Maximina

At last Morpheus succeeded in overcoming him, but with no intention of sending sweet and refreshing dreams; a thousand gloomy nightmares tormented him all night long; from one o'clock till six in the morning he battled with his enemy, using all the methods known at the present day, and some of his own invention. Now he beheld himself facing the hateful professor with a foil in his hand; the professor had wounded him in the right hand, but nevertheless Utrilla, without a moment's hesitation, exclaimed: "Come on. Use the left hand!" filling all the witnesses full of admiration at his coolness. And with his left hand, zas! after a few thrusts he had buried the sword up to the hilt in his body!

Then they appeared each with pistol in hand; the seconds give the signal to aim; the professor fires, and his ball grazes his cheek; then he aims, and keeps aiming, and the professor, now seeing death at hand, falls on his knees and begs for his life; he grants his prayer, firing into the air, but not without first saying scornfully: "And to think of this man insulting Jacobo Utrilla!"

Divine Aurora, the goddess with the saffron veil, was already descending the heights of Guadarrama, when the stripling awoke in the same prophetic state of mind. Sad day that was now beginning to dawn for an innocent family, for the algebra professor's six children, had not Jupiter hastened to send to the hero's bolster his daughter Minerva in the form of the housekeeper.

"Jacobito, my dear, will you be perishing of weakness, my child! Here I have some chocolate and spiral cakes which you like so much."

"Come, come, Jacobito, my son, don't grieve, don't be so much troubled, because you will be sure to fall sick.... There is no help for it.... Going to bed without taking anything was a piece of folly. Your father will come round all right, and finally everything will be settled as you want it. You certainly must have had a very bad night! You must not go on this way trifling with your stomach!... And now what are you going to do, my son? I am afraid for you with such a rash disposition as God has given you!"

When Jacobo heard this question, he for a moment suspended the hateful task of swallowing his chocolate, raised his angry face to the housekeeper, and shouted with concentrated fury:—

"What am I going to do!... You shall see, you shall see what I am going to do!"

And then he once more began to grit his teeth so terribly that Doña Adelaida was frightened out of her wits, and exclaimed:—

"Come now, calm yourself, calm yourself, Jacobito! You know that I was present when you were born, and that your sainted mother, who left you when you were a mere baby—poor woman!—charged me to have a watchful eye over you. If you should do anything desperate, you will kill me with sorrow.... Come, my son, tell me what you intend to do...."

The lad, pushing away the chocolate cup with an energetic movement, and rolling his eyes frenziedly, screamed rather than said:—

The housekeeper, who was expecting some desperate resolution, when she found that it was of this sort, could not refrain from a cry of joy.

"That is right, my son, that is right! That is the best way of heaping coals of fire on the heads of your father and brother, who have been pestering me to death by saying that you were of no use, that you were a lazybones...."

"But before doing that," interrupted Jacobo, extending both hands as though he were trying to hold back the avalanche which was about to fall, "it is necessary that one of us two perish!"

"Merciful Virgin!" exclaimed Doña Adelaida. "Who is going to perish, Jacobito? For Heaven's sake, don't go lose your mind! Do you want your father to die?"

"Not him, señora, not him! I refer to my algebra professor, with whom this afternoon or to-morrow at the very latest, I am going to fight a duel!"

"And what has the algebra professor done to you? Made you fail in your examination? Now if you had studied, as your father told you to do, this would not have happened."

"Come, calm yourself, Jacobito; you have been very much disturbed since yesterday. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think. It may be that this gentleman did not sneer at you on purpose."

"He may not have done it intentionally, but the fact is, he insulted me, and I will not stand it; I never have yet, and I never intend to let any one insult me with impunity. You know very well that in this respect I am a peculiar man."

"I know it, Jacobito; you have the same disposition as your grandfather (peace to his soul!). What a man he was! He was as quick to flare up as gunpowder! Just think; one time when he was shaving, he heard a cry in the court; he turned his head so suddenly that he gave himself a tremendous cut in the nose.... But it is necessary, my son, to have self-restraint, and repress one's nature a little, if one would live in this world. It is my idea that if this professor made sport of you, what you ought to do is to make sport of him!"

With slight variations, such was the advice that in the early days of Greece, Minerva, the goddess of the glorious eyes, gave the divine Achilles in his famous quarrel with Agamemnon, the son of Atreus.

We are obliged to confess that this hero of ours did not show himself so amenable to the goddess's commands as "Peleus' godlike son"; instead of immediately sheathing his sword and yielding, he refused to make use of any other measures than those of force.

That same morning, however, he put into effect his energetic decision of going to the factory and working there all day long "like a dog," whereby it is to be supposed that he quite put his father and brother to shame and confusion, though they succeeded in hiding it perfectly.

