The city of the discreet

CHAPTER XIV

SPRING

Quentin did not appear at Rafaela’s house for some time. Alone, with nothing to occupy him, friendless; he was desperately bored. How the Andalusian spring oppressed him! He wandered about from place to place, without plans, without an object, without a destination.

The sun inundated the silent, deserted streets; the sky, a pure, opaque blue, seemed something tangible—a huge turquoise, or sapphire in which roofs and towers and terraces were embedded.

Everything gave the impression of profound lethargy.... The houses: blue, yellow, pale rose, cream-coloured, all hermetically sealed, seemed deserted; the irrigated vestibules flowed with water; one smelt vaguely the odour of flowers, and a penetrating perfume of orange blossoms arose from the patios and gardens.

The plazas, like white whirlpools of sunlight, were blinding with the reverberation of light against the walls. In the alleys, tenebrous, narrow, shadowy, one felt a damp, cave-like cold.... Everywhere silence and solitude reigned; in some lonely spot, a donkey, tied to a grating, remained motionless; a hungry dog scratched in a heap of refuse; or a frightened cat ran with tail erect until it disappeared in its hiding-place.

In the distance, the crowing of a cock rang out like a bugle call in the silent air; one heard the melancholy cry of the vendors of medicinal herbs; and through the deserted plazoletas, through the narrow and tortuous alleys, there rose the song of love and death that a grancero was singing as he rode along on his donkey.

In La Ribera, some vagabonds and gipsies were sunning themselves, while others played quoits; little children with brown skins ran about bare-legged, covered only by a scanty shirt; sunburned old women came to the windows and gratings; and along the white, the very white highway, which resembled a great chalk furrow, there passed gallant horsemen, raising clouds of dust.

The river wound peacefully along—blue at times, at times golden; wagons and herds passed slowly over the bridges—so slowly that from a distance they seemed motionless.

An oppressive calm, a tiresome somnolence weighed down upon the city; and in the midst of this calm, of this death-like silence, there sounded a bell here, another there—all extremely languid and sad....

At nightfall, the magic of the twilight touched the city and the distant landscape with gold—-‘d lights; splendid colours of extraordinary magnificence. The clouds became rosy, scarlet.... The country was tinged with gold, and the last rays of the sun set fire to the rocks and peaks of the mountain-tops.

In the streets, which were bathed with light, a narrow strip of shadow appeared upon the walks, which grew and widened until it covered the whole pavement. Then it slowly climbed the walls, reached the grated windows and the balconies, scaled the twisted eaves.... The sunlight completely disappeared from the street, and there only remained the last vestiges of its brilliancy upon the towers, the high look-outs, and the flaming windows....

The air grew diaphanous, acquired more transparency; the horizon more depth; and the sides of the white walls of garrets and corners, as they reflected the scarlet or rosy sky, resembled blocks of snow animated by the pale rays of a boreal sun....

Presently the lamps were lighted; their little red flames flickering in the shadows; and squares of lighted windows punctured the façades of the houses.

At this hour on work days, women visited the stores; wealthy families returned in their coaches from their orchards; youths rode back and forth on horseback; and the nocturnal life of Cordova poured through the central streets, which were lighted by street lamps and shop windows.

Quentin wandered from place to place, ruminating on his sadness; walked indifferently along streets and plazas; watched the young ladies coming and going with their mammas, and followed by their beaux. When his irritation disappeared, he felt discouraged. The melancholy calmness of the city, the dreamy atmosphere, produced within him a feeling of great lassitude and laziness.

At times he firmly believed that Rafaela would trouble him no more; that his feeling of love had been a superficial fantasy.

In the morning Quentin often went to the Patio de los Naranjos where El Pende’s father used to spend his time with a coterie of old men, beggars, and tramps, which all Cordova ironically called La Potrá, or the herd of young mares.

El Pende senior, or Matapalos, passed his time there chatting with his friends. He was an original and knowing fellow who spoke in apothegms and maxims. He dominated the meetings as few others could. No one could, like him, so slyly introduce a number of subjects in a conversational hiatus, or in the act of rolling a cigarette. Of course, for him, this last was by no means a simple affair; but rather an operation that demanded time and science. First, Matapalos took out a little knife and began to scrape a plug of tobacco; after the scraping came the rubbing of it between his hands; then he tore a leaf of cigarette paper from its little book, held it for a moment sticking to his under lip, and then began to roll the cigarette first on one end, and then on the other, until the manœuvre was happily consummated. This operation over, Matapalos removed his calañés, placed it between his legs, and from somewhere within the hat drew forth a little leather purse, from which he extracted flint and steel and tinder.

After this, he slowly covered himself and from time to time, in the midst of the conversation, struck the steel with the flint until he happened to light the tinder, and with the tinder, his cigarette.

The old man lived in a hut in the Matadero district; he knew everything that had occurred in Cordova for many years, and boasted of it. For Matapalos, there were no toreadors like those of his own time.

