The city of the discreet

CHAPTER XXVI

EXPLANATIONS

“But if you don’t want my money, what do you want? Tell me, and let us bring this affair to a close at once.”

“That is a secret that does not belong to me.”

“But, sir,” exclaimed the woman—“I’ll give you anything you want if you will only take me home.”

At this moment a flash of lightning violently illumined the night, and the Countess and Quentin were enabled to see each other’s faces in the spectral light. Then came a thunderclap as loud as a cannon shot.

“Oh, my God!” gasped the Countess as she devoutly crossed herself.

Quentin felt a tremor run through him at the sight of the woman’s terror, and said to her:

“My dear lady, do not let us cause you any alarm. Please rest assured that we have no intention of harming you. I rather think that the man on the box is some gentleman who is in love with you, and not being able in any other way to attain good fortune, is abducting you in this manner.”

Quentin’s accent, his gallant meaning in those circumstances must have surprised the Countess, as she made no answer.

“Don’t you think so?” said Quentin. “Don’t you believe that this is a matter of some one courting you?”

“It’s a fine way to court,” she replied.

“All ways are good if they come out right.”

“Do you believe that this method of treating a lady can come out right?”

“Why not? Other more difficult things have been seen in the world, and they do say that women like the novel.”

“Well, I don’t like it a bit.”

“Are you so prosaic that you are not enchanted by the thought of meeting soon a young, good-looking, respectful abductor who offers you his heart and life?”

“No, I am not enchanted. What is more, if I could send that abductor to prison I would do so with much pleasure.”

“You know that love is intrepid and....”

Quentin was silent. He thought of the poem written by Cornejo for La Víbora.

“I don’t know why,” said the woman at length, “but it seems to me that I am beginning to realize who my abductor is. It strikes me that he is a half-relative of mine who dislikes me very much. A waif....”

“I think you are getting warm, my lady.”

“Who writes insults and calumnies about a woman who has never offended him.”

“You are not quite so near the point, there. Listen: The day before yesterday, that relative of yours was rushing madly about these God-forsaken streets, hounded by a dozen men; on a night that was as cold as the devil, he was on the point of throwing himself into the river and scraping an acquaintance with the shad that live in it.”

“So you are Quentin?”

“I am the lady’s most humble servant.”

“How you frightened me! I shall never forgive you for this night.”

“Nor will I forgive you for the one I spent the day before yesterday.”

“Where is my coachman? Is he on the box?”

“No, my lady.”

“Where is he?”

“He is conveniently drunk in a tavern on the Calle del Potro.”

“Then who is driving the carriage?”

“Pacheco.”

“Pacheco! The bandit?”

“In person. In all ways a gentleman, and whom I shall have the pleasure of presenting to you tonight as soon as we reach the farm where we are to stop.”

“What are you two going to do with me there?”

“We shall think it over.”

“I believe you intend to kill me....”

“Kill you?—Nothing of the sort. We shall entertain you; you will take rides over the mountain; you’ll get a trifle brown—Besides, we are doing you a great favour.”

“Doing me a favour? What is it?”

“Keeping you from answering that little toreador who had the presumption to send you a note.”

“To send me a note?”

“Yes, my lady; you. As you came out of the theatre. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“It must be true if you saw it.”

“Of course it is! In the first place, that toreador is a stupid good-for-nothing who would go about boasting that you looked upon him with sympathy, and that....”

“Enough, or I’ll even have to thank you for bringing me here.”

“And it’s true.”

The Countess was growing calmer and less timid with every minute.

“How many days are you going to keep me kidnapped?” she asked rather jovially.

“As many as you wish. When you get too bored, we’ll take you back to Cordova. Then, if you still bear us a grudge, you may denounce us.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, then you will permit us to come to call some day.”

“We’ll see how you act.”

Just then the carriage stopped. Quentin prepared to get down, and said to the woman:

“I don’t know what Pacheco wants. Perhaps he’s tired of riding on the box.”

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” murmured the Countess.

“Never fear; Pacheco is absolutely a gentleman, and will take no undue liberties....”

“That makes no difference.”

“Then I shall tell him of your wish. If you want to be alone, tell me, and I’ll ride on the box.”

“No, no: I prefer you to ride with me.”

Pacheco jumped down from the box, and coming up to Quentin, said:

“It seems to me that I have done my duty like a man, and that it’s your turn to take my place on the box.”

“That’s what I think. Come, I’m going to present you to the Countess.”

Quentin opened the carriage door and said:

“Countess, this is my friend.”

“Good evening, Pacheco.”

“A very good evening to you, my lady.”

“How tired you are making yourselves on my account!”

“Señora Condesa!” stammered the bandit in confusion.

“You are very nice,” she added graciously.

“You are most flattering,” replied Pacheco.

“No; you two are the flatterers!”

“But are you sorry, my lady?” asked Pacheco gravely.

“I!—On the contrary; I am having a very good time.”

“That’s better, my lady. You mustn’t be afraid; if you order me to, we’ll go back this minute.”

The Countess considered for a moment, and then cried gayly:

“No; let us go on. We’ll go wherever you wish. You stay with me, Quentin, for I want to talk to you.”

