There was suddenly heard a great noise. It was the major, who, on rising to join Raphael, had upset a vase of flowers. And Raphael cried out, “The major announces his arrival; without doubt he comes to sigh, like the pipe of an organ, over the little note the ladies take of his person.”
“They must be very difficult to please,” remarked the prince; “the major has a handsome figure.”
“I do not say to the contrary. He is a Samson in strength. But, to begin with, he has his Delilah, who will soon be legitimately his, thanks to the millions which tea and opium cast into the coffers of his father. She waits in the midst of the fogs of his isle, while he amuses himself under the beautiful sky of Andalusia. Foreigners who visit Spain are all of one accord in anticipating the pleasures they propose to themselves: the beauty of the climate, the bull-fights, the oranges, the boléros, and, especially, their love conquests. What complaints have I heard from those who came here like Cæsar, and left like Darius!”
During this dialogue, the baron had approached the table, and regarded the game.
“Madame,” said he to the marchioness, “is the mother—”
“Of my daughter? Yes, sir,” replied the marchioness.
Rita impulsively burst into a fit of laughter.
Raphael, who had stolen away from the major, mixed in the groups of guests, and soon found himself among some young ladies, of whom several were his relations. He had in this feminine squad a large party; but seeing that he had neglected them to devote his attentions to the strangers who were his cousin’s guests, this evening introduced by him, were all leagued against him, and had made up their minds to be revenged.
“Am I transformed to the head of Medusa, that you do not know me?” demanded Arias.
“Ah! is it you?” said one of the conspirators.
“It seems to me so, Clarita,” replied the young man.
“It is so very long since I have seen you, I did not recognize you again. How have you been able to tear yourself away from your strangers?”
“My strangers! I renounce the property.”
“Is it the torments and fatigues these protégés of thine cause thee, which has given thee already the appearance of old age?”
“Señoritas,” exclaimed Raphael, “is this a declaration of war, a conspiracy? What have I done?”
As an only response, he was overwhelmed with appeals, which burst forth in rapid succession, like an explosion of fireworks.
At this moment, the guests who found themselves assembled near the door of the court separated to permit the duke, leading in the Gaviota, to enter. Stein followed.
CHAPTER XXI.
MARISALADA, instructed in her toilet by her hostess, presented herself accoutred in a manner the most ridiculous. She wore a dress of silk, handkerchief pattern, too short, and blending colors the most extravagant; her coiffure was most ungracefully intermingled with red ribbons of unheard-of stiffness; a mantle of tulle, white and blue, garnished with Catalan lace, exceeded the black of her tint. The ensemble of this parure could but necessarily produce, and did produce, the most pitiable effect.
The countess in making some steps towards the Gaviota passed near to Raphael, and whispered in his ear, applying to the circumstance the fable of La Fontaine—
Se rapporte à son plumage.”
“How many thanks we owe you,” said the countess to Maria, “for your goodness in wishing to satisfy our desire to hear you! The duke has paid you so brilliant a compliment!”
The Gaviota, without saying a word, let herself be conducted by the countess to a seat which had been destined for her between the piano and the sofa.
Rita, to be near her, had abandoned her ordinary place, and was seated beside Eloise.
“My God!” she said, on seeing the Gaviota, “she is blacker than a mole.”
“One could swear,” added Eloise, “that it was her greatest enemy who has dressed her. One would say a Judas of Holy Saturday. How does it seem to you, Raphael?”
“This wrinkle which she has between her eyebrows,” replied Arias, “gives her the appearance of a unicorn.”
During this time, in this assembly so numerous and so brilliant, no symptom of politeness or good feeling was shown towards Maria; who not the less preserved all her aplomb and her unalterable calmness. Thanks to her look, always investigating and penetrating, to her quick intelligence, and the exquisite tact of a Spanish woman, two minutes sufficed her to remark every thing, and to judge of it all.
“I already understand,” she said to herself, in resuming her observations, “that the countess is good, and desires my success; the young elegants make fun of me and of my toilet, which must be frightful; for these strangers look at me disdainfully, as I am only a simple country girl: for the old I am a nullity; the others remain neuter. In consideration of the duke, who is my protector, they will neither praise nor criticise until after an opinion favorable or the contrary is formed of me.”
For her part, the good and amiable countess tried to enter into conversation with the Gaviota, but her laconic responses neutralized all her good intentions.
“Does Seville please you much?” asked the countess.
“Sufficiently,” replied Maria.
“And what do you think of our cathedral?”
“It is too large.”
“And our beautiful walks?”
“Too small.”
“And what then interests you the most?”
“The bulls.”
The conversation stopped here. It was resumed by the countess after a long pause—
“Allow me to pray your husband to place himself at the piano.”
“Whenever it pleases you.”
Stein took his place at the piano. Maria, whose hand the duke had taken, and conducted her, placed herself at the side of her husband.
“Do you tremble, Maria?” Stein asked of her.
“And why should I tremble?” she replied.
There was profound silence. They could then easily distinguish the various impressions she reflected on the countenances of those present; with the greater part of whom it was curiosity and surprise; with the countess a sweet good-nature; around the gaming-tables, which Raphael called the upper house, there was nothing remarkable but complete indifference.
The prince smiled with disdain; the major opened his eyes, as if that would help him to hear; the baron closed his.
Sir John profited by this moment of interval to take off his eyeglasses, and rub them with his handkerchief.
Raphael fled into the garden to smoke a cigarette.
Stein played without affectation or flourishes the prelude of Casta Diva; but the pure, limpid, and powerful voice of the Gaviota made her so well heard, that the spectators seemed touched as by a magic wand. On every countenance was painted astonishment and admiration. The prince allowed an approving exclamation to escape him.
When the Gaviota had finished singing, a storm of bravos was sent forth from all the assembly: the countess set the example by applauding with her beautiful and delicate hands.
“God preserve me!” said the general, stopping his ears; he really thought he was in the place where bulls are kept.
“Let them alone, León,” said the marchioness; “let them divert themselves. It is better to be amused than to speak ill of one’s neighbor.”
Stein acknowledged on all sides his respectful thanks.
Mariquita resumed her seat, as cold and impassive as before. She sang in succession several variations most difficult, where the melody disappeared in the midst of trills and cadences. Surmounting without effort every obstacle, she elicited more and more admiration.
“Countess,” said the duke, “the prince desires to hear some Spanish songs which have been much spoken of to him; Maria excels in this species of song; will you procure a guitar for her?”
“With great pleasure,” replied the countess. And she complied at once with the request.