“I’m not taking any merit away from Lagartijo or Manuel Fuentes,” he said, “but you don’t see any more toreadors like El Panchón, or Rafael Bejarano, or Pepete, or El Camará. You ought to have seen Bejarano! He was such a great rival of no less a person than Costillares, that in my time they used to sing:

(Proud Costillares, come, and go to the Almadén to see the famous Cordovese kill bulls right.)

In this subject Matapalos had a formidable adversary; another old man whom they called Doctor Prosopopeya, who, as a native of Seville, never admitted that a Cordovese toreador could come up to one from Seville.

Quentin found Matapalos very funny and very amusing, and he often went to listen to him.

While the old man related ancient history in his quiet, peaceful voice, Quentin contemplated the Patio de los Naranjos, sometimes listening to what was said, sometimes not.

The orange trees were in full blossom, and their penetrating perfume produced a certain giddiness; from time to time one could hear distant bells which the cathedral bell seemed to answer, clanging loudly.... Then silence again reigned; the birds chirped in the trees; the water murmured in the fountain; the butterflies bathed in the pure air; and the lizards and salamanders glided along the walls.

Among the shadows of the orange trees shone vivid splashes of sunlight; doves tumbled from the cathedral roof and flew softly through the blue and luminous air, making a slight sound of ripping gauze; sometimes they made a metallic whirr as they rapidly beat their wings.

The majority of the Potrá was made up of beggars and tramps. These beggars were neither emaciated, squalid, nor ill; but strong, vigorous men, hirsute, with long, matted locks, sunburned, covered with rags.... Some wore threadbare calañés hats; others, broad-brimmed sombreros worn over grass handkerchiefs; some, a very few, wore loose, yellowish coats with long sleeves; a good many wrapped themselves up in grey cloaks of heavy cloth and many folds. Nearly all of them had private homes where they were given leavings and cigarette butts; those who did not, went to the barracks, or to a convent; no one lacked the hodge-podge necessary for wandering on, though poorly, through the bitter adversities of life.

From time to time the Potrá came into a little money; and then ten or twelve of them got up a pool to play the lottery.

In that troop there was a beggar with a black beard, younger than the rest, bent almost double at the waist, who went about leaning on a short crutch. They called this man El Engurruñao. He had one shrunken leg wrapped in rags, although really he had no illness at all. He howled in a doleful voice after every decently-dressed passer-by, and he took in plenty of money.

Through the conversations of these tramps and beggars, Quentin came to know Cordova life, and that of the principal families of the town. Through them he learned that the majority of the great families were on their way to poverty.

One example of an economic catastrophe was that of a gentleman who walked through the arcade of the Mosque every morning. This gentleman was dressed like a dandy of other days: well-fitting coat, flowing black cravat, tall silk hat with a flat brim, and, on some cold days, a blue cape. The poor man was emaciated, had long, grey, bushy hair, and wore yellow gloves.

He was a ruined aristocrat. It was pitiful to see that living ruin walking up and down under the porticos, with his hands behind his back, talking to himself with a gesture of resignation and sadness....

CHAPTER XV

WHERE HIS BEAUTIFUL EXPECTATIONS WENT!

“They are very bad. The grandfather hasn’t much longer to live; the Señorita’s father is a profligate; and El Pollo Real doesn’t care to do anything at all. To whom will they leave the girls? Their stepmother, La Aceitunera, is no good. Have you ever heard of a Señora Patrocinio who has a house in Los Tejares? Well, she goes there every day. Why, it’s a shame.”

“And this Juan de Dios ... is he rich?” asked Quentin.

“Very; but he is very coarse. When he was a little boy he used to say: ‘I want to be a horse,’ and he used to go out to the stable, pick up some filth in his hands, and say to the people, ‘Look, look what I did.’”

“He is coarse, then—eh?”

“Yes; but he’s got noble blood in him.”

Quentin left Juan and went home perplexed. Indubitably, he was no Bœotian, but a vulgar sentimentalist, a poor cadet, an unhappy wretch, without strength enough to set aside, as useless and prejudicial, those gloomy ideas and sentiments: love, self-denial, and the rest.

And he had thought himself an Epicurean! One of the few men capable of following the advice of Horace: “Pluck today’s flower, and give no thought to the morrow’s!” He! In love with a young lady of the aristocracy; not for her money, nor even for her palace; but for her own sake! He was on a level with any romantic carpenter of a provincial capital. He was unworthy of having been in Eton, near Windsor, for eight years; or of having walked through Piccadilly; or of having read Horace.

In the miserable state in which Quentin found himself, only nonsensical ideas occurred to him. The first was to go to Rafaela and demand an explanation; the second was to write her a letter; and he was as pleased with this idiotic plan as if it had been really brilliant. He made several rough drafts in succession, and was satisfied with none of them. Sometimes his words were high-sounding and emphatic; again, he unwittingly gave a clumsy and vulgar tone to his letter: one could read between the lines a common and uncouth irony, as often as extraordinary pride, or abject humility.

At last, seeing that he could not find a form clear enough to express his thoughts, he decided to write a laconic letter, asking Rafaela to grant him an interview.