The greater part of the difficulties due to his exceptional position having been thus overcome, thanks to his incredible boldness and sang froid, the only thing that troubled him now was lest Julita would not take in good part this premature retirement from the military service. So it was that he delayed for several days telling her about it; but it was not altogether that he was afraid of annoying her; the fact was that for some time he had not seen his sweetheart as frequently as formerly. It was ominous that Julita nowadays appeared but seldom on her balcony, and it was not less significant that she was putting obstacles in the way of his sending letters regularly.

Still Utrilla wrote informing her that, "owing to family reasons, and for the purpose of attending to his pecuniary interests, he had retired from the service."

This was the only dignified way that he could find of saying that he had been dismissed.

Contrary to his expectations, this information did not produce any great effect. On the other hand, she waited five or six days before she answered it, and at the end she wrote:—

"That if he had given up his career because it was convenient, he did perfectly right; but that henceforth he would do her the favor not to send letters to her through the door-maid, since she had certain reasons for objecting to it, and that he should wait until she told him to whom he should entrust his letters."

"If there is no way of preventing my sister from marrying a rascal, it would be better to have you, friend Utrilla," said he.

The former cadet swelled with delight until he almost burst, not only at the prospect of marrying Julita, but also to hear himself called a rascal in such a genial way.

At both interviews he urged Rivera warmly to come and visit his factory, because he was very anxious to show it to him, and to explain the great improvements that he was planning to make in it, if his father and brother, both whom were very conservative, did not make too strong opposition. He expressed his desire so eagerly that finally one afternoon Miguel decided to take a carriage and drive to Cuatros Caminos, from which it was easy to reach the candle factory of Utrilla and Company.

"Is Señor Utrilla here?"

"Don Manuel does not often come to the factory; he lives at forty-six Sacramento Street."

"I want to see his son."

"Ah! Don Rafael," said the door-keeper. "Yes, sir; he is here. Walk in."

"It is Don Jacobo whom I want to see."

"Don Jacobo," repeated the door-keeper, hesitating and smiling. "Ah yes, sir, Jacobito; I had forgotten. He is here too. Walk in."

"Don Miguel! You here? How glad I am!... Rafael," he added, addressing his brother, "I am going to show the factory to Señor Rivera."

Rafael without looking up, said:—

"Very well."

They went out of the office and passed slowly through the shops, stopping to examine the mechanism of each process, which Utrilla explained in a loud voice. From time to time he would say in an imperious tone:—

"José, run this mould!... Enrique, lift this lid!"

The workmen were in no haste to obey these orders, and he had to repeat them in a voice which any operatic basso would have envied.

The ex-cadet's factory garb could not have been more appropriate,—trousers of drilling, red shirt, shoes, and an old coat with the collar turned up. Although it was very warm, Utrilla, both on the street and at home, always wore his collar this way, which gave him the appearance of being a very dissipated man, and this was something that delighted him.

In the rooms where the women were working, Utrilla allowed himself to take some liberties with the operatives, such as winking at them, twitching at their handkerchiefs, and making this or that dubious little witticism.

"You will excuse me, Don Miguel; these are the bad habits of military life. Though one were going to be shot, one couldn't help saying some nonsense to the girls."

"All right, all right, friend Utrilla; don't incommode yourself on my account."

"Let us see it."

He then took him to the storeroom, and opening a closet, showed him a number of packages of candles with lithographed labels, which read:—

JULIA
(Bujía Extrafina).

"How is that?" he demanded, with radiant and triumphant face.

"Very pretty! very delicate!" replied Miguel, smiling.

"Take a package!"

"My dear fellow, no, thank you!"

"Nonsense! take one. If you don't, then I shall send one to you."

From there he took him to a room that was a sort of incommodious private office, with a wretched straw-stuffed sofa, a few chairs, and a table with a writing-desk on it; on the wall hung a panoply with the cadet's military outfit,—sword, belt, spurs, and a couple of foils and a fencing-mask.

Utrilla confessed to his friend that he could not look at this panoply without sadness, recollecting "the happy days in the service."

"What life is so happy as the military! Believe me, Señor Rivera, that in spite of the strictness of the rules, I miss it immensely."

"That cigarette-holder is very pretty: what does it represent?"

"A cannon on a pile of projectiles; I beg of you to take it, Don Miguel."

"I do not need it," replied Rivera, handing it back.... "It is in very good hands."

"But I should be much better pleased to have you keep it, and I won't take it."

"Come now, friend Utrilla, don't be so lavish."

"Throw it down if you please, but I will not take it."

There was nothing to be done but keep it.

Then the former cadet brought the conversation round to Julia, and besought her brother's intercession, as he had written her four letters and had received not a single answer.

"You will understand, my dear Utrilla," said Miguel, becoming serious, "that this is a very delicate matter, and that I have no right to mix myself up in your affairs."