Raphael was seated near to Rita, after having taken care to place the major beside Eloise, who tried to persuade the Englishman that the Spaniards were becoming day by day more desirous of putting themselves on a level with foreigners, above all in that which relates to affectation and affected airs; for we know that in servile imitations, it is always defects which are the more readily imitated.
“What beautiful eyes!” said Raphael to his cousin. “These long black lashes are magnificent. Her look has truly the attraction of love.”
“It is you who are the lover of strangers,” said Rita. “Why have you placed the major near Eloise? Listen to the nonsense he is telling her. I warn you, my cousin, that each day you take the aspect and the attractions of a dictionary.”
“There it is, raillery, and raillery again,” cried Raphael, striking with his fist the arm of the chair. “You stray from the question, I speak to you of my love for yourself, Rita, of my love which will endure eternally. Know it well, my cousin, a man never loves seriously but one woman in his lifetime. The others—they pretend that they love them.”
“That is what Don Luis has repeated to me often, my cousin; but do you know, in your turn, that you are becoming fatiguing, ennuyant, like a repeating watch.”
“What does this signify?” cried Eloise, seeing a guitar brought in.
“It appears she is to sing some Spanish songs, and I am rejoiced. These songs divert me much.”
“Spanish songs!” sighed Eloise indignantly. “What horror! They are good for the common people, but not in society where bon-ton reigns. What then is Gracia thinking of? Here then is it why foreigners rightly think we are behind other nations; because we will not adopt their manners and their tastes as our models, because we through obstinacy will dine at three o’clock, and because we never will persuade ourselves that all that is Spanish is stupid.”
“But,” said the major in a gibberish sort of Anglo-Andalusian, “I believe indeed, that they do very well to be as they are.”
“If this is a compliment,” replied Eloise with emphasis, “it is so much exaggerated that it resembles mockery.”
“It is the Italian lord,” said Rita, “who has asked for these Spanish sonnets. He likes them, and understands them; that’s one proof that they merit being heard.”
“Eloise,” added Raphael, “the barcarolles, the tyroliennes, and the ranz des vaches are the popular songs of other countries; why will we not admit in the society of distinguished people our boleros and the other songs of the Spanish people?”
“Because it is more vulgar,” replied Eloise.
Raphael shrugged his shoulders, Rita laughed outright, and the major comprehended nothing of it.
Eloise got up, and under pretext of a headache left, accompanied by her mother, to whom she said in departing—
“Let them know at least that there are in Spain young ladies sufficiently distinguished and sufficiently delicate to fly from such buffooneries.”
“How unfortunate will be the Abelard of this Heloise!” said Raphael, on seeing her retire.
Maria, beyond her beautiful voice and excellent method, possessed, as a daughter of the common people, the infusing of science in the songs of Andalusia; and that grace, that charm which a stranger could not understand nor value, without having resided a long time in the country, without having, so to speak, become identified with the national character. There is in these songs, as well as in the airs of the dances, a richness of imagination, an attraction so powerful, an enchainment of surprises, complaints, bursts of joy, of languor, and of exaltation, that the audience, at first astonished, soon finish by being captivated and intoxicated.
Thus when Maria took the guitar, and sang—
Al lado del Mediodia,
Donde nacen las morenas,
Y donde la sal se cria,”[4]
admiration became enthusiasm. The young people marked the measure by clapping their hands, repeating “Good! Good!” to encourage the singer; the cards fell from the hands of the players; the major could no longer contain himself, and beat the measure in the wrong time; Sir John swore that the song was even better than “God save the Queen;” but that which was the triumph of the Spanish music was, that it smoothed the brow of the general.
“Do you remember, brother,” the marchioness smilingly asked him, “the time when we sang el Zorengo and el Tripili?”
“What is that, the Zorengo and the Tripili?” asked the baron of Raphael.
“They are,” replied Arias, “the fathers of Sereno and of la Cachucha, and the forefathers of la Jaca de Terciopelo, of Vito, and other songs of the day.”
These particulars of songs and of national dances, of which we have spoken, may seem in bad taste, and they would certainly be so in other countries. But to abandon one’s self without reserve to sentiments which instigate our songs and our dances, one must have a character like ours; it must be that grossness and vulgarity be, as they are with us, two things unknown, two things which do not exist. A Spaniard may be insolent, but rarely will he ever be gross, because it is not in his nature. He lives according to his inspiration, which will never efface in him the stamp of a special distinction. This is what gives to Spain, despite of an education but little nourished, that finish of manner and frank elegance which render their intercourse so agreeable.
Mariquita left the hotel of the countess as pale and as impassible as she had entered it.
When the countess was alone with her friends, she said with a triumphant air to Raphael—
“What think you now, my dear cousin?”
“I think,” replied the young man, “that ‘the warbling is better than the plumage.’ ”
“What eyes!” cried the countess.
“One might say, two black diamonds in a casket of Russia leather.”
“She is grave,” said the countess, “but not haughty.”
“And timid as a woman of the common class,” said Raphael.
“But what a voice!” added the countess; “what a divine voice!”
“There should be engraven on her tomb,” replied Raphael, “the epitaph which the Portuguese composed for their celebrated singer Madureira—
O melhor cantor do mundo:
Que movieu porque Deus quiseira,
Que si naon quiseira naon.
E por que lo necisitó na sua capella,
Dijole Deus: canta-cantou cosa bella!
Dijo Deus á os anjos: id vos á pradeira,
Que melhor canta o senhor de Madureira.”[5]
“Raphael,” said the countess, “you are an eternal railler, and nothing escapes your love of fun. I will go and order your portrait under the figure of a mockingbird.”
“In that case,” replied Raphael, on going away, “I will make a beautiful masculine Harpy that would have the advantage of being able to propagate his species.”
CHAPTER XXII.
IT was at the close of summer, in the month of September. The weather was still warm, but the evenings were already long and cool. Nine o’clock had struck, and there remained at the countess’s only the family and intimate friends, when Eloise entered.
“Sit down here near me on the sofa,” said the mistress of the house to her.
“I am very much obliged to you. Notwithstanding, you will agree with me, Gracia, that our sofas in Spain are stuffed only with tow and horsehair. Nothing is harder or less comfortable.”
“But also nothing is more fresh,” said Rita, near whom Eloise had seated herself, in a studied attitude.
“Do you know what they say?” asked this last of the poet Polo, playing with his yellow gloves, and stretching out his leg, to exhibit his beautiful patent-leather shoes; “they say that Arias is named town-major, but I believe it is a splendid puff.”