He gave Juan the letter to give to his young mistress. He was waiting at the door for some one to answer his ring, when Remedios appeared.

“See here,” said the child.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t you know? Rafaela is going to marry Juan de Dios.”

“Does she love him?”

“No; I don’t think she does.”

“Then why does she marry him?”

“Because Juan de Dios is very rich, and we have no money.”

“But will she want to do it?”

“She hasn’t said anything about it. Juan de Dios spoke to grandfather, and grandfather spoke to Rafaela. Are you going to see sister?”

“Yes, this very minute.”

“She’s in the sewing-room.”

They went to the door.

“Tell her not to marry Juan de Dios.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“No. I hate him. He’s vulgar.”

Quentin went in, glided along the gallery, and knocked upon the door of the sewing-room.

“Come in!” said some one.

Rafaela and the old woman servant were sewing. As Quentin appeared a slight flush spread over the girl’s cheeks.

“What a long time it is since you have been here!” said Rafaela. “Won’t you sit down?”

Quentin gave her to understand with a gesture that he preferred to remain standing.

“Have you been so very busy?” asked the girl.

“No; I’ve had nothing to do,” answered Quentin gruffly. “I’ve spent my time being furious these days.”

“Furious! At what?” said she with a certain smiling coquetry.

“At you.”

“At me?”

“Yes. Will you let me speak to you alone a minute?”

“You may speak here, before my nurse. She will defend me in case you accuse me of anything.”

“Accuse you? No, not that.”

“Well, then, why were you so furious?”

“I was furious, first because they told me that you once had a sweetheart whom you loved; and second, because they say that you are going to get married.”

Rafaela, who perhaps did not expect such a brusque way of putting the matter, dropped her sewing and rose to her feet.

“You, too, are a child,” she murmured at length. “What can one do with what is gone by? I had a sweetheart, it is true, for six years—and I was in love with him.”

“Yes; I know it,” said Quentin furiously.

“If he acted badly,” Rafaela continued, as if talking to herself, “so much the worse for him. There is no recollection of my childhood that is not connected with him. In his company I went to the theatre for the first time, and to my first dance. What little happiness I have had in my life, came to me during the time I knew him. My mother was living then; my family was considered wealthy.... Yet, if that man were free, and wished to marry me now, I would not marry him; not from spite, no—but because to me he is a different man.... I say this to you because I feel I know you, and because you are like my sister Remedios: you demand an exclusive affection.”

“And don’t you?” demanded Quentin brusquely.

“I do too; perhaps not as much as you; but neither do I believe that I could share my affection with another. I must not deceive you in this. You would be capable of being jealous of the past.”

“Probably,” said Quentin.

“I know it. I don’t believe that I have flirted with you; have I?”

Rafaela spoke at some length. She had that graciousness of those persons whose emotions are not easily stirred. Her heart needed time to feel affection; an impulse of the moment could not make her believe herself in love.

She was a woman destined for the hearth; to be seen going to and fro, arranging everything, directing everything; to be heard playing the piano in the afternoons. In a burst of frankness, Rafaela said:

“Had I listened to your hints, I should have made you unhappy without wishing to, and you would have made me miserable.”

“Then how is it that you are going to marry Juan de Dios?” asked Quentin brutally.

Rafaela was confused.

“That’s different,” she stammered; “in the first place, I have not decided yet; and besides, I have made my conditions. Then again, there is this great difference: Juan de Dios is not jealous of my past love affair ... he wants my title. [In this moment, Rafaela is sure that she is calumniating her betrothed in order to get out of her difficulty.] Moreover, my whole family is interested in my marrying him. If I do so, my grandfather, poor dear, will be easy in his mind; Remedios will be sure of being able to live according to her station,—and so shall I.”

“You are very discreet; too discreet—and calculating,” said Quentin bitterly.

“No; not too much so. What would happen to us girls otherwise?”

“What about me?”

“You?”

“Yes, me; I would work for you if you loved me.”

“That could never be.”

“Why?”

“For many reasons. First of all, because I am older than you....”

“Bah!”

“Let me speak. First, because I am older than you; second, because you would be jealous of me and would continually mortify me; and lastly, most important of all, because you and I are both poor.”

“I shall make money,” said Quentin.

“How? With what? Why aren’t you making it now?”

“Now?” questioned Quentin after a pause. “Now I have no ideal; it’s all the same to me whether I’m rich or poor. But if you believed in me, you’d find that I could snatch money from the very bowels of the earth.”

“Possibly, yes,” said Rafaela calmly; “because you are clever. But those are my reasons. Some day, when you recall our conversation, you will say: ‘she was right.’”

“You are very discreet,” said Quentin as he turned toward the door; “too discreet; and you have discreetly torn asunder all my illusions, and have left my soul in shreds.”

“Do you hate me now?” she said sadly.

“Hate you, no!” exclaimed Quentin with emotion, effusively pressing the hand Rafaela held out to him. “You are an admirable woman in every respect!”

And trembling violently, he left the room.

As he went down the stairs Remedios rushed up to him.

“What did she say to you?” she asked.

“It’s no use; she’s going to marry him.”

