dropped, and began walking up and down the room with a sort of feverish agitation, to which his friends had become accustomed. He could not remain still for five minutes. Any one else going through half the exercise he took in the course of the day would have been utterly exhausted before night. Castro watched him at first with contemptuous raillery in his eye; but he grew serious as he saw Manolo go up to the table and begin to play with a neat little revolver which Castro kept by his bedside.
"Look out there, Manolo! It is loaded."
"So I see, so I see," said the other with a smile; and turning round sharply, he added: "What do you think Madrid would say if I shot you dead?"
Pepe Castro felt a chill run down his spine, which was not altogether attributable to the cold bath, and he laughed rather queerly.
"And you know I could do it with impunity," his visitor went on, "as I am said to be mad——."
"Ha, ha, ha!" Castro laughed hysterically.
He was no coward; on the contrary, he had a reputation for punctilio and courage; but, like all fighting men, he liked a public. The prospect of an inglorious death at the hands of a maniac did not smile on his fancy. The example of Seneca, Marat, and other heroes who had been killed in their bath did nothing to encourage him, possibly because he had never heard of them. Davalos came towards him with the revolver cocked, saying:
"What will they say in town, eh? What will they say?"
Castro was as cold as though he were up to his chin in ice instead of water with the chill off. However, he had presence of mind enough to say:
"Lay down that revolver, Manolo. If you don't, you shall never see Amparo again as long as you live." Amparo was the fair demi-mondaine whom we have already seen at the Duke's ball. She had ruined the Marquis, a widower with young children, who had seriously intended to marry the woman; and his brain, none of the strongest at any time, had finally given way, when his family had interfered to protect him from her rapacity.
"Never again! Why not?" he asked, dejection painted on his face, as he lowered the weapon.
"Because I will not allow it; I will tell her never to let you inside her doors."
"Well, well, my dear fellow, do not be put out, I was only in fun," said the lunatic, replacing the revolver on the table.
Castro jumped out of the bath. No sooner was he wrapped in the turkish towel, with which he dried himself, than he seized the weapon and locked it away. Easy in his mind now, though annoyed by the fright his crazy friend had given him, he began talking to him in a tone of contemptuous ill-humour, while, standing before his glass, he lavished on his handsome person, with the greatest respect, all the care due to its merits.
"Now, then, out with it, man, out with the great secret. One of your fool's errands as usual, I suppose. I declare, Manolo, you ought not to be allowed in the streets. You should go somewhere and be cured," he said, as he rubbed his arms with some scented unguent which he selected from the collection of pots and bottles of every size arrayed before him.
The Marquis put his hand in his pocket, took out his note-book, and from it a letter in a woman's hand, saying with some solemnity:
"She has just written me this note. I want you to read it."
Pepe did not even turn his head to look at the document his friend held out to him. Absorbed at the moment in blending the ends of his moustache with his beard, he said in an absent-minded way:
"And what does she want?"
Davalos stared in surprise at the small interest he took in this precious missive.
"Shall I read it to you?"
"If it is not very long."
Manolo unfolded it as reverently as though it were the autograph of a saint, and read with deep emotion:
"MY DEAREST MANOLO.—Do me the favour to send me by the bearer two thousand pesetas,[D] of which I am in urgent need. If you have not so much about you, bring me the money this evening.—Always and entirely yours,
"AMPARO."
"My word! She is a cool hand. I suppose you did not send the money?"
"No."
"Quite right."
"Well, I had not got it. It is on purpose to see if you can help me that I have come here."
Castro turned round and contemplated his visitor with a look of surprise and irritation. Then, addressing himself to his glass again, he said:
"My dear Manolo, you are the greatest fool out. I am sure that when your aunt dies you will let that hussy spend the money for you as she has spent your own fortune."
The Marquis was in a fury.
"Do you know where the real wrong is?" he said. "It lies with my family, who, without rhyme or reason, interfere to prevent my marrying her. As my wife—as the mother of my motherless children—they would have been happy, and so should I!"
Castro stared at him in blank amazement. Tears stood on the Marquis's pale cheeks. Pepe made a grimace of contemptuous pity, and went on combing his moustache. After a few minutes' silence, he said:
"I am very sorry, old fellow. I have not got two thousand pesetas; but if I had I would not lend them to you for such a purpose, you may be very sure."
Davalos made no reply, but again paced the room.