Again Pacheco climbed to the box, clucked to the horses, and the carriage went on its way. It was beginning to clear up; here and there a patch of star-sprinkled sky appeared between the great, black clouds.

“He seems like a fine fellow,” said the Countess, who was now completely at her ease, when she and Quentin were alone.

“Do not deceive yourself; there are only two places where true gentlemen can be found: in the mountains, or in prison.”

“How awful!” she cried.

“That is the way the two extremes meet,” he went on. “When a man is a great, a very great rascal, and utterly disregards the ideas of the people and everything else, he has reached the point where the bandit is joining hands with the gentleman.”

“See here, Sir Bandit,” said the Countess easily, “why did you take this dislike to me, and put me in the papers? Because I said that Rafaela was a hussy, and that she had married Juan de Dios for his money?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Did I not speak the truth?”

“It is true that she married; but it was not because she wished it, nor because she was ambitious to be rich, but because the family made her.”

“You should laugh at that idea, my friend!” replied the Countess. “Not that the girl isn’t docile! When a woman does not care to marry a man, she simply doesn’t marry him.... Of course, you were after her cash.”

“I?—Ca!”

“I don’t know why, but I think I see through you. You are very ambitious, and with all those foolish deeds of yours, you are only trying to fish for something. You cannot deceive me.”

“Well, you are wrong,” said Quentin. “I, ambitious? I covet nothing.”

“Tell that to your grandfather, not to me. You are very ambitious, and she is a very romantic damsel, but very close with her money. If you two had married, a fine disappointment you would have had!... And she liked you, believe me; but as you were not a marquis, or a duke, but a poor son of a shop-keeper, she would have nothing to do with you.”

Quentin felt deeply mortified by the phrase, and fell silent. Presently she burst into gracious laughter.

“What are you laughing at?” said Quentin, piqued.

“With all your boasting, you are worth less than I am: all your cravings are for things that are not worth while. I don’t mind it in the least when they call me La Aceitunera, but you, on the other hand, are utterly cast down because I called you the son of a shop-keeper.”

“Yes, that’s true,” assented Quentin ingenuously.

“And why is it true, my friend?” asked the Countess. “Why, we of the proletariat are worth more than dukes and marquises, with all their ceremonies and fripperies. Where is the salt of the earth? Among the masses.... Why am I what I am? Because I married that bell-ox of an uncle of yours. The ambitions of my family annoyed me; they filled my head with titles and grandeurs; it’s one and the same thing whether you are a duke’s son, or the daughter of an olive merchant like me, or the son of an importer, like you.”

The Countess was growing in Quentin’s eyes. The sincere contempt that she felt for aristocratic things, seemed to him to be a stroke of superiority. As far as the question of birth, and family, and social position was concerned, Quentin was peevishly susceptible; and though he concealed these sentiments as best he could, they were often clearly apparent in him.

The Countess realized that this was one of Quentin’s vulnerable spots, and took delight in wounding him.

“They must sell a great many things in that store. It is a beautiful shop, very large and....”

“My dear lady,” said Quentin comically, when the annoyance that the woman’s words cost him commenced to take on an ironical and gay character—“You are very sarcastic, but I realize that you have a right to be.”

“So, you realize it?”

“Yes, my lady; and if you keep it up, I shall beg Pacheco to take my place in this delicate mission.”

“I will not allow you to leave me,” said the Countess mockingly.

“Well, if this turns out to be a long journey, I shall be found dead on the bottom of the coach.”

“Dead! From what, Quentin?”

“From the pin pricks you are giving me right square in the heart. You are about to remind me for the fifth time that the chocolate we make in the store is adulterated.... I know you are.”

“No, I’ve said nothing about it.”

“Then you are going to talk to me about the coffee which is mixed with chicory, and then, eventually, and in order to complete the offence, you will bring my step-father’s nickname before my eyes.”

“El Pende—that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lady that is what they call him.”

“Well, to show you that I am more generous than you think me, I shall not mention it again. Henceforth you shall guard the secret of my olives, as I will guard the secret of your spices. Tell me: Is it true that you have a good voice?”

“For Heaven’s sake! What are you trying to do, my lady? Have pity and compassion on a poor little chap like me.”

“Go on, please sing.”

Quentin hummed the swaggering song from “Rigoletto”:

“But sing out loud,” said the Countess.

Quentin sang with his full voice:

And this last phrase, which Quentin launched forth with real enthusiasm, echoed in the damp and tepid night air....

“Is that a song of circumstances?” said the Countess with a laugh.

“Yes, my lady,” answered Quentin, without fully understanding what she meant.

“Listen ... another thing. Why don’t you make love to Remedios?”

“To Remedios! She is only a child.”

“She’s fourteen. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“That’s just right.”

“Yes, but how about the groceries?”

“She would overlook that. Believe me, that child has a soul. My husband’s older daughter is good, I won’t deny it, but she is a cold thing. Just as she married Juan de Dios, she would have married any one, and she will be faithful to him, as she would to any one else, because she hasn’t the courage to do otherwise; but not so with the little one, she’s full of it.”