“Did she tell you that herself?”

“Yes.”

“And you. What are you going to do?”

“What can I do?”

“I’d kill Juan de Dios,” murmured the girl resolutely.

“If she wished it, I would, too,” replied Quentin, and he stepped into the street.

He walked along in a daze; he repeated Rafaela’s words to himself, and discovered better arguments that he might have put forward in the interview, but which did not occur to him at the moment. Sometimes he thought, more rationally: “At least I came out of it well;” but this consolation was too metaphysical to satisfy him.

He spent a sleepless night at his window watching the stars and thinking. He analyzed and studied his moral problem, proposing solutions, only to reject them.

At dawn he went to bed. He believed that he had hit upon a definite solution—the norm of his existence. Condensed into a single phrase, it was this:

“I must become a man of action.”

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN OF ACTION BEGINS TO MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN

After Quentin had emptied several glasses, he began to feel heartened, and ready for any folly. At a near-by table several men were talking about an actress who took the principal part in a musical comedy that had just been put on. One with a very loud voice was dragging the actress’ name through the mire.

This man was extremely fat; a kind of a sperm whale, with the bulging features of a dropsical patient, a shiny skin, and the voice of a eunuch. He had a microscopic nose that was lost between his two chubby cheeks, which were a pale yellow; his hatchet-shaped whiskers were so black that they seemed painted with ink; his stiff, bluish hair grew low on his forehead, with a peak above the eyebrows. He wore diamonds upon his bosom, rings upon his pudgy fingers, and, to cap his offensiveness, he was smoking a kilometric cigar with a huge band.

The bearing, the voice, the diamonds, the cigar, the waddling, and the laughter of that man set Quentin’s blood afire to such an extent, that rising and striking the table where the whale was talking to his friends, he shouted:

“Everything you say is a lie!”

“Are you the woman’s brother or husband?” inquired the obese gentleman, staring into space and stroking his black sideburns with his much bediamonded hand.

“I am nothing of hers,” replied Quentin; “I don’t know her, and I don’t want to know her; but I do know that everything you say is a lie.”

“Pay no attention to him,” said one of the fat man’s companions; “he’s drunk.”

“Well, he’d better look out, or I’ll strike him with my stick.”

“You’ll strike me with your stick!” exclaimed Quentin. “Ha ... ha ... ha!... But have you ever looked into a mirror?... You really are most repulsive, my friend!”

The fat man, before such an insult to his appearance, rose and endeavoured to reach Quentin, but his friends restrained him. Quentin quickly removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready to box.

“Evohé! Evohé!” he thundered. “Come who will! One by one, two by two, every one against me!”

A thin, blond man with blue eyes and a golden beard, stepped up to him; not as though to fight, but with a smile.

“What do you want?” Quentin asked him rudely.

“Oh! Don’t you remember Paul Springer, the son of the Swiss watch-maker?”

“Is that you, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I should have liked it had it been the fat man or one of his friends, so I could have cut him open with my fist.”

“I see that you are just as crazy as ever.”

“I, crazy? I’m one of the few people on this planet in their right senses! Moreover, I have decided to become a man of action. Believe me!”

“I can’t believe anything of you now, my lad. What you ought to do is to put on your coat and go to bed. Come, I’ll go with you.”

Quentin assented, and went home with his friend.

“We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” said the Swiss.

“Yes.”

“Then, until another day.”

They took leave of each other. Quentin remained in his doorway.

“I’m not going in,” he said to himself. “Am I not a man of action? Well, adelante! Where can I go? I’ll go and see Señora Patrocinio. I’ll take a few turns about here until my head is a little clearer....”

He knocked at the house in Los Tejares, and the door was immediately opened to him.

“Ah! Is it you?” said the old woman, as she lifted the candle to see who it was.

“Yes, it is I.”

“Come in.”

The old woman lit the lamp in the same room on the lower floor that Don Gil Sabadía and Quentin had occupied.

“What’s the matter?” asked Señora Patrocinio. “Do you need money?”

“No. Do you, too, wish to offend me?”

“No; I just wanted to give you some.”

“Thanks very much! You are the only person who takes any interest in me—why, I don’t know.... I have come to see you tonight because I am unhappy.”

“I know.... Rafaela is going to get married.”

“And how do you know that that is the reason for my unhappiness?”

“Nothing is secret from me. You liked her, but you will get over it soon. She was fond of you, too.”

“Do you think ...?”

“Yes; but the poor girl had a bad beginning in life, and does well not to get mixed up in adventures; for the majority of men aren’t even worth the trouble of looking in the face. Still, what her sweetheart did was disgraceful. Rafaela was brought up weakly,—too carefully guarded; then she began to grow quite happy, what with taking care of her mother and her betrothal. Then her mother died; her father remarried immediately; in a few months it began to be rumoured that her family was on the verge of ruin, and her sweetheart skipped out. Think of it! The poor abandoned girl began to turn yellow, and thought she was going to die. I believe that she owes her cure to the trouble her younger sister gave her.”