"The trouble is," rejoined the ex-cadet, with a sigh, "with the passionate nature which God gave me, I sent her a letter to-day, telling her that if she persisted in her conduct, she would do me the favor never to write to me again, ... and I am afraid that she is really offended."

"I am afraid," said Miguel, laughing, "that your command will be fulfilled to the letter."

The cadet remained for several moments pensive and gloomy. Then shaking himself from his melancholy stupor, and passing his hand over his forehead, he said:—

"By the way, Don Miguel, you have not washed your hands."

"One always gets dirty in the factory," continued the cadet. "Here is a bowl and soap for you."

"Thank you; my hands are not dirty."

But Utrilla at the same time offered him a china bowl filled with clear water, and the soap-dish, in such a way that Miguel rather than appear the enemy of cleanliness yielded and washed his hands. The soap was strongly scented with orange.

"Do you know this soap is very fine and pleasant?" said Rivera, so as to say something.

"Do you like it?... Then I am going to give you a cake of it."

"My friend, I beg of you!"

Utrilla, without heeding his protests, got the soap out of the desk, wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and almost by main force thrust it into his pocket. From that time forth Miguel took care not to commend anything which he happened to touch.

As he was going, the ex-cadet shook his hand ardently, and said in a voice full of emotion:—

"Don't fail to speak to her. If you knew how sad and desperate I am."

The truth of the matter was that he had good reason to be, as will appear in the next chapter.

"If your son were to put up at a hotel while I have a house in Madrid, I should be seriously vexed with him, and with you too," la brigadiera Angela had written to her cousin María Antonia.

And her cousin replied:—

And on the morning of the following day he arrived. When Julia heard the bell ring, feeling disturbed, she went to the sewing-room and began to jest with the maid about the style which her cousin affected; then there was heard in the corridor a great commotion of moving luggage.

"What room has he been shown into, Inocencia?" she asked of the girl who came in at that moment.

"He is in the library with your mamma."

In a few moments a powerful ring at the bell was heard.

"The señora is calling," said Inocencia, running.

"Señorita will please come immediately to the library, says your mamma," she announced, on returning.

"Very well," the girl replied, in bad humor. "Are they sitting down?"

"Yes, señorita."

"Then they can wait without hurting them any."

But in a few minutes the pull at the bell was repeated with more violence, and the girl, foreseeing her mother's vexation, arose with a very bad grace, and dropping her sewing, exclaimed with a scornful accent:—

"There now, we are going to see Don Alfonso, Prince of Asturias!"

When he saw the young lady, he arose hastily to his feet.

"Oh, what a pretty cousin!" he exclaimed, at the same time taking her hand in a frank and affectionate manner. "You will forgive me for having disturbed you in what you were doing, will you not?"

"I was not doing anything.... Won't you sit down, sir?"

Don Alfonso remained a moment in a state of uncertainty, and then as he sat down, he exclaimed with a gesture of resignation:—

"What a terrible blow to my illusions, aunt! Your daughter has not dared to say thou to me.... These cursed gray hairs!"

Julita flushed a deep crimson.

"That is not the reason!"

"Then it is because you have been prejudiced against me; confess it!... But it is not my fault either that I am old, or that your mamma has disturbed you on my account."

Julita, flushing deeper and deeper, did not know how to defend herself; her mother came to her aid.

"It is neither the one thing nor the other, Alfonso; the trouble is that, as having never met you before, she is confused."

"Is that so?" he asked his cousin, at the same time looking at her with a bright smile.

Julita gave an affirmative gesture, and returned his smile.

Julita, with difficulty overcoming the timidity that choked her, said in a low tone:—

"I have nothing to forgive you for."

"Thanks, little coz," pursued Don Alfonso, rising, and with an elegant and graceful gesture again shaking hands with her.

Then he began to talk with his aunt about family affairs; asking her many questions about his whole circle of relatives, and learning many particulars of which he had been ignorant.

Then the conversation turned on the customs of Paris, which he described pleasantly and attractively, taking pains to extol Spain, instead of depreciating it as the majority of travellers are in the habit of doing. This appealed to la brigadiera's sympathies. Don Alfonso spoke easily and naturally, but without conceit; on the contrary, in the midst of his talk, he would correct any idea that seemed at all pretentious, and was evidently anxious to show that he had no wish whatever to make himself out a remarkable man.

If he spoke of women, all had "given him the mitten"; if he spoke of art, or gave his opinion about museums and singers, he protested that he had little or no knowledge of painting or music; if by chance he was obliged to refer to any quarrel in which he himself had taken part, he passed over it lightly, and did not fail to have it understood that he had done everything possible to avoid it, and at the same time he made sport of the duel and of duelists.