"Whom can I ask?" he suddenly said, stopping short.
"Try Salabert," said Castro, with a short laugh.
Manolo clenched his fists and ground his teeth; his eyes glared ominously, and with a stride he went up to Pepe, who drew back a step, and prepared to defend himself.
"Such a speech is a gross insult!—an insult worthy of a bullet or a sword thrust! You are a coward—in your own house!"
His eyes started in a really terrific stare; but he did not succeed in provoking his friend. He ultimately controlled himself with a great effort, only flinging his hat on the floor with such violence as to crush it. Castro stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone. So often before he had jested with the crazy fellow, and said far rougher things, without his ever dreaming of taking offence, and now, by pure chance, as it seemed, he flew into this unaccountable rage. He tried to soothe him by an apology, but Manolo did not listen. Though he had got past the first impulse to struggle with him, he raged up and down like a caged wild beast, muttering threats and gesticulating vehemently. However, he soon broke down:
"I should never have believed it of you, Pepe," he murmured in a broken voice. "I should never have supposed that my best friend would so insult me—so stab me to the heart."
"But bless me, man——!"
"Do not speak to me, Pepe. You have stabbed me with a word; leave me in peace. God forgive you, as I forgive you! I am like a hare wounded by the hunter, which runs to its form to die. Do not harry me any more; leave me to die in peace."
And the simile of the hare seemed to him so pathetic that he sank sobbing into an arm-chair. At the same time he had a severe fit of coughing, and Castro had to persuade him to drink a cup of lime-flower tea.
By the time the luckless Marquis had a little recovered, Pepe had achieved the adornment of his person, which he proceeded to take out walking, very correctly and exquisitely dressed in a frock-coat. He breakfasted at Lhardy's, looked in at the Club, and by three in the afternoon or thereabouts bent his steps to the house of the Marquesa de Alcudia, his aunt, in the Calle de San Mateo. This lady was, as we know, very proud of her religion, and equally so, to say the least, of her pedigree. Pepe was her favourite nephew, and, though his dissipated mode of life disgusted her not a little, she had always treated him with much affection, hoping to tempt him into the right way. In the Marquesa's opinion, quarterings of nobility were as efficacious in their way as the Sacrament of Ordination. Whatever villainies a noble might commit, he was still a noble, as a priest is always a priest.
Castro had thought of this devout lady as one likely to assist him in his project. His instincts—which were more to be depended on than his intelligence—told him that if the Marquesa undertook the negotiations for his marriage with Esperancita she would undoubtedly succeed. She was a person of much influence in fashionable society, and even more with those persons who, like Calderón, had gained a place in it by wealth.
The Alcudia's mansion was a gloomy structure, built in the fashion of the last century—a ground floor with large barred windows and one floor above; nothing more. But it covered a vast extent of ground, with a neglected garden in the rear. The entrance was not decorative; the outside steps rough-hewn to begin with, and much worn. The late lamented Alcudia was proposing some repairs and improvements when death interfered with his plans. His widow abandoned them, not so much out of avarice as from intense conservatism, even in matters which most needed reform.
Within, the house was sumptuously fitted; the furniture was antique and very handsome; the walls hung with splendid tapestry; and fine pictures by the old masters graced the library and the oratory. This was indeed a marvel of splendour. It stood at one corner of the building on the ground floor, but was two storeys high, and as lofty, in fact, as a church. The windows were filled with stained glass, like those of a Gothic cathedral; the floor was richly carpeted; there was a small gallery with an organ; and the altar, in the French taste, was beautifully decorated. Over it hung an Ecce Homo, by Morales. It was an elegant and comfortable little chapel, warmed by a large stove in the cellar beneath.
In the drawing-room Pepe found only the girls, busy with their needlework. Their mother, they said, was in the study, writing letters. So, after exchanging a few words with his cousins, he joined her there.
"May I come in, aunt?"
"Come in, come in. You, Pepe?" said the Marquesa, looking up at him over the spectacles she wore for writing.
"If I am interrupting you I will go away. I want to consult you," said the young man, with a smile.
He took a chair, and while his aunt went on writing with a firm, swift hand, he meditated the exordium to the speech he was about to deliver. At last the pen dashed across the paper with a strident squeak, no doubt emphasising the writer's signature, and taking off her spectacles, she said:
"At your service, Pepe."