“Yes; I understand that she has no faith in men. Probably I ought not to have paid any attention to the fact,” Quentin added ingenuously. “But won’t this Juan de Dios make her suffer?”

“No. He’s coarse, but good at heart. What are you going to do?”

“I! I don’t know. We live in such a contemptible epoch. If I had been born in Napoleon’s time! God! I’d either be dead by now or else on the road to a generalship.”

“Would you have enlisted with Napoleon?”

“Rather!”

“And would you have fought against your own country?”

“Against the whole world.”

“But not against Spain.”

“Especially against Spain. It would be pretty nice to enter these towns defended by their walls and their conventionalities against everything that is noble and human, and raze them to the ground. To shoot all these flat-nosed, pious fakers and poor quality hidalgos; to set fire to all of the churches, and to violate all the nuns....”

“You’ve been drinking, Quentin.”

“I? I’m as calm as a bean plant, which is the calmest vegetable there is, according to the botanists.”

“You must not talk like that of your native land in front of me.”

“Are you a patriot?”

“With all my heart. Aren’t you?”

“I am a citizen of the world.”

“It seems to me that you’ve been drinking, Quentin.”

“No; believe me.”

“I say this to you,” added the old woman after a long pause, “because for me, this is a solemn moment. I have told no one the story of my life until this moment.”

“The devil! What is she going to tell me?” mumbled Quentin.

“Are you vengeful?” asked the old woman.

“I?”

Quentin was not sure whether he was vengeful or not, but the old woman took his exclamation for one of assent.

“Then you shall avenge me, Quentin, and your family. We are of the same blood. Your grandfather, the Marquis of Tavera, and I are brother and sister.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He doesn’t know that he has a sister living. He thinks I died a long time ago.”

Quentin scrutinized the old woman closely and discovered certain resemblances to the old Marquis.

She pressed Quentin’s hand, and then commenced her story as follows:

“In villages, there are certain families in which hatred is perpetuated through century after century. In cities, after one or two generations, hatred and rivalry are gradually wiped out until they disappear altogether. Not so in the villages: people unconcerned in the quarrel carry the story of it from father to son, present the chapter of insults to different individuals, and go on feeding the flame of rancour when it tends to extinguish itself.

“I was born in a large, highland village, of such an illustrious family as that of Tavera. My mother died young, my older brother went to England, the other to Madrid to take up a diplomatic career, while I remained in the village with my father and two maiden aunts.

“My mother, whom I scarcely knew, was very good, but rather simple; so much so that they say that when the fishes in our pool did not bite, she called in a professional fisherman and gave him a good day’s wages to teach them to do so.

“My family came from an important village in the province of Toledo, near La Puebla, where long ago there used to stand a tower and a castle and various strongholds, which are now nothing but ruins.

“According to my father, a harsh man, proud of his titles and lineage, we came from the oldest nobility, from the conquerors of Cordova, and were related to the whole Andalusian aristocracy: the Baenas, Arjonas, Cordovas, Velascos, and Gúzmans.

“In spite of our ancestry, our family did not enjoy any especial respect from the townspeople on account of the display we made, because our property had diminished somewhat, and also because the new liberal ideas were beginning to make themselves felt.

“My father owned nearly the whole village; he received a contribution from every chimney; he had the only interment chapel in the large church; and a patronage in several smaller churches and hermitages. In spite of the prestige of his lineage and his wealth, every one hated him—justly, I believe, for he was despotic, violent and cruel.

“That was about fifty years ago. My nose did not try to meet my chin then, nor did I lack any teeth; I was a lass worth looking at; graceful as a golden pine, and blonder than a candle. Any one seeing me in those days would have liked to know me! I lived with my father, who used to aim a blow at me every once in a while, and with my aunts, who were busybodies, meddlers, and crazy.

“As I have already said, my father had enemies; some openly avowed, others secret, but who all did the greatest amount of harm they could. Among them, the most powerful was the Count of Doña Mencia, whose family, much more recently come to the village than ours, was slowly acquiring property and power.

“The rivalry between the two houses was increased by a lawsuit which the Doña Mencias won against us, and it grew into a savage hatred when my father committed the offensive act of violating one of the rival family’s little girls.

“The Doña Mencias took the child to Cordova; my father once heard a bullet whistle by his head as he was on his way to a farm—and this was the state of affairs, my family hated by our rivals and by nearly all of the townspeople, when I reached my eighteenth year, with no one to advise me but my aunts.

“I was, as I have said before, very pretty, and attracted attention wherever I went. Even at that age I had already had two or three beaux with whom I used to talk through my window-grating, when the Count of Doña Mencia’s eldest son began to call upon me, and finally to ask for my hand. The whole village was surprised at this; I was disposed to pay no attention to him; moreover, I received several anonymous letters telling me that if I listened to the Count’s son, very disagreeable consequences might arise, because the hatred was still latent between the two families. I was just about decided to refuse him, when my aunts, crazy novel readers that they were, insisted that I ought to listen to him, for the boy’s intentions were honourable, and in this way I could once and for all put an end to the rivalry and hatred.