Quentin recalled the two sisters and thought that perhaps the Countess was right. With the memory, he fell silent for a long time.

“Well,” said the Countess, “if you continue this silence, it will seem as if I were the one who is abducting you, and that doesn’t suit me. Why, just think if one of those verse-scribbling penny-a-liners should find out about this! They would paint me green.”

“I’ll not say another thing against you, my lady, because....”

“Because why, my friend? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing; I’ll say that you are one of the most....”

“One of the most what?”

“One of the most—but here we are at the farm.”

And Quentin opened the carriage door.

“I thought you were a braver man than that,” said the Countess.

The carriage stopped and Quentin jumped to the muddy road. It was beginning to rain again.

“Can’t you get the carriage closer to the house?” Quentin asked Pacheco.

“Take hold of the bridle of one of the horses. That’s it.”

“Shall I knock here?”

“Knock away.”

Quentin gave two resounding knocks.

Several minutes passed, and no one appeared at the door.

“Knock again,” said Pacheco.

Quentin did so, adorning his blows with a noisy tattoo.

“Coming! Coming!” came a voice from within.

They saw a beam of light in the door jamb; then the wicket opened and a man appeared with a lantern in his hand.

“It’s I, Tío Frasquito,” said Pacheco. “I have some friends with me.”

“Good evening, Señor José and company,” said the man.

“Is the ground impossible?” inquired the Countess from the inside of the carriage.

“Yes, it’s very muddy,” replied Quentin.

“How can I get out in these white slippers? I’m done for.”

“Would you like me to carry you in my arms?” said Quentin.

“No, sir.”

Then Pacheco, who had climbed down from the box, removed his cloak, seized it as if he were about to tease a bull with it, and with a flourish spread it out upon the damp earth from the step of the carriage to the door of the house.

“There! Now you can get out.”

The Countess, smiling and holding up her silk dress, walked across the cloak in her white shoes, and quickly entered the vestibule.

“Long live my Queen!” cried Pacheco, carried away by his enthusiasm. “And hurrah for all valiant women!”

It began to pour.

“What will poor Doña Sinda do?” said Quentin.

“Who is Doña Sinda?” asked Pacheco.

“The woman we left out on the roof. She must be soup by this time.”

CHAPTER XXVII

IN WHICH A COUNTESS, A PROFESSIONAL BANDIT, AND A MAN OF ACTION HAVE A TALK

The Countess had made friends at the farm. Late in the afternoon she would take her sewing to the door, and, sitting in the shade, would work among the women of the house. They told her about their lives and their troubles, and she listened with great interest. Quentin and Pacheco used to join the group and chat until the farm bell signalled the labourers, and night fell, and the flocks of goats returned with a great tinkling of bells.

The labourers’ children used to play in front of the doorway; three of them had made friends with the Countess. They were three children who had been left motherless; Miguel, the eldest, was seven, Dolores, the second, was five, and Carmen, the third, was three.

The eldest was very lively, already a little rascal; the second had a tangled mass of blond hair, sad, blue eyes, and a sun-burned face; she wore one of her father’s vests, a dirty apron, stockings around her ankles, and a pair of huge shoes. The littlest one spent hour after hour with her finger thrust into her mouth.

These three children, accustomed to being alone, were content to play with each other; they played around, striking and throwing each other about the ground, and never cried.

“She bosses ’em all,” said one of the old wives to the Countess, pointing to the second child.

“Poor girl. What is your name?”

“Dolores.”

The Countess looked at the child, who lowered her eyes.

“Would you like to come with me, Dolores?” she asked.

“No.”

“I’ll give you pretty dresses, dolls—Will you come?”

“No.”

The Countess kissed the girl, and every afternoon the three children came, waiting for her to give them some money....

“Look there,” said the Countess to Quentin, pointing to a hen that was strutting along the barnyard with her still featherless chicks—“I envy her.”

“Do you?” asked Quentin. “You are more romantic than I thought you were.”

“Romantic, my friend? Why? That is Truth, Nature.”

“Ah! But do you believe in the goodness of Nature?”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I do not. Nature is a farce.”

“You are the farce!” said the Countess. “I could never live with a man like you, Quentin.”

“Couldn’t you?”

“No. If I had married you, we would have ended badly.”

“Would we have beaten each other?”

“Probably.”

“Look here; two things would have pleased me,” replied Quentin. “To allow myself to be struck by you would have been magnificent, but to give you a drubbing would also have been good.”

“Would you have dared?” said the Countess with a slight flush in her cheeks, and her eyes shining.

“Yes, if I were your husband,” answered Quentin calmly.

“Don’t pay any attention to this fellow,” said Pacheco, “for all that is just idle fancy.”

Pacheco manifested a respectful enthusiasm toward the Countess, but at times he wondered if Quentin, with his wild ideas and outbursts, might not interest the Countess more....

... And as they chatted, the afternoon advanced; the sun poured down, its reflected rays were blinding as they fell on stones and bushes; and the air, quivering in the heat, made the outlines of the mountain and the distant landscape tremble.