“Village gossip, for Seville resembles, a village,” replied Eloise, smirking. “Raphael merits better than that. He is a man who is very spiritual, very fashionable, and a brave officer.”
“What do you say, señorita?” demanded the general, who had vaguely understood something of the conversation.
“I say, sir, what everybody repeats who knows it.”
“Town-major! one should have patience,” cried the general, striking his cards.
“What can excite so violently the bile of our uncle?” asked Raphael, on entering, of his cousin Rita.
“The report which is circulated.”
“What report?”
“That which names you town-major. Our uncle believes it is a joke.”
“He is right, I would not aspire to that honor. But I bring some news which has a thousand claims to be placed in the first circle.”
“News! news belonging to us all? Then relate it to us quickly.”
“Know then,” said Raphael, raising his voice, “that the Grisi of Villamar is ready to be heard on the stage of Seville.”
“Oh! what joy!” cried Eloise. “Here, then, is a veritable event, which will break up monotonous Seville from its ordinary routine, in which it has vegetated since San Fernando founded it.”
“The Conquest,” her friend Polo whispered.
But Eloise continued without listening: “In what piece will she first appear?”
“In a piece written expressly for her, and for Stein, her husband,” replied Raphael.
“Has any one ever seen the like!” exclaimed the marchioness.
“Do you not see, mother,” said the countess, “that Raphael is jesting, according to his very laudable and very ordinary habit?”
“Since Lucretia, Angelo, Antony y Carlos, el Hechizado, have been played, there is nothing in the world I do not believe possible.”
“The theatre is the School of Manners,” remarked the general, ironically, “where they raise to their level those whom they would adopt.”
“How right the French are in saying that Africa commences beyond the Pyrenees!” murmured, during this time, Eloise in the ears of Polo.
“Since they occupy a part belonging to the sea-shore,” he replied, “they speak of it no more; that would be too great a pleasure to us.”
Eloise restrained a fit of laughter by biting her little handkerchief trimmed with lace.
“Here are two who conspire,” announced Rita to Raphael. “Polo has an infernal machine between his eyes and his eye-glass, and Eloise hides in her handkerchief, which she conveys to her mouth, a whole world of engines destined to fight against a cursed and stationary Spain.”
“Why, these are not conspirators,” replied Raphael.
“What are they then, eternal contradictor?”
“They are— I will tell you, so that you can judge them in all their sublimity.”
“Finish! tiresome fellow.”
“They are,” said Raphael, solemnly, “incomprehensible regenerators.”
Several evenings after what we have just related, the vast galleries of the hotel the countess inhabited were deserted. There was seen only the playing of tresillo.
“How late they are!” said the marchioness. “It is already half-past eleven, and they do not come.”
“Time does not seem long at the theatre,” added her brother; “when they are at the opera, they are amused like so many fools.”
“Who would have believed,” continued the marchioness, “that this woman could have been so studious, and so determined, as to walk the boards so soon?”
“As to the study,” said the general, “when one knows how to sing, it does not require so much study as you think. As to her determination, I would be satisfied with a regiment of grenadiers like her to besiege Numance or Saragossa.”
“I will tell you what occurred,” then remarked one of the players. “When three months ago the Italian company arrived, our future prima donna became a subscriber, and chose a box the nearest to the stage. She did not miss a single recitation, and she even obtained permission to assist at the rehearsals. The duke directed the Italian prima donna to give lessons to his protégé which made her accepted afterwards by the director; but he would engage her only as second, which Maria refused haughtily. By one of those chances which always favor the audacious, the prima donna fell dangerously ill, and the protégé of the duke offered herself to replace her. We well know how she has acquitted herself of the task.”
At this moment the countess, animated and brilliant as the light, entered, accompanied by several invited guests.
“Mother, what a delightful evening we have had! What a triumph! What a beautiful and magnificent thing!”
“Will you tell me, my niece,” replied the general, “what importance it could have, and what effect produced by this new arrival having a fine voice and singing well on the stage, that she has excited in you the same elevation, and even the same enthusiasm, which the recital of a great fact or of a sublime action would inspire in you.”
“Think then, uncle, what a triumph for us! What glory for Seville, to be the cradle of an artist whose renown will fill the whole world!”
“Like the Marquis de la Romana!” replied the general. “Like Wellington, or like Napoleon! Is it not true, my niece?”
“What, sir,” replied the countess; “the renowned, is she not a war-trumpet? How divinely this woman, without a rival, sings! With what ease and good taste she walks the stage! She is a prodigy! And what enthusiasm and admiration seized all the audience! My own pleasure was redoubled when I saw the duke so satisfied, and Stein dumb with emotion.”
“The duke,” interrupted the general, “should find his joy in things of a different nature.”
“General,” remarked one of the guests, “these are human weaknesses. The duke is young—”
“Ah!” cried the countess, “there is nothing more frightful than suspicion, and to suspect evil where it does not exist. The world dishonors him who would be culpable of such infamy. Do you not all know that the duke does not only give himself up to the study of the fine arts, but that he patronizes the artists, the learned, and all whom he can happily influence in the progress of intelligence? And besides, Maria, has she not for her husband a man to whom the duke owes much?”
“My niece,” replied the general, “all this is very beautiful and very Christianlike; but do not destroy the appearances which permit the suspicion. In this world it is not sufficient to be at the shelter of the critic; we must still be careful of propriety. For this same reason, as you are young and handsome, you will do well not to take in hand the defence in certain causes.”
“I have not the ambitious pretension to pass myself off as perfect,” replied the countess, “nor to establish in my house a tribunal of justice; but what I desire, is to be a loyal and sincere friend, when I defend and make respected those who honor me with their friendship.”
Raphael and Arias entered at this moment.
“Ah, Raphael,” she said to him, “do you still mock this fair enchantress?”
“My cousin, to please you, I am brilliant with enthusiasm, in imitation of the public. I have been a witness to the imperial ovation awarded to this eighth wonder.”
“Relate it to us,” said the countess; “relate it to us.”
“When the curtain fell, I thought for an instant that we were going to witness a second edition of the Tower of Babel. Ten times they encored the diva; and they would have encored it twenty times, if the insolent and irreverent lustres of the opera house, fatigued by the length of their services, had not begun to sparkle and go out. The friends of the duke were eager to go and congratulate the heroine; we all precipitated ourselves at her feet—and we prostrated ourselves, our faces to the earth.”
“You also, Raphael?” asked the general. “I thought you had more sense under your apparent giddiness.”