Julita listened to him, gazing at him with that intense and conjuring look by which young girls in an instant analyze all a man's physical and moral nature.

Her cousin made a very favorable showing as the result of the analysis; she had no idea that he was such an amiable and attractive man; the incidents of his life which she had heard before gave him the reputation of being haughty and violent in character, if not even coarse and shameless.

One evening in Seville he was engaged in playing ombre, and because he was not very successful, he became so much excited that he said all sorts of impudent things, and finally told the ladies present that he was going to ride into the parlor on his nag. No one placed any credence in what he said, and he went out without any one noticing it; but in a few minutes he made his appearance on horseback, to the amazement and terror of all, especially the ladies, who began to scream, while he, striking the spurs into his horse, roared with laughter.

This hateful piece of drollery was noised over the whole town, and put that poor innocent señor in a most ridiculous light.

But Julita, as she saw and listened to him, forgot these and other escapades; unquestionably this young man, who in her presence was so refined and modest, was an entirely different person.

Saavedra after showing such gallantry to his cousin, waited a long time before he addressed her, or even looked at her; he seemed to be absorbed in his conversation with her mother. Thus it was that she had an abundance of time to make a careful scrutiny of his appearance: his shirt-collar, his cravat, his watch-chain, his boots, all were elegant, and proved by their style that they came from the other side of the Pyrenees.

"You will feel like getting the dust off and having a wash, Alfonso," said la brigadiera. "Come; we will show you to your room: it is the one which my son Miguel used to occupy."

Don Alfonso could not praise it sufficiently: he found everything to his taste.

"I shall be just like a fish in the water here. You will have trouble in getting rid of me, I assure you!"

"I will warn you," said Julia, "that it was I who made the bed myself. Don't you dare say that you have not slept well."

As soon as she had said these words, which by their mischievous spirit were perfectly proper, she repented having said them, and blushed. Don Alfonso turned his face upon her, and looked at her with some friendly curiosity.

"That is the very reason that I shall not sleep well. You were unkind to tell me."

"Julita," said her mother, "tell them to put on the breakfast; you must feel weary, Alfonso."

"No, aunt; I feel hungry, though. The word is more prosaic, but it is nearer the truth."

La brigadiera, with a laugh, accepted the arm which her nephew offered her as they went to the dining-room. During the meal he entertained the ladies in the same agreeable fashion, telling them a thousand curious incidents, giving them minute descriptions of the soirées in the fashionable society of Paris. They were most interested in what he had to say about the ladies' dresses and the decoration of the salons.

During the conversation he never once forgot those gallant and thoughtful attentions which were demanded by his situation. By intuition he discovered when Julita's wine-glass was empty; he offered his aunt the olives; he passed her the mustard, cut the bread for her, etc.

Julia was merry, and perhaps rather more talkative than usual; but when she made use of any expression that was a little more piquante than usual, she would feel her cheeks flush under her cousin's steady, smiling, and somewhat ironical gaze.

It was the first time that she had ever forced herself to be witty and sharp and say sharp things. When she said anything that was particularly clever, Saavedra would look up, and his smile would seem to say, "This little girl is bright."

In the days that followed, his gallantry did not in the least relax. La brigadiera wrote her cousin, assuring her that "she would keep her nephew not merely a month, but all his life in her house; that he was a perfect gentleman, and that young men could not in Spain possibly acquire such an admirable education and such manners as he possessed."

A hearty and perfect confidence quickly grew between him and Julia; the girl amused him with her lively and picturesque chatter which recalled to the exile his years of childhood and youth.

Don Alfonso played the guitar as well as the piano, and to his skill and facility in singing Polish and Spanish songs was due in no small measure his social success in Parisian society. But there he played and sang to attract the notice of the ladies and make himself known, while here it was for his own pleasure or to bring to mind happy days or events.

"You won't escape me that way!" cried Saavedra.

"Yes I shall too," retorted the girl, again vanishing from sight.

Both ran along the corridor, but when they were near the parlor, Julia turned around, and going a few steps toward her cousin, said:—

"Don't chase me any more; I will tie the cravat, but I won't promise to do it well."

"It is enough if you do it; it is a punishment which I impose upon you."

Laughing, though her hands trembled a little, she arranged the tie.

"What is that you have hanging there?" she asked, bending her head so as to examine a trinket which her cousin wore on his watch-chain.

"A gold heart.... Just like mine!"

And as he said that he bent over and imprinted a kiss on the girl's neck.

Julia straightened herself up as though a pin had pricked her, flushed deeply, and giving him a severe look, said in a muffled voice:—

"I assure you that I do not wish you to do such a thing again!"

Saavedra looked at her with mischievous, mirth-provoking eyes, and not paying any attention to her anger, went on calmly talking to her. Julia, uncertain what course to take, replied gravely to his questions, and did not look at him. Finally his perfect calmness and confidence had their effect upon her, and in a little while she was as gay as ever.