“Would you like to take a ride, my lady?” said Pacheco.

“Yes, indeed.”

“Shall I saddle your horse?”

“Fine!”

The Countess mounted, followed by Pacheco and Quentin, and the three made their way toward the top of the mountain by a broad path that ran between stout evergreens.

It was late Autumn; the days were sweltering, but as soon as the sun set, the air became very refreshing.

The mountain was splendid that afternoon. The dry, clean air was so transparent that it made even the most distant objects seem near; the trees were turning yellow and shedding their dried leaves; the harvested meadows had not yet begun to turn green. In the highways and byways, brambles displayed their black fruit, and the dog-rose bushes their carmine berries among their thorny branches.

“What are you thinking of doing, Quentin? What have you up your sleeve?” asked the Countess suddenly.

“Everybody knows,” replied Pacheco—“that he’s a lively fish.”

“Ca, man,” answered Quentin. “Why, I’m an unhappy wretch. Just now, I admit, I am capable of doing anything to get money and live well.”

“He contradicts himself at every turn!” exclaimed the Countess, somewhat irritated. “I’m beginning to disbelieve everything he says; whether he tells me that he is bad, or whether he assures me that he is unhappy.”

“You see I’m not to be classified by common standards. One half of me is good, and the other half bad. Sometimes it seems as if I were a demagogue, and I turn out to be a reactionary. I have all sorts of humility and all sorts of arrogance within me. For example, if you were to say to me tomorrow: ‘By selling all the inhabitants of Cordova into slavery, you can make a fortune,’ I would sell them.”

“A lie!” replied the Countess. “You would not sell them.”

“No, I would not sell them if you told me not to.”

“Really, now!”

“Do you know what I used to think of doing when I was in England?” said Quentin.

“What?” asked Pacheco.

“Of putting up a money box. You must have seen one of them in Madrid, I think in the Calle del Fuencarral; people throw lots of money into it. Well, I saw it on my way through the city, and in school I was always thinking: ‘When I get to Spain, I’m going to set up four or five money boxes, and take all the money that’s thrown into them.’”

“What ideas you do have!” said the Countess.

“I have always thought that the first thing to do was to get rich.”

“Why not work?”

“One can never make one’s self rich by working. I have two aphorisms that rule my life; they are: first, be it yours or another’s, you will never get on without money; second, laziness has always its reward, and work its punishment.”

“You are a faker, and one cannot talk to you,” said the Countess. “What about you, Pacheco?”

“He? Why, he’s another romanticist,” replied Quentin.

“Really?” asked the woman.

“Yes, somewhat,” replied the bandit with a sigh.

“Some fine day,” added Quentin, “you will hear that Pacheco has done something either very foolish, or very heroic.”

“May God hear you,” murmured the bandit.

“Do you see?”

“Isn’t it better to do something famous, than to live in a hole like a toad all your life?”

“What would you like to do?” asked the Countess with curiosity.

“I?—Take part in a battle; lead it if possible.”

“Then you want to be a soldier.”

“You mean a general,” interrupted Quentin with a laugh.

“And why not, if he has good luck?”

“What does one need to be a general?” asked Pacheco. “To have a soul, to be valiant, and to be ready to give up your life every minute.”

“And furthermore, to have a career,” replied Quentin ironically ... “to have good recommendations.”

“But you always look upon everything as small and niggardly!” exclaimed the bandit hotly.

“And you, my friend, hope to encounter great and strong things in a mean society. You are deceived.”

Pacheco and Quentin fell silent, and the Countess contemplated the two men as they rode quietly along....

It was late afternoon. The dry earth, warmed by the sun, exhaled the aroma of rosemary and thyme and dried grass. Upon the round summit of the mountain, trees, bushes, rocks, stood out in minutest detail in the diaphanous air.

The sun was sinking. The naked rocks, the thickets of heather and furze, were reddened as if on the point of bursting into flame. Here and there among the yellow foliage of the trees, appeared the white and smiling walls of farmhouses....

Soon night began to fall; bands of deep violet crept along the hillsides; one could hear in the distance the crowing of cocks and the tinkling of bells, which sounded louder than usual in that peaceful twilight; the air was tranquil, the sky azure.... Herds of cattle spread over the fields, which were covered with dry bushes; and along the damp pathways, bordered by huge, grey century-plants, a torrent of sheep and goats flowed, followed by their shepherd and his great, gentle-eyed, white mastiff.

When they returned to the farmhouse, Tío Frasquito said to Pacheco:

“We have been waiting for you.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“They just baptized a baby in the farm next to ours, and are having a little dance. If you people would like to go....”

“Shall we go?” Pacheco asked the Countess.

“Why not?”

“Then we’ll have supper right away, and be there in a moment.”

They ate their supper; and on foot and well cloaked, as it was rather cool, they walked along paths and across fields to the neighbouring farm.

As they drew near, they could hear the murmur of conversation and the strumming of a guitar. The entryway in which the fiesta was being celebrated was large and very much whitewashed. It had a wide, open space in the centre, with two columns; suspended from the beams of the ceiling, were two big lamps, each with three wicks. Seated upon benches and rope chairs were several young girls, old women, sun-blackened men, and children who had come to witness the baptism.