“If I had not been where all the others went, I would not now have had the pleasure to paint to you the reception which we gave to this Queen of Molucca, this Empress of Bernol. (A flat, in music.) To begin: she arranged all her answers in a species of chromatic scale, according to her usage, and which again close the following demi-tones: to begin, the calm, which is called also indifference; then the supineness; and, to finish, the disdain. I was the first to offer her the tribute of my homage. I showed to her my hands, bruised with applauding, and swore to her that the slight sacrifice of the surface of the skin was well due to her incomparable talent—happy rival of that of the illustrious Madureira. She replied only by a superb inclination of the head worthy of the goddess Juno. The baron entreated her to come to Paris, the only city where bravos are of any value, because the Paris success resounds throughout the universe. And Maria replied coldly: ‘You see that it is not necessary that I go to Paris to be applauded: bravos for bravos, I like better those of my country than those of France.’ ”
“She said that?” demanded the general. “There is much good sense in this woman.”
“The major, ‘Grande Mosca,’ ” continued Raphael, “said to her, with his usual awkwardness, that of all the singers he had ever heard, one only, Grisi, sang better than she.
“ ‘Since Grisi sings better than I,’ coldly replied the artiste, ‘you were wrong to listen to me in lieu of going to hear her.’
“Then came Sir John, shaking hands with and treading on everybody’s feet.
“ ‘Señora Maria,’ he said to the Gaviota, ‘your voice is wonderful: if you wish to sell it, I will pay you fifty thousand pounds for it.’
“ ‘I do not sell my voice,’ said Maria, disdainfully.”
“All this is beautiful and good, dear cousin; but what think you of the mystery which surrounds this affair?”
“Of what mystery do you speak?” demanded the baron, who just appeared.
“Of this brilliant début,” replied Arias; “of this début, bursting among us like a bombshell, at a moment when no one thought of it. I understand certain things now: the interviews of the duke with the impressario; the assiduity of this Norma at the theatre.”
“Ah, here comes Señorita Rita,” exclaimed the baron. “Señorita, I believe that I had the honor to see you this morning, in the street Catalans.”
“I did not see you,” replied Rita.
“It is a misfortune,” observed Raphael, “which never happens to our cathedral, nor to Major ‘Grande Mosca.’ ”
“I saw you,” continued the baron, “near to a large cross placed against the wall. I asked what this cross meant, and was informed that it is called the cross of the negro. Can you tell me, señorita, from whence comes this strange denomination?”
“I do not know. Probably some black person was crucified on it.”
“It is probable. But can you also tell me,” added the baron, with that insupportable irony which approaches so near to the familiar insolence of the incredulous, when they speak to those whom they know to be credulous, “why there is a crocodile suspended from the vault of this gallery of the cathedral, which surrounds the court of orange-trees, on entering by the right of the Giralda? The cathedral with you, does it serve also as a museum of natural history?”
“This large crocodile,” said Rita, on walking away, “is there, because it was taken on the roof of the church.”
“Ah,” cried the baron, laughing, “all is wonderful in your cathedral—every thing, including the crocodile.”
“This is a popular belief,” said the countess; “here is the truth: this crocodile was presented to King Alphonse, the wise, by the famous ambassador sent by the Sultan of Egypt. At the side of this crocodile there is still the tooth of an elephant, a stick, and a bridle—symbols of strength and of moderation. For six hundred years have these symbols been placed at the entrance to the church, as an inscription which the people comprehend without knowing how to read.”
The baron seemed much to regret he could not adopt Rita’s version. The cruel countess had deprived him of the pleasure of writing an article critical, burlesque, satirical, and humorous. Who knows if the crocodile has not been called to fill the part of a holy spirit of a new species in the pleasant recital of this Frenchman, endowed with the advantage of having been born malicious?
During this time the marchioness scolded Rita for the sham she had passed off on the baron, respecting the crucified negro.
“You had better have told him the truth,” said the marchioness.
“I do not know that—and then the baron bores me.”
“You must avow your ignorance. Do you not know that this man is capable of publishing your answer in his ‘Travels in Spain?’ ”
“What does it matter to us?”
“It matters, my niece, that I do not like that they speak evil of my country.”
“Yes,” interposed the general, with bitterness, “arrest the stream that overflows. It is not astonishing that foreigners calumniate our country, when we are the first to slander it, without remembering the proverb: ‘It is vile to believe one’s self vile.’ Marchioness, my sister, you ought also to reprimand this fool of a Raphael, for having replied to the baron—who put to him a question of the same kind, relative to the cross of the robbers, near to the Cartago—that this cross bore that name because it was there the robbers came to pray to God to bless their enterprises.”
“And the baron believed it?”
“As firmly as I believe that he is not a baron.”
“It was poor wit. This cross was raised in memory of a miracle which led to the conversion of a troop of bandits. I will severely reprimand this crackbrain.” And she called Raphael, to whom his cousin Gracia said:
“I am full of joy. What delightful moments we are to pass with this Mariquita!”
“It will not be for long, countess,” said the colonel. “They assure me that the duke is to take the new Malibran to Madrid.”
“And what nomme de théâtre has she taken?” asked the countess. “It will not do to call her Marisalada, I suppose. The name is pretty, but it is not sufficiently imposing for an artiste.”
“She will perform, without doubt, under that of Gaviota,” said Raphael: “one of the duke’s servants told mine that it was the name given her in the village. She might take the name of her husband.”
“What horror!” said the countess; “she must have a euphonious name.”
“She might take that of her father—Santalo.”
“No, señor; it must be a name ending in i; better still if it were d’i.”
“In that case,” said Raphael, “name her Mississippi.”
“We will consult Polo,” said the countess. “Eh, but where then is he hid, our poet?”
“I would willingly bet,” said Raphael, “that at this instant he is confiding to paper the poetic inspirations which the divinity of the day has born in his soul. To-morrow, without any doubt, we will read in ‘Il Sevillano’ one of those compositions, which, according to my uncle, if they do not raise up easily to Parnassus, they will infallibly precipitate into Lethe.”
The marchioness again called to Raphael.
“I am sure,” he said to his cousin, “that my aunt does me the honor to call me now to have the pleasure of scolding me. I see a sermon trembling on her lips: her knit eyebrows announce a terrible admonition, and the quivering nostril already sends to my ears the sound of harsh reprimand. But what lucky chance!—here is a shield,” and he glided his arm within that of the baron, and led him along with him near to the card-table. The marchioness, although furious, deferred her rebuke to a more favorable occasion. Rita felt a great desire to laugh, and the general struck the floor with the heel of his boot, which gave indication of his impatience.