Pepe looked at the floor, praying no doubt for inspiration, twirled his moustache, cleared his throat and at last began with much solemnity.
"Well, aunt, I do not know whether it is that God has touched my heart, or merely that I am weary of my present mode of life; but at any rate for some time past I have been taking to heart the advice you have so often given me, and which goes hand in hand with my own wish to settle down, to give up the bad habits which I have contracted for want of a father to guide me, and yet more of a mother, like yourself. I am very nearly thirty, and it is time to think of the name I bear. I owe a duty to that, and to my calling as a Christian; for in all my excesses I have never forgotten that I belong to an old Catholic family, and that nowadays in Spain it is incumbent on our class to protect the cause of religion and set a good example, as you do. The means I look to as an encouragement to the change I feel within me is marriage."
The penitent could not have chosen his words better in addressing his aunt Eugenia. They made so good an impression that she rose from her place and came to lay a hand on his shoulder, exclaiming:
"You delight me, Pepito. You cannot imagine what pleasure you give me. And you say you do not know whether God has touched your heart! How could you have undergone this sudden change, if He had not inspired it? It is the touch of God, indeed, my boy, the finger of God—and the noble blood which runs in your veins. Have you chosen a wife?"
The young man smiled and nodded.
"Who is she?"
"I had thought of Esperanza Calderón. What do you think of her?"
"Nothing could be better. She is very well brought up, attractive, and I love her as a child of my own. She has always been my Pacita's bosom friend, as you know. Your choice is a most happy one."
Castro smiled again with a gleam of mischief, as he went on:
"You see, aunt, I would rather have married a girl of our own rank, But, as you know, I am utterly ruined, and the daughters of good families are not apt to have fortunes in these days. Those who have, would not have anything to say to me, as I have nothing to offer but what they already possess—a noble name. It is for this reason that I have chosen one of no birth, but with a good fortune."
"Very wise. And though we are compromising our dignity a little, we must save the name from disgrace. And Esperanza is a thoroughly good girl. She has been brought up among ourselves. She will always be a perfect lady, and do you credit."
The young man's face still wore that strange sarcastic smile. For a minute or two he remained silent; then he said:
"Do you know what we young fellows call a marriage of this kind?"
"No—what?"
"Eating dirt."
The Marquesa smiled frigidly, but then, looking grave again, she replied:
"No, that cannot be said in this case, Pepe. I can answer for this girl that she is worthy of a brilliant marriage. You will be a gainer. Are you engaged? Have you spoken to her? I have had no communication——"
"I have not said anything as yet I know that she does not dislike me; we look kindly on each other, but nothing more. Before taking any definite steps I decided that I would speak to you as the person of most weight of our family in Madrid."
"Very proper; you have behaved admirably. When marriage is in question it is well to proceed with due caution and formality, for, after all, it is a sacrament of the Church.[E] In better times than these no alliance was ever contracted in the higher circles without consulting the opinion of the heads of both houses. I thank you for your confidence in me, and you may count on my approval."
"And on your assistance? You see I am afraid of meeting with some difficulties on her father's part. He loves hard cash. And to be frank, I should not relish a refusal."
The Marquesa sat meditating for a while.
"Leave him to me. I will do my best to bring him to reason. But you must promise to do nothing without consulting me. It is a delicate negotiation, and will need prudence and skill."
"I give you my word, aunt."
"Above all be very careful with the little girl. Do not startle her."
"I will do exactly what you bid me."
They presently went together into the drawing-room, where some visitors had arrived.
On Friday afternoons during Lent, the Marquesa received those of her friends who, like herself, would devote an hour or two to prayer and religious exercises. There were the Marquesa de Ujo and her daughter, still with her skirts far above her ankles, General Patiño, Lola Madariaga and her husband, Clementina Osorio, with her faithful companion Pascuala, and several others; and, above all, Padre Ortega. As, in fact, the honours of the occasion were his, and he was director of the entertainment, every one had gathered about him in the middle of the room. Everyone talked louder than he did; the illustrious priest's voice was always soft and subdued, as though he were in a sick room. But as soon as he began to speak, silence instantly reigned—every one listened with respectful attention.
The Marquesa, on entering, kissed his hand with an air of submission, and inquired affectionately after a cold from which he had been suffering.
"Oh! have you a cold, Father?" inquired several ladies at once.
"A little, a mere trifle," replied the priest, with a smile of suave resignation.