“My father prided himself upon the fact that he never interfered with what was happening in the family; his only occupations were hunting, drinking, and chasing after farm girls, and if I had consulted him about the affair, he would have sent me harshly about my business.

“So, following my aunts’ advice, I accepted the enemy of our home as a sweetheart, and received him for a year. One time in the garden, which was where we used to see each other, he threw himself upon me and attempted to overpower me; but people came in answer to my cries. My betrothed said that I had foolishly taken fright, as he was only trying to kiss me; I wanted to break the engagement, but instead of breaking off our relations, the affair only hastened the wedding.

“Grand preparations were made, but so sure were the townspeople that my sweetheart would never marry me, that servants, friends, every one, gave me to understand that the wedding would never take place, and that my betrothed would be capable of changing his mind at the very foot of the altar. Thus warned, I attempted to lessen the expense of the wedding, but my aunts tried to convince me not to do such a crazy thing.

“In fine, the day which was as dreaded as it was hoped for, arrived; my betrothed appeared at the church, and the wedding was celebrated. God knows how many hopes I had of being happy. The marriage feast was eaten; the ball was held. The festivities lasted until midnight, when we retired.

“The next morning when I awoke, I looked for my husband at my side, but did not find him. He never appeared all day long; they looked for him, but in vain. Days and days passed, and more days, while I waited for him, fearing an accident rather than an insult. After a long time, I received a mocking letter from him in which he told me that he would never come back to me.

“From that one wedding night, I became pregnant, and on this account suffered much anxiety. My father, in whom the affair had rekindled the anger at the rival family, assured me that he would strangle the child if it were born alive: my aunts did nothing but weep at every turn.

“I was restless; I don’t know whether from pain or what, and gave premature birth at eight months to a dead boy.

“A short time after, my father died of a fall from his horse, the administrator started a lawsuit against us, and took all our property from us; my older brother was travelling, the other was in Rome; I wrote to them, and they did not answer; my aunts took refuge in the house of some relatives, and I went where the will of God took me.

“At first I was in mortal terror, but I soon got used to it, and did everything. I’ve lived like a princess and like a beggar; I’ve intrigued in high circles, and have been an army vivandière. I have been in a battle in the Carlist wars, and have walked among the bullets with the same indifference with which I walk the streets of Cordova today.

“After a while, with the pain I suffered, I forgot everything,—everything except my husband’s infamy, and that of his whole family.

“That family has gone on implacably bringing disgrace to ours. When they killed your father there was a man pursuing him with the soldiers. Do you know who he was? My husband’s son. And his grandson was Rafaela’s sweetheart, the one who left her when he thought she was penniless.

“My husband married again. He is a bigamist, and probably falsified my death certificate. Today he moves in high circles, but the blow he gets from his downfall will be all the greater.”

“What are you thinking of doing?” asked Quentin.

“Of denouncing him. I have not done so before on account of my older brother. I don’t want to bring shame to him in his last days. As for the other brother, I don’t mind; he is an egoist. When the Marquis dies, you’ll see what I shall do. If I die before he does, you will avenge me. Will you, Quentin?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I want. Your word is enough. Ask me for whatever you want, and come to see me.”

Señora Patrocinio kissed Quentin’s cheek, and he left the house confounded.

“Now,” he murmured, “this woman turns out to be the sister of a marquis, married to a count, and my aunt. And she wants us to avenge ourselves. Why then let’s do so ... or let’s not. It’s all the same to me. You know your plan, Quentin,” he said to himself. “Who are you?” he asked himself, and immediately replied, “You are a man of action. Very good!”

CHAPTER XVII

“I AM A LITTLE CATILINE”

In that meeting one gleefully flayed one’s neighbour. Amid jests and laughter, flagellated by jovial satire, every person of significance in the town marched in review, either on account of their merits or their vices, their stupidity or their wit. If one believed what was told there, the city was a hot-bed of imbroglios, obscenities, wild escapades.

Among the members of aristocratic families there was a multitude of alcoholics and diseased individuals; the rotten produce of vicious living and consanguineous marriages. In these families there were a great many men who seemed to be obsessed with the idea of going through their fortunes, of ruining themselves quickly; others travelled the road to ruin without meaning to, through the robbery of their administrators and usurers; the majority were simply idiots; the clever ones, the clear-sighted ones, went to Madrid to play politics, leaving the old ancestral homes completely dismantled.

The scandals of the masses were mixed with those of the aristocracy; and the ingenuous jests of the charcoal-burners, and the dissolute wit of the Celestinas, were repeated and applauded with relish.

They spoke, too, and constantly, of the bandits of the Sierra; they knew who their protectors were in and out of Cordova, where their hiding-places were: and this friendship with bandits was not looked upon as a disgrace, but rather as something that constituted, if not a glorious achievement, at least a spicy and piquant attraction for the town.

“The gangs are organized in the very jail itself, while the bandits walk about the city.”

“But, is that true?” asked some horrified stranger.

“Everything you hear is,” they told him with a laugh. “Even the abductions of Malaga and Seville are planned here.”

“And why don’t you put an end to the evil?”