In the centre was a space left free for the dancers. Seated near a small table, which held a jug and a glass, an old man was strumming a guitar, a man with a face and side-whiskers that just begged for a gun.

The entrance of the Countess and her escorts was greeted with loud acclaim; one of the farm hands asked, and it was not easy to tell whether in jest or in all seriousness, if that lady was the Queen of Spain.

The caretaker of the farm, after installing the three guests in the most conspicuous place, brought them some macaroons and glasses of white wine.

Boleras and fandangos alternated, and between times they drank all the brandy and wine they wanted. The Countess went to see the mother of the baptized child.

“Aren’t you going to dance, Pacheco?” asked Quentin.

“Are you?”

“Man alive, I’m not graceful enough. I’ll play the guitar. You ask the Countess to dance with you.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Do you want me to ask her for you?”

“Good idea.”

Quentin did so when she returned. She burst out laughing.

“Well, will you do it?”

“Of course, man.”

“Hurrah for all valiant women. Ladies and gentlemen,” said Quentin, turning to the bystanders, “the Señora is going to dance with Pacheco; I shall play the guitar, and I want the best singer here to stand by me.”

Quentin sat in the chair where the old man had been, and near him stood a little dark-haired girl with large eyes. He tuned the guitar, turning one key and then another, and then began a devilish preparatory flourish. Little by little this uncouth flourish grew smoother, changing into a handling of the strings that was finesse itself.

“Go ahead,” cried Quentin. “Now for the little highlander!”

The Countess arose laughing heartily, with her arms held high; Pacheco, very serious, also arose and stood before her. An old woman, a mistress of the art, began to click her castanets with a slow rhythm.

“Girlie,” said Quentin to the singer, “let’s hear what you can do.”

In almost a whisper, the girl sang:

The dancers made their start rather languidly.

The girl went on:

The dancers were a little more lively in the “parade,” the castanets clicked louder, and the high, treble voice of the girl increased in volume:

This last phrase, which was somewhat sad, was accompanied by a ferocious sound of castanets, as if the player wished to make the dancers forget the melancholy of the song.

The girl went on:

Then the castanets clicked wildly, while all the bystanders cheered the dancers on. Pacheco pursued his partner with open arms, and she seemed to provoke him and to flee from him, keeping out of his reach when he was about to conquer her. In these changes and movements, the Countess’ skirts swished back and forth and folded about her thighs, outlining her powerful hips. The whole room seemed filled with an effluvia of life.

Quentin enthusiastically continued to strum the guitar. The singer had offered him a glass of white wine, and without ceasing to play, he had stretched out his lips and drained it.

The dance was repeated several times, until the dancers, worn out, sat down.

“Splendid! Magnificent!” exclaimed Quentin with tears in his eyes.

Suddenly the little girl who had sung told him she was going.

“Why?”

“Because some joker is going to put out the lights.”

Quentin put down the guitar and went over to the Countess.

“You’d better go,” he told her, “they are going to put out the lights.”

She got up, but did not have time to go out. Two big youths put out the lamps with one blow, and the entryway was left in darkness. Quentin led the Countess to a corner, and stood ready to protect her in case there was need. There was a bedlam of shrill shrieks from the women, and laughter, and voices, and all started for the door which was purposely barred. Quentin felt the Countess by his side, palpitant.

“That’ll do,” said the landlord, “that’s enough of the joke,” and he relit the lamps.

The fiesta became normal once more, and soon after, all began to file out.

The following was the day fixed upon for the departure. Pacheco had, as he said, reasons for not going to Cordova, so he did not go. Quentin sat upon the box and drove off with the Countess. At nightfall, they were on the Cuesta de Villaviciosa. From that height, by the light of the half-hidden sun, they could see Cordova; very flat, very extensive, among fields of yellow stubble and dark olive orchards. A slight mist rose from the river bed. In the distance, very far away, rose the high and sharp-peaked Sierra of Granada.

Carts were returning along the road, jolting and shaking; they could hear the Moorish song of the carters who were stretched out upon sacks, or skins of olive oil; riders on proud horses passed them, seated upon cowboy saddles, their shawls across their saddle bows, and their guns at their sides....

When they entered Cordova, night had already fallen; the sky was sprinkled with stars; on either side of the road, which now ran between the houses, great, many-armed century plants shone in the darkness.

Quentin drove the carriage to the Countess’ palace, and jumped from the box, much to the astonishment of the porter.

“Good-bye, my lady,” said he, holding out his hand and assisting her from the carriage.

“Good-bye, Quentin,” she said rather sadly.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MASON’S MESSAGE

“Yes. They told me that there had been a dispute between a young chap and a vile man who had insulted me. I asked Cornejo, the fellow who writes topical songs for the musical comedies, who my defender was, and he said: ‘I’ll show him to you.’ Every night I asked him: ‘Who is he? Who is he?’—but he never showed up. After awhile I got impatient and said to Cornejo: ‘Look here; you tell your friend that I want to meet him, that if he doesn’t come to the theatre, to go to my house, and that I live near here in a boarding house called Mariquita’s House.’ Would you believe it? There I was, waiting day after day, and he never showed up!”