“Is the general indisposed?” asked the baron.
“He is afflicted with a nervous movement,” replied Raphael, in an under-tone.
“What a misfortune!” cried the baron. “It is tic-douloureux. Whence this evil? Some tendon injured in the wars, perhaps, dear Raphael?”
“No; a strong moral impression—”
“It must be very terrible. And what was the cause?”
“A word of your king Louis XIV.”
“What word?” asked the alarmed baron.
“The celebrated word: ‘There is no longer the Pyrenees.’ ”
They talked much of the new singer at all the reunions; but they were ignorant, above all, of a significant fact which passed with her on the same evening. Pepe Vera had not ceased to follow Marisalada. In his quality of a favorite with the public, it was not difficult for him to cross the threshold of the temple consecrated to the muses, despite the animosity they had sworn to the bull-fights. Maria left the stage amid a torrent of applause, when she met Pepe Vera and some other young men face to face.
“How blessed is she!” said the celebrated bull-fighter, spreading his mantle as a carpet for the artiste; “how blessed is this voice, capable to make all the nightingales of May to die with envy!”
“What blessed eyes!” added another, “which wound more Christians than all the poniards of Albacete.”
The Gaviota passed on, as always, impassible and disdainful.
“She does not even deign to look at us,” said Pepe Vera. “Listen then, my beautiful: a king is a king, and yet he can look at a cat. See, caballeros, she is, nevertheless, a very beautiful girl, although—”
“Although what?”
“Although she squints.”
Marisalada, on hearing these words, could not repress an involuntary movement. She fixed on the group her large, astonished eyes. The young men set up a loud laugh, and Pepe Vera sent her a kiss at the ends of his fingers.
Marisalada understood at once that this word squint was addressed to her merely to make her turn her head: she could not resist smiling, and then went on her way, having let her handkerchief drop. Pepe picked it up, and approached her as if to hand it to her.
“I will deliver it to you to-night, at the grating of your window,” he said to her hurriedly, in a low voice.
At midnight Mariquita left her bed with precaution, after being convinced that her husband slept profoundly. Stein indeed slept, a smile on his lips, intoxicated with the praises lavished that evening on his wife—his scholar, the beloved of his heart. During this sweet sleep a blackness had rested against one of the gratings of the window. It was impossible to distinguish any feature, for an officious hand had previously extinguished all the lights on the street.
Seville had become already a theatre too confined for the ambition and the thirst for ovations which devoured the heart of Marisalada. Besides, the duke, obliged to return to the capital, desired himself to present this phenomenon, whose reputation had preceded her to Madrid. Pepe Vera, on the other hand, engaged to appear at the Corrida in Madrid, urged Maria to make the journey: she made it. The triumph which she obtained at her début on this new stage, surpassed what she had achieved in Seville. The happy times of Orpheus and Amphion, the wonders of the mythological times, seemed to be brought back again. Stein was confused, the duke was in a state of complete intoxication. Pepe Vera said one day to the cantora: “Caramba! (hah!) Mariquita, they applaud you neither more nor less than if you had killed a bull seven years old.”
Marisalada was surrounded with a numerous court, at which strangers of distinction, present in Madrid, made part. Among them were those of high rank, either from personal merit or from birth. What were the powerful motives which moved them? Some visited the singer to give her a ton according to modern custom. And what is this ton? It is a servile imitation of what others do. Some were guided by the same sentiment which prompts children to examine closely the secret springs of a plaything which amuses them.
Marisalada required to make no effort to feel at ease in the midst of this brilliant circle. She had in nothing reformed her cold and haughty indolence; but her person was more elegant, a better taste presided at her toilet;—material conquests, all exterior, which, in the eyes of certain persons, could supply the want of intelligence, tact, and distinction. At evening, on the stage, when the reflection of the lights rendered her paleness more transparent, and her large black eyes more brilliant, the Gaviota was really beautiful.
The duke was so fascinated with this woman, whose triumphs touched him some little, for they had confirmed his prophecies; and such was also the enthusiasm which her singing excited in him, that he thought it not improper to beg her to give lessons to his daughter. Notwithstanding he remembered very well the prediction of his amiable friend in Seville, and he trembled in thinking over the delay fixed by the lovely countess.
Then he formed the decision to respect the innocent woman, whom he had himself led into the brilliant and dangerous career she was now embarked in, and he thought of the duchess. The duchess was a virtuous and beautiful woman. Although she had passed her thirtieth year, the freshness of her complexion and the candid expression of her face made her appear much younger. She belonged to a family as illustrious as that of her husband. Leonore and Carlos had loved each other almost from their infancy, with that truly Spanish affection, affection profound, constant, which never leaves the heart, which never grows cold. They were married very young, and at eighteen years of age Leonore gave a daughter to her husband, who was himself then just twenty-two years of age.
The family of the duchess, like many families among the great, was entirely devotional; Leonore had been educated in the same spirit. Her modesty and her austerity kept her away from the pleasures and the noise of the world, for which, indeed, she felt no desire. She read little, and her hand never opened a novel. She was quite ignorant of the dramatic effects of the grand passions; she had never learned, neither at the theatre, nor from looks, the interest inspired by adultery, which she regarded as a crime as abominable as homicidal. She could never be made to believe, as had been told her, that there was adopted in the world a standard under which to proclaim the emancipation of women. Never could she comprehend this pretension; no more than she could comprehend much of other women who, nevertheless, did not live so retired, and did not adopt a reserve so strict as the duchess. If she had heard said that there are apologists for divorce and for detractors of marriage, she would believe she dreamt; she would think the end of the world had come. Loving and devoted as a daughter, generous and sure friend, tender and devoted mother, a wife consecrated to her husband even to blindness, the Duchess of Almansas was the type of the woman whom God loves, of whom poets sing, society admires and venerates, and who should take the place of those amazons who possess nothing of the exquisite delicacy of woman.
The duke submitted himself for a long time to the attractive influence Marisalada exercised over him, without the slightest cloud arising to trouble that peace, calm and pure as heaven, which reigned in the heart of his wife. He, however, until then so affectionate, neglected the duchess each day more and more. The duchess wept, but she was silent. Later she learned that this Cantora, who upset all Madrid, was protected by her husband, who passed his life in the house of this woman. The duchess shed fresh tears, and still doubted. One day the duke conducted Stein to his house, to give lessons to his young son; and soon he wished, as we have said, that Marisalada should also give lessons to his daughter, a beautiful creature, eleven years of age. Leonore energetically opposed this last wish of the duke, alleging that she could not permit a woman of the theatre the least contact with her child. The duke, accustomed to the easy compliances of his wife, saw in this opposition a doctrinal scruple, a want of the habits of the world, and he persisted in his idea. The duchess yielded, in obedience to her confessor: a double motive, which, if comprehended, would cause bitter tears.