All these signs of disregard or resentment, strange as it may seem, had no effect whatever on Don Alfonso, who, as though not noticing them, continued to show her the same gallantry as before, even more pronounced if possible, and he did not in the least alter his habits, nor his hours of entering or leaving the house.

It must not be supposed that Julia was sad every day; there were some, when without the least apparent reason, she would appear extraordinarily gay, filling the whole house with her merry voice, rallying her mamma, her cousin, and every one who happened to be visiting them, and being far more audacious in her witticisms than usual.... But in the midst of this obstreperous gayety, she would suddenly stop for several moments, with her eyes set and ecstatic, and then her face would take on a very strange expression of pain.

On these merry days she would treat her cousin with unaccustomed amiability as though she were anxious to compensate him for the petty disdain that she had shown him in the days gone by.

Don Alfonso stole three or four more kisses, each time receiving an energetic protest on the girl's part, and finally the formal threat of telling her mother. Nevertheless, these were not the days when she was sad and down-spirited.

Miguel noticed, however, that there was too much excitement underneath her gayety: she went rapidly from one subject to another; she asked questions and answered them herself, and laughed boisterously at the slightest excuse. She sat down at the piano and began to play very loud; then she sang a romanza from an opera, and this she suddenly changed into a Spanish song, which she did not finish either. Then she quitted the piano to frolic with Maximina, whom she obliged to dance a polka whether she would or no; presently she accosted her brother and kissed him again and again, saying to Maximina:—

"You aren't jealous, are you now?"

Don Alfonso's eyes followed her in all these evolutions keenly and persistently, with a peculiar expression of gentle irony. Miguel noticed it, and made a slight gesture of dissatisfaction.

In the following days Julia's avoidance of her cousin increased, and was shown in a very unpleasant manner. He had only to come where she was for her immediately to leave the room: if he asked her to sing, or play the piano, she would give him a flat refusal; she did not address a single word to him, and if he asked her a question she would answer curtly and without looking at him. La brigadiera noticed these shortcomings, and chided her severely, but without any effect. Don Alfonso pretended not to notice them, and continued imperturbably to treat her with his exquisite courtesy, and finding every opportunity to give her praise which, of course, she received with very bad grace.

They were talking about a ball to be given by a certain duke, one of Saavedra's friends, where they were going to revive the ancient and classic minuet. In fact, they had been practising it several days, and Saavedra had ordered an elegant costume of doublet and hose, the details of which he was carefully describing to his aunt.

Julita looked up, and giving him a saucy glance, said with peculiar malice ill-concealed:—

"It seems like a falsehood for you to engage in such things."

"Why, little coz?" asked Don Alfonso, smiling amiably.

"Because you are already an old man," rejoined the girl, with a scornful accent. A moment of silence followed that impudent thrust. It was la brigadiera who broke it, and she was so furious that she could not complete her sentences:—

"You wicked girl! Insolent! Aren't you ashamed? How could you dare.... I feel as though I should sink through the floor!... (standing up, in high dudgeon). The idea!... Leave the room this very moment, you shameless creature!"

Don Alfonso, smiling with unchanged calmness, endeavored to pacify her, saying:—

"But what is the harm in her remark, señora? Julia has only told the truth. It is what I say to myself every morning when I brush my hair.... The worst of it is, that I am getting to be a boyish old man."

La brigadiera would not listen to him, but pointed her daughter to the door, with extended arm; Julia, bursting into tears, but still with haughty and lofty face, left the room.

Her guest likewise arose, with his cigar in his mouth, and with slow, lazy steps went to the sewing-room, hoping to find his cousin there. He was not disappointed; she was there, reading a book, with her head resting on one hand, and the other hanging over the back of the chair.

Don Alfonso halted at the threshold, and gazed at her for a while with an indefinable smile playing over his lips.

Julia sat motionless, rigid; the frown on her brow grew a trifle deeper. Don Alfonso slowly approached her, and bending his head humbly, touched his lips to the girl's hand, at the same time saying:—

"Pardon!"

Julia gave a jump, knocking over the chair, and vanished like a vapor.

The life of Rivera and his wife had gradually come into regular channels; the house was now entirely furnished. Miguel arose early and went to his library to work. Maximina stayed some time longer in her room, making up for the trials which she had been obliged to undergo both at the convent and at her aunt's house. Her constitution required much sleep, and she had never been able to satisfy this necessity. Once she had asked her aunt as a special favor:—

"Some day, some day, I will let you."

But the day never came. She had been obliged to be up at half-past five in the winter, and at five in summer, and there was no help for it. Now that there was no one to torment her, since Miguel dressed as quietly as possible so as not to wake her, she was able to indulge in her slothfulness. When at last she got up she would go straight to the library, and always greet her husband with a timid—

"What will you say to me?"