"By no means a trifle," said the Marquesa. "Yesterday in church you coughed incessantly."
And she proceeded to give the minutest details of the reverend Father's sufferings, omitting nothing which could make her account more graphic. The priest sat smiling, with his eyes on the ground, saying:
"Do not let it disturb you, the Marquesa is always over anxious. You might think that I was in the last stage of consumption."
"But, Father, you must take care of yourself, you really must take care of yourself. You do too much. For the sake of religion you ought to spare yourself a little."
The whole party joined in advising him with affectionate interest. A maiden of seven-and-thirty, a sportive, gushing thing, whose confessor he was, even said, half seriously and half in jest:
"Why, Father, if you were to die, what would become of me?"
A sally which made the guests laugh, but somewhat disconcerted the very proper director of souls. The Marquesa wished to hinder him this afternoon from delivering the address with which he usually favoured them; but he insisted.
Meanwhile the room had been filling. Mariana Calderón had come in with Esperancita, the Cotorrasos, Pepa Frias, and Irene. She, poor child, looked pale and ailing; in fact, she had come straight from her room, to which she had been confined for some days with a nervous attack. When the party was large enough, the Marquesa invited them to retire to the Oratory. The ladies took front places near the altar, chairs and stools having been comfortably arranged for them, the gentlemen stood in the background and were provided only with a velvet-pile carpet to kneel on.
The meeting began by each one going through the prayers of the Rosary after Padre Ortega. The ladies did this with edifying precision and devotion, their ivory fingers, on which diamonds and emeralds twinkled like stars, piously crossed or clasped, their pretty heads bent low—they were quite bewitching. The Creator must surely hearken to their prayers, if it were only out of gallantry. Not the least humble, the least engaging and edifying figure of them all was Pepa Frias. A black mantilla was most becoming to her russet hair and pink and white complexion. The same may be said of Clementina, who was taller, with more delicate features, and in no respect inferior in brilliancy and beauty of colouring. The languid and artistic attitudes affected by the fair devotees were no doubt intended to appeal to the Divine Will; but, as a secondary end, they were no less certainly meant to edify the escort of men who looked down on them. And, if by any chance there could have been a Freethinker among them, what confusion and shame must have possessed his soul on seeing that all that was most elegant and distinguished of the High-life of Madrid was enlisted in the service of the Lord.
Prayer being over, two of the ladies, accompanied by a baritone "Savage," went up into the gallery, and while another gentleman played the organ, they sang some of the finest airs from Rossini's Stabat Mater. As they listened, the pious souls felt a vague craving for the Opera house, for La Tosti and Gayarre, and confessed regretfully, in the depths of their hearts, that the amateur performance promised them in Heaven would be a stupendous and eternal bore. After the music came Padre Ortega's homily or lecture. The priest was accommodated on a sort of throne of ebony and marble in the middle of the chapel, the ladies moved their chairs and cushions, so as to face him, and the gentlemen formed an outer circle, and after a few moments of private meditation to collect his ideas, he began in a gentle tone to speak a few slow and solemn words, on the subject of the Christian Family.
As we know, Father Ortega was a priest quite up to the mark of modern civilisation, who kept his eye on the advance of rationalistic science that he might pounce down on it and put it to rout. Positivism, evolution, sociology, pessimism, were all familiar words to him, and did not frighten him, as they did most of his colleagues. He was on intimate terms with them, and fond of using them to confute the pretensions of modern learning. What he esteemed to be his own strong ground, was the demonstration of the perfect compatibility of science with faith, the Harmony (with a capital H) between Religion and Philosophy. His discourse on the Family was profound and eloquent. To Father Ortega, that which constituted the Family was a reverence and love for tradition, reverence and love for the past. "The Family is Tradition—the tradition of its glory and of its name, of honour, virtue, and heroism; and all these may be summed up in two words: respect for elders—love and reverence, that is to say, for all that is highest and most conservative in the race."
Starting from this theorem, the preacher inveighed against revolution as against a gale from hell, blowing down all that was old, and clearing the ground for all that was new; against the barbarous hostility of our time to the beliefs, the manners, the laws, the institutions, and the glories of the past.