“You must have been indignant,” said Springer.

“Naturally! I said: ‘If he doesn’t know me, why did he defend me? And if he does know me, why doesn’t he come to see me?’”

“How did you get to meet him finally?”

“You’ll see; one day Cornejo came in here with Quentin, and introduced him to me as the man who had insulted me and had been struck by my defender. I said a lot of outrageous and insulting things to him, and just then a friend of his came in and greeted him with a ‘Hello, Quentin!’ Then I realized that he was my defender and we made friends.”

“Yes, he’s very fond of those farces.”

“Why did he do it? I can’t understand that man.”

“Nor does he understand himself, probably; but he’s a good fellow.”

At the very second that the Swiss was saying these words, Quentin entered the café, looked about him indifferently and came up to the table at which María Lucena and Springer were seated.

When she saw him, María suddenly turned red.

“Ah! So you’ve come at last!” she cried angrily. “Where have you been?”

“If you had had your way, my dear, I would have been in prison.”

“That’s where you ought to be always. Thief! May a nasty viper sting you! Tell me, what have you been doing all these days?”

“Why, I’ve been on a farm, hiding from the police.”

“I’m likely to believe that! You’ve been with a woman.”

The procedure of extracting the truth with a lie produced results, for Quentin said candidly:

“Where did you find that out?”

“You see, it’s the truth! And now you are tired of her and have come back here. Well, son, you can clear out; for there’s no more meat on the hook for lack of a cat, and I want nothing more to do with you. I have more than enough men who are better than you are, who have more money than you have, and more heart.”

“I don’t deny it,” replied Quentin coldly.

“Ah! You don’t deny it? You don’t deny it?” she shouted, raising her voice in her fury. “But what do you think I am? What do you think?”

“Come, don’t shriek so,” said Quentin gently.

“I’ll shriek if I want to. Tell me, you evil-blooded scoundrel; what did you take me for? Do you think you can laugh at me like this?”

“That is admirable logic!” replied Quentin. “One believes here that his life is the axle of the universe; other people’s lives have no importance.”

“Why—”

“Please; I am talking. I left the café the other night, and thanks to the influence of Señor Gálvez, with whom you were....”

“I!” said María. “That’s not true.”

“I myself saw you.”

“Where could you see me from?”

“From the door, my dear.”

“But you don’t know Gálvez!” she replied, believing that Quentin must have had the news at second-hand.

“True; but I know the waiter, and I asked him: ‘Who is the gentleman talking with María Lucena?’ And he answered: ‘Señor Gálvez.’ So don’t lie about it. Very well; thanks to the beneficent influence of that gentleman friend of yours, I was on the point of being carried off to prison, or of throwing myself into the river ... yet, I do not go screeching about the place—because I do not believe that my life can be the axle of the universe.”

“Fool, more than fool!”—she shouted. “I’ll pound your brains out this very minute!”

“You’ll pound nothing; and listen, if you will.”

“What for? You’re going to lie.”

“Very well then: don’t listen.”

“I wish they’d take you to prison and keep you there all your life with your head stuck through a pillory.”

“If you care to listen, I’ll tell you whom I was with.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, I was with the Countess.”

“Then you haven’t the least bit of shame,” said María furiously.

“The Countess,” Quentin continued, “was upset by the verses in La Víbora, and wished to avenge herself, and had asked the Governor to have me thrown into prison.”

“Then what?”

“Well, Pacheco and I joined forces, and instead of her arresting us, we arrested her, and carried her off in her carriage to a farm.”

“What happened there?” asked the actress.

“Nothing; we became good friends.”

“Bah!”

“What ideas women have of each other!—” said Quentin sarcastically. “For them, all other women are prostitutes.”

“Not all: just some.”

“Do you believe that the Countess is a chorus girl?” said Quentin acridly.

María paled and looked at Quentin with concentrated fury.

“What did the Countess do there?” asked the Swiss.

“Nothing—rode and walked. She acted like what she is: a fine lady. Pacheco was crazy about her.”

“Weren’t you?”

“You know, Springer, that I am marble as far as women are concerned.”

“What a faker!” exclaimed the Swiss.

“What a liar!” added María Lucena.

“May they pluck my wings, as the gipsies say, if I’m not telling the truth. You know, María, that I’m like a box of mixed candy that has neither cover nor flap.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then I say you’re a St. Thomas in skirts.”

María was gradually calming down and speaking more pleasantly, as she prepared to leave for the theatre, when a man, tall, thin, with a black beard, kangaroo arms, and ferocious-looking hands, came up to Quentin. After making some mysterious grimaces, and winking his eyes, he whispered something in Quentin’s ear.

“What did that man say to you?” asked María.

“That man is a hardware dealer and a Freemason; he told me that I must go to the Patrician Lodge tonight.”

“There you go again with your humbugs. I’ve lost all patience with you. So he’s a Fleemason, eh? Do you think I’m a fool?”