She received, then, Marisalada with excessive circumspection, extreme reserve, cold politeness. Leonore, who, according to her tastes, lived very retired, received but few visits, and these chiefly those of her relations. Her other visitors were priests, and some few persons in whom she had full confidence. She followed the lessons of her daughter with a perseverance which never tired, and she devoted so much care as not to separate her child from her maternal regards: so the system of surveillance could not give offence to the susceptibility of Marisalada. The duchess’s visitors had but a cold salute for the mistress of song, and never addressed a word to her. All this rendered very humiliating, in this noble and austere house, the position of this woman whom the public of Madrid adored. The Gaviota felt it, and her pride daily became indignant: but how to complain? The duchess always practised an exquisite politeness; never a smile of disdain had passed over the serenity of her calm and beautiful countenance; her eye had never shown a haughty look. On the other hand, the duke, so full of dignity and of delicacy, would he have permitted a complaint against his wife? Marisalada was endowed with sufficient penetration and taste to know that silence was necessary on her part, and that she could lose neither the friendship of the duke, which flattered her; nor his protection, which was indispensable; nor his presents, which enchanted her. She must bear her trials until a proper occasion should present itself to put an end to this painful position.
One day when, all decked out in silk and velvets, resplendent with bijoux and diamonds, enveloped in a rich mantle of lace, she entered the duchess’s drawing-room, she met there her grace’s father, the Marquis of Elda, and the bishop of ——. The marquis was an old and austere man, one of the partisans of the olden time, a Catholic Spaniard and pure loyalist. He lived near the court since the death of the king, whom he had faithfully served since the war of independence.
There was a great deal of coldness in the relations of the marquis with his kindred, whom he reproached with conceding too much to the ideas of the present times. This coldness increased when this virtuous and severe old man heard the public rumors which accused the duke of being the protector of a singer of the theatre.
When Maria entered the drawing-room, the duchess rose with the intention of thanking her, and giving her congé for this day; but the bishop, ignorant of what was passing, manifested the desire to hear his little grand-daughter sing. The duchess resumed her seat, saluted Marisalada with her accustomed politeness, and called her child, who came immediately at the request of her mother. She had hardly executed the three measures of the prayer of Desdemona when there were heard three taps on the door.
“Quick, quick,” said the duchess, showing by her earnestness that she knew the person by this manner of knocking; and with a vivacity which Marisalada had never given her credit for, she rose to get away before the visitor could enter.
Maria was more astonished at the sight of the new personage. She was an ugly woman, at least fifty years old, and of common aspect. Her clothes were as coarse as strange. The duchess received her with the greatest mark of consideration and cordiality, the more remarkable when contrasted with the icy reserve which she always observed towards the mistress of song. The duchess took the old woman by the hand, and presented her to the bishop. Marisalada knew not what to think. She had never seen such a costume, never had she met a person in a position less in harmony with the people of distinction where she was received.
After a quarter of an hour’s animated conversation the old woman rose. It rained. The marquis insisted that she accept his carriage; but the marchioness said to him—
“My father, I will order mine.”
So saying, she approached the new arrival, who took leave, and obstinately refused to use a carriage.
“Come, my child,” said the duchess to her daughter, “come, with the permission of your mistress, and salute the good friend.”
Maria could not believe what she saw and heard. The child embraced her whom her mother had called her good friend.
“Who is this woman?” Marisalada asked of the child when she came to her.
“She is a sister of charity,” replied the child.
Marisalada was annihilated. Her pride, which rose in array against all superiority which defied the dignity of the nobility, the rivalry of artists, the power of authority, and even all the prerogatives of genius, to bend before the grandeur and elevation of virtue!
She rose to retire. It still rained.
“You have a carriage at your disposal,” said the duchess, saluting her.
Marisalada, on arriving in the court, remarked that they had taken away the horses from the duchess’s carriage. A lackey respectfully let down the steps of a hired hack, and Maria was driven off, swelling with rage. Next day she declared to the duke that she had ceased giving lessons to the young duchess. She took great care to hide the true motive for this decision. The duke, as blind by his enthusiasm for Maria as by the dangerous means he had adopted to make her celebrated, supposed that his wife was the cause of this resolution, and he appeared before her colder than ever.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE arrival in Madrid of the celebrated singer Tenorini raised the glory of Maria to its height, not only because of the admiration this colossal lyric displayed, but because of the earnestness she showed in wishing to unite her voice to a voice so worthy of hers. Tononi Tenorini—alias the great—came from nobody knew where. Some affirmed that, like Castor and Pollux, she was couched in an egg—not the egg of a swan, but the egg of a nightingale. Her splendid and brilliant career commenced at Naples, where she had eclipsed Vesuvius. Then she passed to Milan, to Florence, St. Petersburg, and Constantinople. She had now arrived from New York, passing through Havana, with the purpose of appearing in Paris, where the inhabitants, furious in not having yet consecrated this gigantic reputation, had gotten up a resolution to assuage their anger. From thence Tenorini designed to go to London, where the dilettanti were dying of longing and of spleen, and where the season promised to be dull, if that celebrated notability and artiste should not take pity on them.
Strange thing, and which surprised all the Polos and all the Eloisitas, this sublime artiste did not arrive in Madrid borne on the wings of genii. The dolphins of the ocean were too badly educated and too little melodramatic to carry her on their back, as they had before done for Amphyon, in happier times, those of the Mediterranean. Tenorini came by the diligence. Horror! And that which was more horrible still, she brought a carpet-bag with her. They formed a plan to celebrate her arrival by ringing all the bells at the same moment, to illuminate the houses, and to raise an arch of triumph for her, with music from all the instruments of the circus orchestra. The alcalde would consent to nothing of the kind.
While Marisalada shared with the grand singer the unbridled ovation of a discerning public, who fell on their knees in all humility, a scene of a character altogether different passed in the poor cabin which she had quitted scarcely a year ago.
Pedro Santalo was dying on his pallet. Since the departure of his daughter he had not raised his head. He kept his eyes constantly closed, and opened them only to look at the chamber of Mariquita, which was separated from his by a narrow passage which led to the garret. Every thing remained in the state his daughter had left it: the guitar was hung on the wall, by a ribbon once rose-colored, and which now hung without form like a forgotten promise, and faded like a recollection extinguished. A handkerchief of India was thrown on the bed, and there could yet be seen on the chair a pair of her little shoes. Old Maria was seated at the bedside of the invalid.