"The banners of revolution are inscribed with the motto: 'Despise the Elders,'" said he, "as though old creeds, old manners, old institutions, old aristocracies—though like everything human, they fall far short of perfection—did not represent the labours of our forefathers, their intelligence, their triumphs, their soul, life, and heart. And this being the case, how could revolutionary science, which casts its stupid contumely on everything ancient and venerable, fail to besmirch even our great ancestors with its scorn? One element of dissolution in the Family was the attack on property, directed by the revolutionary faction. This aggression was not merely adverse to the constitution of society, it was still more directly hostile to that of the Family. Property, inheritance, and the patrimony, what were they but the outcome of reverence for our forefathers on the one hand, of love for our children on the other? Property consolidates the present, the past, and the future of the Family; it is the spot where it has grown up and spread; the soil which, when the progenitors pass away, assures them of rest beneath the tree of posterity, which shall grow up from it and call them blessed!"
Then, for above an hour, the learned Father proved the existence, on the most solid foundations, of the Christian family. Its bases were religion, tradition, and property. He spoke with decision, in a simple, convincing style, and emphatic but correct language. His audience were deeply attentive and docile, quite persuaded that it was the Holy Ghost which spoke by the mouth of the reverend preacher, commanding them to cherish tradition and religion, but, above all, property. The sublime thought was so elevating that some of the gentlemen present felt themselves united for all eternity to the Supreme Being by the sacred tie of landed estate, and registered a vow to fight for it heroically, and resist the passing of any law which, directly or indirectly, might affect its integrity.
When he ended he was rewarded by smiles of approbation and repressed murmurs of enthusiasm. Every one spoke in a whisper, out of respect to the sanctity of the spot. The bold damsel who just now had asked Father Ortega what she could do without him, flew to kiss his hand, with a succession of sounding smacks which made the rest of the company exchange meaning smiles of amusement, and the priest drew it away with evident annoyance. Once more, some ladies and gentlemen went up into the gallery and executed, in every sense of the word, some religious music by Gounod. Finally, all the saintly souls left the little chapel and returned to the drawing-room.
The Marquesa de Alcudia, a restless nature that knew no peace, at once proceeded to carry out her promise to her nephew. He saw her take Mariana aside; they quitted the room together. By-and-by they returned, and Castro could see that he had been the subject of their parley by the timid and affectionate glance bestowed on him by Esperancita's mother. Then he saw his aunt retire with Padre Ortega into a corner where they had a private consultation, and again he suspected that he was their theme. The priest looked towards him two or three times with his vague, short-sighted eyes. He had taken care not to go near Esperanza, but they had exchanged smiles and looks from afar. The girl seemed surprised at his sudden reserve; for the last few days Pepe had been assiduous. She was beginning to be uneasy, and at last crossed the room to speak to him.
"You were not at the Opera last night; are you keeping Lent?"
"Oh, no!" said he, with a laugh. "I had a little headache and went to bed early."
"I do not wonder. What could you expect? You were riding a horse in the afternoon that did nothing but shy. He is a handsome beast, but much too lively. At one moment I thought he would have you off."
Castro smiled with a superior air, and the girl hastened to add: "I know you are a fine horseman; but an accident may happen to any one."
"What would you have done if I had been thrown?" he asked, looking her straight in the face.
"How do I know!" exclaimed the girl with a shrug, but she blushed deeply.
"Would you have screamed?"
"What strange things you ask me," said Esperanza, getting hotter and hotter. "I might perhaps—or I might not."
Just then the Marquesa de Alcudia addressed her.
"Esperanza, I want to speak to you."
And as she passed her nephew she said in a low voice:
"Prudence, Pepe! Asides are not in your part."
Any less superior soul would have felt some anxiety at seeing the two women leave the room together, some uneasiness as to the issue of this all-important interview; but our friend was so far above the common herd in this, as in other matters, that he could chatter with the company with as much tranquillity as though his aunt and Esperanza had gone to discuss the fashions. When they presently returned, Esperanza's little face was in a glow, her eyes beaming with an expression of submission and happiness, which, but for fear of committing a deadly sin in Lent, we might compare to that of the Virgin Mary on the occasion when she was visited by the Angel Gabriel.