“Hey!” called Quentin to the hardware dealer, who had already reached the door.

“What is it?” asked the Mason.

“Will you kindly tell this woman what you wanted of me?”

“Ah! I cannot,” replied the man, smiling and placing one of his paws—which were worthy of long-handed Artaxerxes—upon his breast. “No, I cannot.”

He then raised his hand to his forehead, then to his shoulder, making several strange gestures.

“Do you believe he is a Fleemason?” said María to the Swiss in a whisper.

“Yes; assuredly.”

“All right, Diagasio, that will do,” said Quentin.

“Ha ... ha ...!” laughed the actress. “That poor man really has a peculiar look.”

The hardware merchant bowed, a smile appeared within his black beard, like a ray of sunlight in a thicket, and moving his huge hands lazily, he thoughtfully retired, not without having knocked a bottle off a table and stepping on a dog.

“Poor fellow,” said Quentin, “he has become unbalanced with all this Masonry.”

“What did you call him?” asked the Swiss.

“Diagasio. His real name is Diego, but Diagasio seems more euphonious to me. In the Lodge we have baptized him Marat.”

The Swiss smiled, and Quentin left the café. He traversed several alleys, and was walking along the Calle de los Dolores Chicos toward the Calle del Cister, when a man wrapped in a cloak approached him.

“Wait a moment, Quentin,” said a voice.

“Hello, Don Paco.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Lodge, as I have just received notice to do.”

“I sent the notice to you.”

“You did? What’s up?”

“We must speak alone, Quentin.”

“Whenever you wish.”

“Things are moving rapidly, my friend. The Revolution is gaining ground; but in this city, the Revolutionary Committee does nothing—or almost nothing. Inter nos, its members haven’t enough patriotism; understand? We must stir them up; and you, who know many strong-minded people, can help a lot.”

“Pacheco has more influence than I have, in that respect.”

“But to ally oneself with a bandit!”

“As to that, you chaps will find out whether he suits you or not.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Is he in Cordova?”

“He is near Cordova.”

“Good: I shall speak here in the Lodge, and in the Junta: if they are agreed, you make an appointment with Pacheco, and we shall meet later.”

“Very well. Will you know tomorrow if they are agreed?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know; and when you get an answer from Pacheco, we’ll go to see him.”

“Very well. Until another time.”

“Until very soon.”

The two conspirators shook hands by way of a farewell, and wrapping themselves to their eyes in their cloaks, they glided along the narrow alleyways.

CHAPTER XXIX

A CONFERENCE

But if the dangerous mission were for him, Don Paco would argue that he did not wish to compromise the sacred cause of liberty by a rash act.

Sometimes, instead of saying sacred, he said venerable, which, for Don Paco, had its own value and distinctive meaning.

If some Progressist leader in Madrid was supposed to have been a traitor against either the sacred, or the venerable cause, Don Paco cried out in the Lodge:

“A la barra with the citizen! A la barra!”

He himself did not know what la barra was; but it was a matter of a cry that would sound well, and that sounded admirably: A la barra!

When he was too excited, Don Paco admired English parliamentarism above everything else. Quentin had once told him that he looked like Sir Robert Peel.

Quentin had seen the figure of that orator on an advertisement for shoe-blacking; he had nothing but the vaguest ideas of Sir Robert’s existence; but it was all the same to Don Paco, and the comparison made him swell with pride.

Aside from these political farces, Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, Master Surgeon and Master Mason, was a good sort of person, without an evil trait; he was a small, bald-headed old man, pimply and apopleptic. He had a thick neck, eyes that bulged so far from his head that they looked as if they had been stuck into his skin. At the slightest effort, with the most insignificant of his phrases, he blushed to the roots of his hair; if he turned loose one of his cries, his blush changed from red to violet, and even to blue.

Don Paco had great admirers among the members of the Lodge; they considered him a tremendous personage.

Quentin called to Diagasio, the long-handed hardware merchant, and said:

“Tell Don Paco I’m waiting for him.”

“He’s speaking.”

“Well, I’m in a hurry.”

Diagasio left him, and presently Don Paco came over, still orating, and surrounded by several friends.

“No,” he was saying, “I claim it, and I shall always claim it. We Spaniards are not yet ready to accept the republican form of government. Ah, gentlemen! If we were in England! In that freest of all lands, the cradle of liberties, ... of sacred liberties.”

“Very well,”—said Quentin quickly, “that discourse does not concern me. I came to tell you that I have received an answer to the letter I sent, and that he has made an appointment.”

Don Paco returned to his friends, and now and then a phrase reached Quentin: “A dangerous mission,” “mysteries,” “the police,” “the result will be known later.” Then the worthy President came over to Quentin.

“Will some one accompany us?”

“No; why should they? The more people that go, the worse it will be.”

“That’s true. They will mistrust us.”

Don Paco took leave of his friends as Sir Robert Peel might have done had they taken that gentleman to the gallows: they descended the stairs, and came out upon the street.

They made their way to the Gran Capitán, from there to the Victoria, and then, passing the Puerta de Gallegos, they travelled toward the Puerta de Almodóvar.