When the Cordovese heard this he smiled at the stranger, and added that in Cordova they had never looked upon the horsemen as an evil.

While the aristocrats and plebeians gave food for gossip, the middle class worked: lawyers, priests, and merchants enriched themselves, conducted their business, while a cloud of citizens from Soria fell like locusts upon the town, and took possession of the money and lands of the old, wealthy families by means of their evil skill at money-lending and usury.

One evening in the early part of autumn, several gentlemen were chatting in one of the salons of the Casino. They were members of the early coterie. Some were reading newspapers, and others were talking, seated upon divans, or walking to and fro.

Springer, the Swiss watch-maker’s son, had come in to read a newspaper, and as he read, he heard them talking about his friend Quentin, whom he had not seen for some time. He listened attentively.

“But is it true he has come into some money?” asked a stout, red-faced gentleman with a grey moustache.

“I don’t know,” answered a bald-headed man with a black beard. “He undoubtedly has money. They say that he has bought a house for María Lucena.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Quentin is a child of good luck,” added another.

“I should say he is,” responded he of the black beard. “Lucky at cards, and lucky at love.”

“Couldn’t the Marquis have given him some money?” asked the stout gentleman.

“The Marquis! He hasn’t a penny.”

“But where does the boy get his money?”

“I don’t know—unless he steals it.”

“But that would be found out.”

The members of the coterie were all silent for a moment while the stout gentleman took a short nap; then he said:

“Do you know if that paper that has just been published is his?”

“What paper? La Víbora?” asked he of the bald head.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, they say it is.”

“It strikes me that that paper is owned by the Masons.”

“Oh, but don’t you know that Quentin is a Mason?” said a small, dark man with a black moustache.

“Really?” asked every one at once.

“Yes, indeed. I know it for a fact; he joined the Lodge this summer.”

“Perhaps he makes his living from that,” said the fat gentleman.

“No one makes a living from that,” replied the short man with a laugh. “It occurred to me when I was a student in Madrid to become a Mason, and do you know what happened? They carried me about from one place to another with my eyes bandaged, and ended by taking five dollars away from me.”

Every one laughed. At this point a young man entered and stretched out in an arm chair with an air of deep gloom.

“What’s up, Manolillo?” asked the bald-headed man.

“Nothing. Quentin is upstairs plucking everybody. If he quits in time, he’s going to come out ahead; if he stays in, he may lose everything.”

As Springer, who heard this, was a man of good intentions and a loyal friend, he arose, threw his paper upon the table, left the salon, went through a gallery paved with marble, up a flight of stairs, and entered the gambling hall.

Quentin was dealing; he had a pile of bills and gold coins before him. Springer went up to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. Quentin turned.

“What is it?”

“I come,” said Springer in a low voice, “to give you the advice of a gambler who just left here completely plucked. He said that if you quit in time, you’ll come out ahead; if you stay in, you may lose everything.”

“Really?” exclaimed Quentin, rising, as if he had just received important news. “Well, then, the only thing I can do is to leave. Gentlemen,” he added, addressing the players, “I shall return in a little while,” and placing the bills in his folder, he rapidly picked up the gold coins.

A murmur of indignation arose among the players.

“Come!” said Quentin to Springer.

They left the hall rapidly, descended the stairs, and did not stop until they had reached the street.

“But, what has happened to you?” the Swiss asked, utterly surprised.

“Nothing; it was a stratagem,” answered Quentin with a smile. “I could not find the right moment to leave decorously. They were all after me like dogs; and there I was boasting like a man to whom four or five thousand dollars more or less are of little importance. They would have gone up in smoke soon.”

By the light of a lamp, Quentin pulled out a handful of bills, sorted them, and put them into a folder; and then, unbuttoning first his coat, and then his vest, he put them in his inside pocket.

“Aren’t you afraid something may happen to you in the street?” asked the Swiss.

“Ca!”

“Do you know that you are the talk of the town, Quentin?”

“Am I?”

“Really. Besides, you have a tremendous reputation.”

“As what?”

“As a Tenorio, a dare-devil, a gambler, and a Mason.”

Quentin burst out laughing.

“I heard in the Casino here,” Springer went on, “that you were not living at home any more, but with an actress.”

“That’s true.”

“Have you quarrelled with your family?”

“Yes; I got angry and left my stepfather. Usurers disgust me.”

“It also seems that you have received a legacy from some relation or other of yours. Is that true?”

“Boy, I don’t know,” said Quentin ingenuously. “I’ve invented so many things, that now I don’t know which is the truth and which is a lie.” Then, turning melancholy, he added, “The trouble with me is that I am out of my element. I’m a Northerner.”

“You!” said Springer; and he began to laugh so heartily that Quentin joined him.

“What are you laughing at?”

“At how well I know you. So you are a Northerner. What a faker you are!... What shocks me is that you have become a Mason. That’s absurd.”

“Yes; it’s absurd to you and me, but it isn’t to many people.”

“Where is your Lodge?”

“In the Calle del Cister, near the Calle del Silencio. Would you like to come?”

“What for?”