"What am I going to say to you, tonta? It must have been terrible to get up so early! It is not yet quarter-past nine!"

Maximina, who had noticed in passing, that the clock said that it was almost ten, was delighted with her husband's equivocation, and would kiss him affectionately.

"Listen; you must call me to-morrow when you get up."

"All right, I will."

"On your word?"

"On my word of honor."

It is safe to say that Miguel did not fulfil this promise: he felt that it was too great a pity to do so.

During the first months of their married life they made various calls, and received an equal number; among others, one from the Galician señoritas whose acquaintance they had made on the train; and they showed Maximina a warm and boisterous affection, appropriate to such maidens. Everywhere the young wife left a charming impression by her simple and natural manners.

"What a good woman your wife must be!" said Miguel's friends, when they found him alone.

The young man would smile with ill-repressed pride, and exclaim:—

But he would say to himself:—

"God gave me light."

Marriage had not caused him to lose any of his independence, nor any of those bachelor habits which are so hard to overcome at a certain age. Maximina never demanded, or even asked, any sacrifice of him. She felt herself absolutely happy to be the wife of the man whom she adored; and the daily and commonplace actions of life were to her a source of unspeakable delight.

When breakfast time came, she would lightly lift the latch of the library door, step noiselessly up to her husband, and say:—

"It is half-past twelve now."

While they were breakfasting, the conversation which they kept up was full of affectionate trifles; when their eyes met, they expressed mute caresses; and many times Miguel reached across the table to get his wife's hand and kiss it, much to the young woman's terror and apprehension; she would instantly snatch it away by main force, glancing at the door as though there were danger of some dragon making its appearance.

The dragon was Juana, who was likely to appear with the waiter in her hands.

After breakfast came the happiest hour of the day for Maximina: she would go with her husband to the library, and he, settling himself comfortably in an easy-chair, would take her on his knees, fold her to him, and whisper in her ears the sweetest things she ever heard. Sometimes it happened that he would fall into a doze, and Maximina would not lift a finger for fear of waking him; and even though her position were uncomfortable, she would endure it until Miguel opened his eyes.

Miguel would fondle her, and smile, and take leave of her at the door. It seemed as though these leave-takings would never end.

"They might see us from the opposite side," Maximina would say, tearing herself out of his arms.

"But the door is closed!"

"What is it you want?"

"Does Don Miguel Rivera live here?" he would ask.

"Yes, señor; but he is not at home."

"Is the señora in?"

"The señora is in, but she cannot receive you."

"Tell her that there is a gentleman here who wants to give her a hug and a kiss."

They laughed and amused themselves with these trifles, and the young wife never thought of asking her husband to give her an account of his time. She would go with him to the library. Miguel would take a book and sit down, saying:—

"There now, leave me alone a few minutes; I want to read."

"You naughty, naughty boy!" she would retort with innocent vexation. "You are very naughty to send me away!"

Miguel would relent, and pull her back by the hand.

After dinner they used to spend another little while together, and then he would go to the café, and from there to his editorial rooms, returning at twelve or one. His wife used to try to wait for him, either by reading a book or by taking a nap. Saturdays they always went to the theatre, for La Independencia was not published on Sundays, and so there was one day in the seven when he was not driven with work.

One evening, as she was coming down stairs, Maximina, who was occupied in putting on her gloves, tripped and fell, rolling down several steps.

"Oh! my wife!" cried Miguel, hastening to her aid.

Then, also for the first time, Miguel realized how this gentle creature had taken possession of his heart.

She had been greatly troubled at a slight ailment from which her husband suffered during the early months of their marriage: severe rheumatic pains kept him housed for several days; he grew pale and thin, and, worse than all, was in a very unhappy frame of mind, for he was not a man to endure adversities patiently.

Maximina was deeply troubled, and do the best she could, it was impossible for her to hide her grief. She sat all day long beside the bed, and did not take her eyes from her husband; from time to time, almost overcome with grief, and making great efforts to control herself, she would say:—

"You feel better, you do feel better, don't you? Yes, yes, you must feel better!"

"Since you say so, you must be very sure of it," he would say slyly, with an ironical smile.

And then seeing her great, timid, innocent eyes fill with tears, he would repent of his unseasonable words, and add, caressing her hand:—

"Don't mind about me. I am doing well. To-morrow I shall be all right; truly I shall."

And the young wife was happy for a few moments, until she would be alarmed again by some new complaint from the sick man.

When he was entirely recovered, it was incumbent upon them to attend mass at San Sebastian. Maximina suggested it, and asked him with so much humility that he hadn't the heart to object.