The meeting still preserved a sanctimonious tone. These chastened souls could not forget that they were celebrating the Fasting in the Wilderness. The young ladies round the piano piously abstained from singing anything frivolous; their voices were modulated to the Ave Marias of Schubert and Gounod, and other songs no less redolent of sacred emotion. They talked and laughed in subdued tones. If one of the young men spoke a little recklessly the ladies would call him to order, reminding him that on a Friday in Lent certain subjects were prohibited. The Spirit of God must indeed have been present with the meeting if we may judge from the resignation, the intense serenity, with which they all seemed to endure existence in this vale of tears. A placid smile was on every lip; the afternoon waned amid sacred song, mellifluous exhortation, and subdued mirth. The newspapers reported next day, with perfect truth, that these pious Fridays were quite delightful, and that the Marquesa de Alcudia did the honours in the name of the Almighty with exquisite grace.
The party at length dispersed. All these souls, so blessed and refreshed by faith, trooped out of the Alcudia Palace and made their way home, where they sat down to dine on hot turtle soup, mayonnaise of salmon, and salads of Brussels sprouts, beginning with prawns to sharpen their appetites. But, indeed, the hours of silent prayer and communion with the Divinity had already done this. Nothing is more effectual in giving tone to the stomach than the sense of union with the Omnipotent, and the hope that, albeit there are fire and eternal torments for pickpockets and those misguided souls who do not believe in them, for all Christian families—those, that is to say, who believe in property and in their ancestors—there are certainly comfortable quarters in reserve, with an eternity of salmon mayonnaise and prawns à la Parisienne.
CHAPTER XIV
AN EXCURSION TO RIOSA.
THE Duke de Requena had given the last shake to the tree; the orange dropped into his hands golden and juicy. At a given moment his agents in Paris, London, and Madrid, bought up more than half of the Riosa shares. Thus the management, or, which was the same thing, the mine, was practically his. Some who had suspected his game, declined to sell, especially in Madrid, where the banker was well-known; and if he had not made haste to take the decisive step, the price would undoubtedly have become firmer. Llera scented the danger and gave the signal. It was a happy day for the Asturian when he received the telegrams from Paris and London. His hatchet-face was as radiant as that of a general who has just won a great battle. His clumsy arms waved in the air like the sails of a windmill, as he told the tale to the various men of business who had come to the Duke's counting-house to ask the news. Loud Homeric laughter shook his pigeon-breasted frame, he hugged his friends tightly enough to choke them; and when the Duke asked him a question, he answered even him with a touch of scorn from the heights of his triumph.
And yet he was not to get the smallest percentage on this immense transaction; not a single dollar of all the millions which were to come out of that mine would remain in his hands. But what matter! His calculations had proved correct; the scheme he had worked out with such secrecy, perseverance, and wonderful energy and skill, had come to the desired issue. His joy was that of the artist who has succeeded—a joy compared with which all the other delights on earth are not worth a straw.
The Duke's satisfaction was of a different stamp. His vanity was indeed flattered by this brilliant success; he honestly thought that he had achieved an undertaking worthy to be recorded on marble and sung by poets. A proceeding which was in truth no more than a swindling trick, within the letter of the law, was by some strange aberration of the moral faculty transfigured into a glorious display of intellectual power—and that not alone in his own eyes, but in those of society at large. To celebrate his success, and at the same time to see for himself what improvements must be effected in the working of the mine to make it as productive as he intended it should become, he planned an excursion thither with the engineers and a party of his friends. At first they were to be eight or ten; by degrees the number grew, and when the day came round they formed a party of above fifty guests. This was chiefly owing to Clementina, who was greatly fascinated by the notion of this journey. Thus what had been in the Duke's mind a little friendly "day out," had, under her manipulation, acquired the proportions of a public event, a much talked-of and ostentatious progress, which for some days absorbed the attention of the fashionable world.
Salabert had a special train made up for his party; the servants and provisions were despatched the day before. Everything was to be arranged to receive them worthily. It was the middle of May, and beginning to be hot. By nine in the morning the station of Las Delicias was crowded with carriages, out of which stepped ladies and gentlemen, dressed for the occasion; the women in smart costumes considered appropriate for a day in the country, the men in morning suits and felt hats. But to these apparently unpretending garments they had contrived to give a stamp of individual caprice, distinguishing them, as was but right, from all the shooting coats and wide-awakes hitherto invented. One had a flannel suit, as white as snow, with black gloves and a black hat; another was in the inconspicuous motley of the lizard, crowned by a blue hat with a microscopic brim; a third had thought it an opportunity for turning out in a black jersey suit, with a white hat, white gloves, and boots. Many had hung a noble field-glass about their shoulders, by a leather strap, that they might not miss the smallest details of the landscape, and several flourished Alpine sticks, as if they were contemplating a perilous clamber over cliffs and rocks.