“Come! come! Pedro,” said the good old woman, “forget that you are a Catalan, and be not so stubborn. Let yourself be governed for once in your life, and come to the convent. You know you will want for nothing there. There at least you can be better cared for, and you will not be abandoned in a corner like an old broom.”
The fisherman made no reply.
“Pedro, Don Modesto has already written two letters, and has sent them by the post. They say it is the most sure and prompt way to insure their arrival.”
“She will not come!” murmured the invalid.
“But her husband will come; and, for the moment, that is of the greater importance.”
“She! she!” cried the poor father.
An hour after this conversation Maria set off for the convent, without having been able to decide the obstinate Catalan to let her conduct him to her home. The old woman rode upon Golondrina, the peaceful Dean of the chapter of asses of the country.
Momo, now become a man, without having lost any of his native ugliness, conducted the ass.
“Listen, grandma,” said he; “these visits to the old sea-wolf, will they continue for a long time yet? These daily walks fatigue me.”
“Certainly they will still continue, since Pedro will not come to the convent. I fear for the death of this brave man if he does not see his daughter.”
“I will never die of that disease,” said Momo, with a sardonic laugh.
“Listen, my son,” pursued the old woman; “I have not much confidence in the post, although they say it is sure. Don Modesto has not much faith in it either. Then, that Don Frederico and Marisalada learn of the danger Pedro is now in, there is but one means to employ, and that is that you go to Madrid, and tell them; for indeed we must not remain here with our arms folded, and see the father die calling on his daughter with all his soul, and do nothing to bring her to him.”
“I go to Madrid, and to seek the Gaviota again!” exclaimed Momo horrified. “Are you in your right senses, grandmother?”
“I am so much in my sound senses, that if you will not go, I will go myself. I have been to Cadiz without losing myself, and without any thing happening to me; it will be the same if I go to Madrid. My heart breaks when I hear this poor father calling on his child. But you, Momo, you have a bad heart, I say so to you with pain. And I do not know truly from whence you get this wickedness; it is neither from your father nor from your mother; but so it is: in every family there is a Judas.”
“The devil himself could not better torment a Christian to damn him,” murmured Momo. “And that is not the worst; you get this extravagance into your head, you push it just to its end, and as the only good result, I will be deprived of my arms and legs for an entire month.”
And Momo, to vent his anger, struck a heavy blow with his stick on the side of the poor Golondrina.
“Barbarian!” cried his grandmother, “why do you beat the poor animal?”
“Animals are made to be beaten,” replied Momo.
“Who has preached to you such a heresy?”
“Your misfortune, grandma, is, that you resemble the celestial vault, you protect everybody.”
“Yes, son, yes. And may it please God that I never witness a grief without sympathizing with it—that I may never be one of those people who listen to a complaint as if they were listening to the dropping of rain!”
“That which you tell me applies only to our neighbor, grandmother; but the animals, the devil!”
“The animals, and do they not suffer? Are they not creatures of the good God? Here below we suffer the punishment due to the sin of the first man. The Adam and Eve of asses, what sin have they committed?”
“They have, at least, eaten the parings of the apple,” said Momo, with a laugh which sounded like a detonation.
They then met Manuel and José, who returned with them to the convent.
“Mother,” asked Manuel, “how is Pedro?”
“Ill, my son, ill. My heart bleeds to see him so low, so sad, and so lonely. I asked him to come to the convent, but it would be easier to remove the fort of San Cristobal than this obstinate man. A twenty-four-pounder would not move him. Brother Gabriel must go, and stay with him, and Momo go to Madrid and bring here Don Frederico and the daughter of this poor father.”
“Let Momo go,” said Manuel; “he will thus see the world.”
“I!” cried Momo anew; “how can I go to Madrid?”
“In putting one foot before the other,” answered his father. “Are you afraid of being lost? or do you fear being eaten up on the way?”
“It is this, that I have no desire to go,” replied Momo exasperated.
“Well! I have here a branch of olive which will give you that desire, scapegrace.”
Momo was quiet, inwardly cursing old Pedro and his family. He commenced his journey in the company of the muleteers of the mountain of Aracena, who came to lay in a stock of fish at Villamar. He arrived at Valverde, and from there passed by Aracena, Oliva, and Barcarota to Badajoz, where he took the diligence for Madrid from Seville, and arrived at Madrid without stopping.
Don Modesto had written in big letters the address of Stein, which he had sent when he arrived in Madrid with the duke. Momo commenced to walk through the city with this paper in his hand, reciting for the benefit of the Gaviota a litany of imprecations always new.
We will leave him in search of his enemy, and come back to Villamar.
It was afternoon; old Maria, more grieved than ever, came from visiting Santalo.
“Dolores,” said she to her daughter-in-law, “Pedro is going. This morning he rolled up his sheet; that is to say, he made up his parcel for the journey from which he will never return, and our dog Palomo has howled the death. And yet these people do not arrive! I am on hot coals. Momo ought already to be returned. He has been ten days gone.”
“The road is long to measure from here to Madrid, mother,” replied Dolores. “Manuel assures me that Momo cannot be here before four or five days yet.”
What was the astonishment of the two women when they saw, all of a sudden, the frightened face of Momo himself, Momo dismayed, fatigued, and harassed.
“Momo!” both cried out at the same moment.
“Himself, in body and soul,” replied Momo.
“And Marisalada?” asked the old woman with anxiety.
“And Don Frederico?” asked Dolores.
“You may wait for them until the Last Judgment,” said Momo. “Thanks to you, grandmother, I can boast of having made a famous journey.”
“What is it? what has happened?” asked at the same time both grandmother and mother.
“That which you will soon hear, so that you will admire the judgments of God, and who blesses you, inasmuch as He has permitted me to return safe and sound, thanks to the excellent legs he has given me.”
The old Maria and Dolores remained silent on hearing these words, symptoms of grave events.
“Speak, for the love of heaven; what has happened?” cried again both the women. “Do you not see that our souls are drawn out to a thread?”
“When I arrived in Madrid,” commenced Momo, “when I saw myself alone in the midst of this world, I was seized with vertigo. Each street appeared to me a soldier, every place a patrol. I entered into a public house with the paper of the commandant, and which was a paper that spoke. There I encountered a species of drunkard, who conducted me to the house indicated on the paper. The servants told me that their master and mistress were absent, and they were about to shut the door in my face; but they knew not, these imbeciles, whom they were dealing with. ‘Ha!’ said I to them, ‘pay attention to whom you are speaking, if you please. Do you know that it was at our house we rescued Don Frederico when he was dying, and that without us he would have been altogether dead?’ ”
“You said that, Momo!” exclaimed the grandmother, “one never speaks of these things. What mortification! what will they think of us? Remind one of a favor! who has ever seen the like?”