The former colegiala of the convent of Vergara could not help mixing religion with all the acts of her life. Miguel, in spite of his own lack of faith, found his wife's piety so poetical, so innocent, that it never once passed through his mind to disaffect her of it. "If ever it became hypocritical, it would be quite another thing," he said to himself.

Consequently he was not at all averse to going with her every Sunday to mass; besides, Maximina for many months could not bring herself to set foot in the street alone.

After a while, however, the brigadier's son began to forget his duty, and under the pretext that San Sebastian was near at hand, he would stay at home Sunday mornings, while Maximina, with heroic courage, would assume the terrible risk of going to church all by herself.

Still she suffered greatly; she imagined that everybody despised her, that they were going to say impudent things to her; the unfriendly glances so much in fashion among the natives of Madrid filled her with terror; she could have wished to be invisible!

But she did not venture to tell her fears to Miguel, lest she should vex him, and cause him to go to mass with her against his inclinations.

One morning, a little while after she had started out for church, Miguel heard the bell ring violently; then the library door was flung open, and Maximina came in, pale as a sheet.

"What has happened?" he demanded, rising.

Miguel anxiously insisted: "Did you feel ill?"

The young wife made an affirmative gesture.

"How was it? Tell me."

"I don't know," she replied, in a weak and hesitating voice. "I had been in church but a few minutes.... I begun to feel sick. Then the pictures of the saints began to waver before my eyes.... I felt as though my sight were leaving me.... And without knowing what I was doing I started to run.... And before I knew it I found myself near the grand altar.... I heard the people saying: 'What is it? what is it?' and that there was a confusion.... I turned around, and without looking at any one, I crossed the church again, and came out...."

Miguel succeeded in calming her; he made the servant bring her a cup of lime juice, and promised that he would not let her go to church again alone.

After a while, when she was entirely recovered, he asked her a question in a whisper, which she, dropping her eyes, answered in the negative. Then with a smiling face he whispered a few words in her ear.... The young wife, when she heard them, trembled, fastened her eyes on him with an anxious expression for a moment, and, confused and blushing, threw herself into his arms, murmuring:—

"Oh, don't deceive me! Don't deceive me, for Heaven's sake!"

But Miguel understood perfectly that she was thinking of nothing else; that the bliss of coming maternity filled her whole nature, her life, and her being. He also was delighted, not so much at the new trust with which nature was going to honor him, as at the spectacle of his wife's happiness, and in secretly watching in her eyes, and in all her movements, the adorable mystery that was taking place in her soul.

When they walked along the street, he noticed that she cast quick and anxious glances at the linen shops, where baby-caps and children's wardrobes were on exhibition. And divining that she would enjoy stopping, he would make some excuse for asking the price of shirts or handkerchiefs, and let her amuse herself looking at infant wardrobes.

"Do you know," she would say afterwards, "do you know how much baby shirts cost a dozen?"

"No," he would answer, laughing.

"I do, though!"

One day, as he was passing by the chamber door into the library, he caught sight of her looking into the wardrobe mirror; and he was surprised, because no woman was ever freer from vanity and coquetry than she; but his surprise was changed into amusement when he saw that she was looking at her profile to see whether her form had changed. But lest he should embarrass her he went out on his tiptoes.

"Oh, how sorry it makes me feel for children that die!"

Miguel smiled and made no reply, reading her thoughts.

While time glided away in this sweet and delightful manner for our young couple, Marroquín, the hairy Marroquín, was trying to accomplish his own ends; the nation was over a volcano, and the former professor of the Colegio de la Merced, secretly, and in company with our friend, Merelo y García, was not behindhand in stirring the flames of civil discord.

Not a night passed without both of them uttering bloody prognostications for the future in the Café de Levante; the number of times that institutions had been crumbled into dust on the marble tables was beyond belief; the waiters, from listening to democratic discourses, served the customers badly; more then once the secret police had visited the establishment, so said the disturbers of the public peace; but there had been no arrests, and this made Marroquín desperate. He enjoyed, beyond measure, speaking so as to be heard of all who came to the table, at the same time fastening his gaze on some peaceable customer, and making tremendous boasts, so as to rouse his curiosity.

"Don Servando," he would shout to a gentlemen sitting some distance from him, "do you expect to go out for a walk to-morrow?"

"Certainly, as always, Señor Marroquín."

"You had better not take your wife and children."

"Man alive! why not?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! That is all I have to say."

But the revolutionary professor enjoyed most one evening when he succeeded in bringing to the café; his old friend and colleague Don Leandro.

Marroquín met him one Sunday in the street, and after a hearty greeting, as his custom was, he began to say harsh things of the curé, which was also a habit of his. This flattered the worthy Don Leandro immensely, though he affected not to listen to him, for he detested backbiting, and was greatly afraid of hell, though not so much of purgatory.