“Man, we’ll baptize you anew; we’ll call you Cato, Robespierre, Spartacus....”

“I don’t believe it’s worth while....”

“As you wish.”

“Your Masonry disgusts me.”

“It is ridiculous, but it serves for something: it is useful for propaganda.”

“What propaganda are you putting forward?”

“Just now I am a Federal Republican.”

Springer burst out laughing again.

“You’re a Federal Republican! Like my countrymen, the Swiss.”

“You think it’s funny?”

“Very, my lad. You couldn’t live if you went to Switzerland.”

“Well, then, there I would be a Monarchist. I am nothing at heart. I am a man of action who needs money and complications in order to live. Do you know what name they have given me at the Lodge?”

“What?”

“Catiline. They have hit the nail on the head. I am a little Catiline. What an admirable chap was that Tribune of the people! Eh? I am very enthusiastic about him.”

“Then, Cicero would seem despicable to you.”

“Ah! absolutely despicable. Charlatan, pedant, coward ... in other words—he was a lawyer.”

“Listen,” said the Swiss. “They told me another and more serious thing: that you are the one who edits that newspaper, La Víbora. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the author of those very violent satires?”

“Not the author; the inspirer. Catiline turned libeller?... It would be unworthy of him.”

“But don’t you realize that you are exposing yourself to a very serious danger?”

“Ca! Don’t you believe it. Men are more cowardly than they seem. Moreover, I am defended by a lot of people; first by those who rejoice over and enjoy the satires—as long as they are not directed against themselves; second, by my friends, of whom the majority are very powerful people; third and last, and this is what I place most confidence in, I am defended by these fists, and because I don’t give a fig for anybody.”

“Well, you certainly are acting without scruple or conscience.”

“Is it worth while to live otherwise? I believe not.”

“Man alive! That depends upon the way one looks at it.”

“That’s the way I look at it. The spectacle is dangerous, but amusing. Well? Are you coming to the Lodge?”

“What for?”

“You will hear several orators declaim their speeches, and I shall present you to Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, Master Surgeon and Master Mason. If you wish I’ll make a speech in your honour on human liberty. It is a discourse which I have learned by heart, and which, with a few trifling changes, I turn loose on all occasions, making it seem different each time.”

“The plan does not tempt me.”

“Then if you don’t wish to go to the Lodge, I shall take you to the tavern in the Calle del Bodegoncillo.”

“What are you going to do there?”

“I’m going to pay my retinue. Then I shall present you to Pacheco.”

“To which Pacheco? To the bandit?”

“The same. He is my lieutenant.”

“The devil! Shall I be safe with you?”

“Yes; safer than if you were with the Alcalde.”

“But you keep very bad company.”

“Whom do you mean by that? Pacheco? Pacheco is an unfortunate chap. Ask any one, and they will tell you that he was forced to take to the mountain merely on account of a rooster.”

“Was that all?”

“That was all. On account of a rooster called Tumbanavíos or Tumbalobos, I don’t exactly remember which. Pacheco used to go to the cock-fighting ring in the Calle de las Doblas, and one day he got mixed up in an argument with a fellow as to the relative merits of two fighting-cocks ... and, well, they had words. Pacheco stuck a knife into the fellow, with bad results, and left him cold.... A man’s affair!” added Quentin resignedly.

“Then one of those sergeants of the guardia civil who like to stick their noses into everything, insisted upon hunting Pacheco. He gave chase to him and caught up to him; but Pacheco, seeing that the game was about up, and remembering the words of Quevedo: that it is better to be ahead by a blow in the face than by all Castile, discharged his fowling-piece at the guard. This also had bad results, for he blew his skull open and sent him to join the other fellow.”

The Swiss applauded the story, laughing quietly.

“And is that chap from this city?” he asked.

“I think he is from Ecija or thereabouts.”

“What kind of a man is he?”

“A good fellow.”

“Does he hurt any one in the country?”

“No. He appears at a farmhouse and asks the operator for a loan of ten or twelve dollars, and the operator gives it to him. He’s a good man.”

“Is he in Cordova now?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t they arrest him?”

“They don’t dare. Don’t you see that I am protecting him?”

The Swiss looked at his friend, whom he admired deep down in his heart, and murmured again and again:

“My, what a faker!”

“It has been my custom to invite him to dine with me in the Café Puzzini and in the Rizzi Tavern,” added Quentin, “and no one has dared to interfere with him.”

Conversing in this manner, they had come out upon Las Tendillas, and were going up the Calle de Gondomar toward the Paseo del Gran Capitán. They walked past San Nicolás de la Villa, and followed the Calle de la Concepción toward the Puerta de Gallegos.

A strong breeze was blowing which made the blinds and windows rattle noisily.

“Where is that tavern?” asked Springer.

“Right here,” answered Quentin. “This is the Calle del Niño Perdido, a sort of cul-de-sac; it is not ours. This other is the Calle de los Ucedas; nor is that the one we are looking for, either.”

They walked on a few paces.

“This is the Calle del Bodegoncillo,” said Quentin, “and here is the tavern.”