The special train included two saloon cars, a sleeping car, and a luggage van. The cream of Madrid society proceeded to settle itself, with the noisy glee befitting the occasion. There were more men than women; the ladies had, indeed, for the most part, excused themselves, not caring particularly for the prospect of visiting a mine. Still there were enough to lend grace to the expedition, and at the same time to subdue its tone a little. There were some whose fathers or husbands were connected with the business: Calderón's wife and daughter, Mrs. Biggs, Clementina, and others. There were some who had come out of friendship for these—Mercedes and Paz Alcudia, for instance, who were inseparable from Esperanza. There were more again who could never bear to be absent from any ploy: Pepa Frias, Lola, and a few more. Among the men were politicians, men of business, and titles new and old. As they got into the train the servile assiduity of the station-clerks betrayed how great an excitement was produced by the mere passage through the office of these potentates and grandees.
Last of all, and most potent of all, came the Duke de Requena, who, taking out his handkerchief, waved it from a window as a signal for departure. A whistle sounded, the engine responded with a long and noisy yell, then, puffing and snorting, the train began to move its metallic segments, and slowly quitted the station. The travellers waved their hands from the windows in farewell greetings to those who had come to see them off.
Great was the excitement and clatter as the train flew across the barren plains around Madrid. Every one talked and laughed at once, as loud as possible, and what with this and the noise of the train, no one could hear. By degrees a sort of chemical diffusion or elective affinity took place. The Duke, seated in a coupé or compartment at the back of the train, found himself the centre of a group of financial and political magnates. Clementina, Pepa Frias, Lola, and some other women formed another party, with such men as preferred a lighter and more highly spiced style: Pinedo, Fuentes, and Calderón. The young men and maidens were exchanging witticisms which seemed to afford them infinite amusement. One of the incidents which most enchanted them was the appearance of Cobo Ramirez at the window, in a guard's coat and cap, demanding the tickets. Cobo, who had been in the foremost carriage, had clambered along by the foot-board, not without some risk, since the train was going at a tremendous speed. He was hailed with applause.
Then the young people sent notes to their friends in the other saloon, the young men inditing love-letters. The heir of Casa-Ramirez took charge of them all, and went to and fro between the cars very nimbly, considering his obesity. This amused them greatly for some time. The love-letters, written in pencil, were read aloud, with much applause and laughter.
Raimundo was content to talk to the Mexican and Osorio. Osorio had really taken a liking to him. Though but a boy in looks the banker discerned that he was intelligent and well-educated, and among the "Savages" such endowments as these conferred pre-eminence. The young man had, too, succeeded in adapting himself very sufficiently to the atmosphere which for the time he breathed. Not only was his dress visibly modified by the refinements of fashion and good taste, but his tone and manners had undergone a very perceptible change. In his behaviour to Clementina he was still the timid lad, the submissive slave, who hung on every word and gesture of his mistress; his love was taking deeper root in his heart every day. But in social intercourse he had accommodated himself to what he saw around him. He did all in his power to repress the impulses of his loving and expansive nature. He assumed a grave indifference, an almost disdainful calm; ridiculed everything that was said in his hearing, unless it bore on the manners and customs of the Savage Club; learned to speak in a joking, ironical voice, like his fellow "Savages," and above all was on his guard against ever uttering any scientific or philosophical notions, for he knew by experience that this was the one unpardonable sin. He even kept his own counsel when one of his new associates roused him to a feeling of warmer sympathy and regard than the others. Affection is in itself so absurd that it is wise to bury it in the depths of your soul, or you expose yourself to some rebuff, even from the object of your affection. Such things have been known. Thanks to his diligence, and to an apprenticeship, which to him was a very cruel one, he extorted much more respect, and was looked on as a man of consummate chic, a height of happiness which it is given to few to attain to in this weary world beneath the stars.
When Cobo had made several journeys from one car to the other, in no small danger, as the train was flying onwards, Lola, with a mischievous look, first at Clementina and then at Alcázar, said to the young man:
"Alcázar, will you venture to go to the next carriage, and ask the Condesa de Cotorraso for her bottle of salts? I feel rather sea-sick."