So that Marroquín, in spite of his depraved ideas, served as a powerful temptation for his friend to go into El Levante and have a glass of water, for example. Don Leandro, no matter what opprobriums the heretical professor heaped upon his born enemy, acquiesced with a smile; and even, from time to time, he himself would let slip some spiteful word, promising before the tribunal of his conscience to confess it immediately.

But the trouble was, Don Leandro's confessor was the very same chaplain, who, like his glorious predecessor, Gregory VII., aspired to possess the key to the consciences of his subjects, and would not hear to any alumnus or dependent of the college confiding his load of sins to any other bosom than his.

He was tempted to dismiss him from the college, but he felt that such a thing would be an attack on the sacred character of the confessional, since Don Leandro did his duty conscientiously, and to turn him off required that he should make use of his knowledge acquired in the tribunal of penance.

Afterwards it occurred to him to send him to some one else to make his confession; but the demon of curiosity had firm possession of him, and, though every day he promised himself to give him notice, he never reached the point of doing so, and continued to hear his own deeds criticised without the power to defend himself.

"Barájoles! what a penance God has put upon me," he would say afterwards, as he strode up and down his room. "How I should like to give this idiot a couple of raps!"

Don Leandro, when he entered El Levante, had no idea that he was going to meet so many gentlemen, and still less that there were among them a number of impious revolutionists, enemies of "all religious restraint." Accordingly, when he began to hear them speak of the government in the terms which they were wont to use, he flushed deeply and began to cast surreptitious glances in all directions, and especially at Marroquín.

"See here, Señor Marroquín!" he said in an undertone, "let us talk about something else."

Marroquín, smiling in a superior manner, replied:—

"What eruption?"

"The revolution, man alive!"

"Santo Crísto! Do you know, Señor Marroquín, these things are very serious, very serious! If you will not take it in bad part, I should like to be going.... Anyway, I have something that I must be doing...."

Marroquín took him by the arm, and compelled him to sit down again.

"Don't you have any apprehension, my dear friend! Nothing can happen to you, at any rate, because you do not, like me, figure in all the lists which the police have been sending to the authorities."

"No matter; if it does not make any difference to you, we will change the subject."

The subject was changed, indeed, but the topic which followed was still more terrible and demoniacal.

They talked of nothing else than the queen, and any one can imagine what could have been said of that august lady,—that she was going to lose her crown and go into exile.

The moment the professor heard these atrocious remarks, he grew livid, and it was impossible to keep him longer; he left without saying good by, and directed his steps toward his college, which he reached in a breathless condition....

The poor man had the innocence to relate this episode to the mayordomo, who lost no time in reporting it to the director.

The labors of our friend Mendoza, otherwise Brutandor, in behalf of the revolutionary cause, were employed in a higher circle than those of Marroquín, Merelo, and the other small fry of the liberal school. He had disappeared for the time being, as we already know, and in Spain the fact of a person disappearing is something that gives infinite importance, and often imperishable glory. For, indeed, when a man disappears, the public rightly presume that it must be for working out in secret great and noteworthy undertakings. Those of Mendoza, although we know not what they were, must have been portentous, if what was said was true, since they obliged him to remain concealed in Madrid more than three months, changing his concealment and his disguise any number of times. Miguel had known something of his life and perils, but at last he lost track of him.

This was the state of affairs, when one evening, after dinner, while Rivera was sitting in the library with Maximina on his knee, there was a tremendous ring at the door-bell.

The young woman was on her feet in a second.

"Who can that be at this time o' day?" queried Miguel. "Has either of the girls gone out?"

"I think not."

Just then Juana came in.

"Señorito, it is a waiter from the café wants to speak with you."

"A waiter from the café? I don't remember that I have any account anywhere.... Tell him to come in."

"Wait! wait!" exclaimed Maximina; "let me get out by this door!"

At that instant the waiter appeared, and Miguel could scarcely recognize under his disguise his friend Mendoza.

"Perico!"

"Shhhhhhhhh!" exclaimed Mendoza, putting on an expression of terrible fear.

And he hastened to bolt the door.

"What is up?" asked Miguel, affecting great anxiety.

Mendoza sat down, heaved a sigh, and answered frankly:—

"Nothing."

"I thought so."

Brutandor, without heeding the irony of those words, began to whisper, bringing his mouth close to his friend's ear:—

"I have been for the last fortnight at La Florida, hiding in the house of the laundrymen...."

"Man! if I had known it, I should have made you a visit."

"Don't say anything about visits! They might follow you, and get their hands on me."

"And how have you enjoyed your visit in the country?"

"I had a pretty fair sort of time. There was only one bed in the house; in the night while the laundrymen were asleep, I would go out, and take a walk along the river bank, and at sunrise, when the men were up, I used to go to bed."

"How cool and delightful it must have been!"