“Well! what? I ought not to have said it? Let’s see then! I spoke much stronger: I said it was my grandmother who had brought their mistress to our house when she was ill, running and crying herself hoarse on the rocks like a gull as she was. These profligates looked at each other, and mocked me; they told me I was mistaken, that their mistress was the daughter of a general of the army of Don Carlos. Daughter of a general! do you understand? Is there in the world a lie more shameful? to say that the good old Pedro is a general! old Pedro, who has never served the king! At last I told them that my commission was very pressing, and that what I wished was, to depart immediately, and lose sight of them, their masters, and Madrid. ‘Nicholas,’ then said a girl, who seemed to wish to be as shameless as her mistress, ‘conduct this peasant to the theatre, he may see the señora there.’ Remark well that she spoke of me, this viper’s tongue, as a peasant; and that she said señora, in speaking of this bad Gaviota. Can you believe that? It is what can only be seen in Madrid! It is confounding. Then the servant took his hat, and conducted me to a grand building, high, and constructed like a species of church. In lieu of tapers and candles, one only sees lamps which light up like suns. This large room was furnished all around with seats, upon which I have seen more than a thousand women seated all in fête dresses, stiff as sticks, and ranged like vials on an apothecary’s shelves. The men were so numerous that one might believe he saw an ant-hill. Jesus! from whence can so many Christians have come! ‘That is nothing,’ said I to myself, ‘it is the quantity of bread they must consume in this city of Madrid!’ But prepare yourself for the saddest. All this world was there—why? to hear the Gaviota sing!”
“I see nothing in all this to oblige you to come back so promptly and so amazed,” said the grandmother.
“Wait! wait! I cannot go faster than the music. I relate things as they happened. Then listen well to this. Then suddenly, without anybody giving command, more than a thousand instruments commenced playing at once. There were flutes, trumpets, and violins big as Golondrina. What an uproar! It was enough to assemble together all the blind in Spain. There is something more wonderful still: without knowing how or why, a kind of garden which was in front of us disappeared suddenly; and, the devil mixing in it without doubt, replaced the garden by the stairs of a palace covered with a magnificent carpet. Then I saw a woman admirably dressed; she was covered with more velvet, silk, gold, and jewels than the Virgin of Rosaire. ‘It is Isabella the Second,’ said I to myself. No, my people, it was not the queen. Do you know who it was? Neither more nor less than the Gaviota, the wicked Gaviota, who went about among us with naked legs and feet. Yes, the devil had thus taken her, and made her a princess. I was stunned, when, at a moment when no one thought of it, a gentleman, very well dressed, came forward. He was in a frightful rage! What fury! He rolled his eyes! ‘Caramba!’ thought I, ‘I would not be in this Gaviota’s skin.’ That which astonished me the most was that both recited their anger in singing. ‘Good!’ said I, ‘it is perhaps the usage among people of high rank.’ Nevertheless, I did not understand a word of what they were saying. All that I could discover was, that the gentleman was a general of Don Carlos, that the Gaviota said he was her father, and that he would not recognize her as his daughter, although she supplicated him on her knees. ‘That’s well done!’ I cried at this impudence.”
“Why did you mix yourself up with it?” asked the old woman.
“Because that I knew her, and that I could prove it. Do you not know that he who is silent approves? But it appears that where I was it is forbidden to speak the truth, because my neighbor, an employé of the police, said to me, ‘Will you hold your tongue, my friend!’ ‘I have no desire to do so,’ I replied, and I made my cry ring to the roof, ‘This man is not her father.’ ‘Are you mad, or do you come from another world?’ said the policeman to me. ‘I am not the one, nor do I come from the other, insolent,’ I replied. ‘I know better than you, and I come from Villamar, where her legitimate father resides, her true father, the old Pedro Santalo.’ ‘You are an imbecile,’ replied the policeman. I kicked, and was about to inflict on him a blow, when Nicholas caught my arm in time, and led me away to take a drink. ‘I have understood it all,’ I said to Nicholas; ‘this general is he whom this cursed Gaviota wishes to have for her father. I have heard talk of many villanous things, of murders, thefts, piracies, but I have never yet heard spoken of one who would deny her father.’ Nicholas held his sides in laughing: at Madrid such indignities affright no one. When we re-entered, it is believed that the general had ordered the Gaviota to take off that beautiful attire, for she was entirely dressed in white, and appeared overwhelmed with sadness. She began to sing, and accompanied herself on an immense guitar which she had placed immediately before her on the floor, and which she pinched with her two hands. (Of what is she not capable, this Gaviota?) But here comes the interesting part. Suddenly there appeared a Moor.”
“A Moor?”
“But what a Moor! blacker and more cruel than Mohammed himself. He held in his hand a poniard, large as a sabre.”
“Jesus, Maria!” cried Maria and Dolores.
“I demanded of Nicholas who was this proud Moor, and he told me that he is called Telo. To make a finish of my story, the Moor said to the Gaviota that he was about to kill her.”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the old woman, “it was the public executioner!”
“I do not know if it was the executioner or a paid assassin,” replied Momo; “but of this I am sure, that he seized her by her hair, and stabbed her several times with the poniard. I saw it with my own eyes, those eyes which will one day be in the land of death, and I can affirm it.”
Momo placed his two fingers on his two eyes with such rigorous force, that it seemed as if they would start from their sockets.
The two good women raised a frightful cry. Old Maria sobbed and rung her hands with grief.
“But what did the spectators do?” asked Dolores, shedding abundance of tears; “was there no one to arrest this scoundrel?”
“That is what I do not know,” answered Momo. “For on seeing this, I took to my legs, and in the fear that they would call upon me to depose, I did not cease running until I had put some leagues between the city of Madrid and the son of my father.”
“We must,” said the poor old Maria, amidst her sobs, “conceal this misfortune from Pedro. What griefs! what griefs!”
“And who could have courage enough to tell him?” replied Dolores. “Poor Marisalada! she was well, and would be better. See what has happened to her!”
“Each one gets what they merit,” said Momo. “This bad daughter should end badly—it could not be otherwise. If I were not so fatigued, I would go on the instant, and relate it all to Ramon Perez.”