Now Raimundo was, as we know, but a frail creature, who had never gone through the athletic training of these young aristocrats, his friends. The scramble along the foot-boards at the pace at which the train was going, which was to them mere child's play, was to him a service of real danger. He was apt to turn giddy when only crossing a bridge or climbing a tower. He was fully aware of this, and hesitated a moment; still, for very shame he could but reply:
"I will go at once, Señora," and he was about to act on her orders.
But Clementina, whose brows had knit at her friend's preposterous demand, stopped him, exclaiming:
"You certainly shall not go, Alcázar. We will make Cobo go for it next time he returns."
The young man stood doubtful with his hand on the door; but Clementina repeated more positively, colouring as she spoke:
"You are not to go—not on any account."
Raimundo turned to Lola with a bow.
"Forgive me, Señora, to-day I am sworn to this lady's service. I will be your slave some other day."
And neither Lola's noisy laugh, nor the sarcastic smiles of the others, could spoil the grateful emotion he experienced at his mistress's eager interest.
Ramon Maldonado was in the other saloon, where also were Esperanza and her mother with some other ladies, whom he deliberately laid himself out to charm by his discourse. He was giving them a full and particular report, in the most parliamentary style he could command, of some curious incidents in the last sitting. He was already master of all the commonplace of civic oratory, and knew the technical cant very thoroughly. He could talk of the order of the day, votes of confidence, private bills, committees of supply, the previous question, obstruction, suspension, and closure as if he himself were the patentee of this elaborate outcome of human ingenuity. He knew the municipal bye-laws as well as if he had invented them, and discussed questions of city dues, sewage, weights and measures, and seizure of contraband, so that it was a marvel to hear him. Finally, being a man of unfathomable ambition, he had joined a party in opposition to the Mayor, a step which he hoped might lead to his nomination as a member of the board of highways.
For a long time past he had been waging a covert but determined struggle against one Perez, another deputy not less ambitious than himself, for this very appointment, in which he believed that his great gifts as an innovator would shine with peculiar splendour. The various public places of Madrid were awaiting the redeeming hand which might give them fresh life and splendour, and the hand could be none other than that of Maldonado. In the recesses of his brain, among a thousand other portentous schemes, there was one so audacious that he dared not communicate it to any one, while he was incubating it with the fondest care, determined to fight for this child of his genius till his dying day. This was no less than a plan for moving the fountain of Apollo from the Prado to the Puerta del Sol. And a whippersnapper fellow like Perez, a narrow-minded slow-coach, with no taste or spirit, dared to dispute the place with him!
At the moment when he was most absorbed in his narrative of how he had concocted the most ingenious intrigue to secure a vote of censure on the Mayor, Cobo—that inevitable spoilsport—came up, and after listening for a minute, roughly attacked him, saying:
"Come, Ramoncito, do not give yourself airs. We know very well that you are a mere nobody in the House. Gonzalez can lead you by the nose wherever he wants you to go."
This was a cruel thrust at Maldonado, considering that it was before Esperancita and several other ladies, old and young. Indeed it stunned him as completely as if it had been a blow on the head with a cudgel. He turned pale, his lips quivered, and he could not utter a word. At last he gasped out:
"I? Gonzalez? Leads me by the nose? Are you crazy? No one leads me by the nose, much less Gonzalez, of all men!"
He spoke the last words with intense scorn; he denied Gonzalez as Peter denied his Master, out of base pride. His conscience told him that he was not speaking truly, though no cock crew. Gonzalez was the acknowledged leader of the civic minority, and at the bottom of his heart, Ramon held him in great veneration.
"Pooh! nonsense! Do you mean to tell me that Gonzalez cannot make you work and dance like a puppet? Much good you dissidents would do if it were not for him."
On this Ramon recovered the use of his tongue, and to such good purpose, that he poured out above a thousand words in the course of a few minutes, with fierce vehemence, foaming and sputtering with rage. He rebuked with indignation the monstrous comparison of himself with a puppet, and fully explained the precise position held by Gonzalez in the city council and that which he himself occupied. But he did it with such frenzied excitement and gesticulation that the ladies looked at him in amused surprise.
"How eloquent he is! Who would have believed it of Ramoncito? Come, Cobo, do not tease him any more; you will make him ill!"
This compassionate tone stung Ramon to the quick. He was instantly speechless, and for at least an hour he wrapped himself in silent dignity.