Quentin felt a great sense of satisfaction when he observed the fact that the old man was frightened. At every step Don Paco said to him:

“Some one is following us.”

“Don’t be idiotic. Who is going to follow us?”

“Ah! You don’t know what a terrible police force those men have!”

To Don Paco, life was all mystery, darkness, espionage, conspiracy. To sum up: it was fear, and the fear in this instance was neutralized by speaking aloud, and humming selections from comic operas.

This mixture of petulance and fright amused Quentin greatly. When he saw that the old man was very animated, humming an air from “Marina,” or from “El Domino Azúl,” he said to him:

“Hush, Don Paco, I think I saw a man spying on us from among those trees.”

Immediately the animation of the worthy President changed into an evil-omened silence.

As the two men followed the wall, the enormous, red moon rose over the town like a dying sun; the Cathedral tower looked very white against the dark blue sky.... They passed a tile-kiln, and Quentin, seeing that Don Paco was dispirited, said:

“I think we can be at ease now, for from here on there are no guards nor watchmen to spy on us.”

These words heartened the old man; a moment later, he was humming a piece from “El Domino Azúl,” which contained words to the effect that he did not want his dove so near the hawk.

Then, absolutely at ease, he commenced to say in a pompous voice:

“There are moments in the lives of cities as there are in those of individuals....”

“A speech! Don Paco, for Heaven’s sake! At a time like this!” exclaimed Quentin....

The old man, seeing that he could not continue his discourse, said familiarly:

“The things that have been accomplished in our lifetime, Quentin! When we first met, there in the Café de Pepon, on the Calle de Antonio de Morales, we were a mere handful of men with advanced ideas.... Today, you see how different it is. And all through my efforts, Quentin. I inaugurated the Reading Centre for workmen, and the Patrician Lodge ...; I was one of the Hatchet Club, and one of the founders of the Committee. I was always conspiring.”

“You are very brave,” said Quentin slyly.

“No; all I am is patriotic; really, Quentin. How many times at night have I ventured out in disguise, sometimes along the Gran Capitán, or through any of the sally-ports on the left, and reached the bridge by encircling the wall! There I used to glide along the fosses of the Calahorra castle, climb down to the other bank of the Guadalquivir, and continue down stream until I struck the Montilla turnpike. At other times I crossed the river by the Adalid ford, to come out later behind the Campo de la Verdad in a bit of land called Los Barreros, where a guard received me most informally.”

“Why all these masquerades, Don Paco?”

“You may believe that they were all necessary.”

Don Paco and Quentin were walking toward the river, when suddenly, between the Puerta de Seville, and the Cementerio de la Salud, they heard a loud, harsh voice that rang out powerfully in the silence of the night.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“Two men,” answered Quentin sarcastically, “at least that’s what we look like.”

“For God’s sake don’t!” exclaimed Don Paco. “They might shoot.”

The voice, louder and more threatening than before, shouted again:

“Halt, in the name of the guardia civil!”

“We are halted,” stammered Don Paco, trembling.

“Advance.”

They approached the spot where they had heard the voices; one of the guards, after looking at them closely, said:

“What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“This gentleman,” said Quentin, “has been called to a farmhouse to bleed a sick man.”

“Is he a blood-letter?”

“I’m a doctor,” said Don Paco.

“What are you?”

“I’m his assistant.”

“Why didn’t you answer us immediately?”

“On account of the effect you had on us,” said Quentin slyly.

“Well, you’re lucky to be let off,” remarked the guard.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Quentin.

“Pacheco has been about these nights.”

Don Paco began to tremble like a leaf.

“Well, we must go and bleed that sick man,” said Quentin. “Adiós, Señores.”

“Good night.”

They went around the wall, and suddenly Don Paco came to a determined halt.

“No; I’m not going!” he exclaimed.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“It is very imprudent for us to go and see Pacheco,” the old man stammered. “We shall discredit the cause.”

“You might have thought of that before.”

“Well, I’m not going.”

“Very well; I shall go alone.”

“No, no.... Ah, my God!”

“Are you ill, Don Paco?”

“Yes; I believe I’ve taken cold—” replied the terrible revolutionist in a trembling voice. “Furthermore, I do not see the necessity of visiting Pacheco at this time of night.”

“Then I’ll go if you wish.”

“What’s the use?” added the old man insinuatingly. “Everybody will think that we went to see Pacheco. Neither of us need deny the fact; so why should we go now and expose ourselves to a serious danger? Besides, it’s a cold night, and cold is not healthy.”

“But we have an appointment with Pacheco.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Then there is still another reason,” continued Quentin.

“What is it?”

“If we go back now, and the guards see us, they’ll get suspicious.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“I think the best thing to do is to go ahead.”

Don Paco sighed, and very reluctantly followed after Quentin. The moon was climbing higher in the sky. The old man walked along profoundly disheartened. After half an hour had elapsed, he said:

“Now we can go back.”

“What for? We’ve only a little farther to go.”

A moment later they left the road and approached the house. Quentin thrust his fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly.

“They’re coming,” said Don Paco, trembling.

In a few seconds, they heard another whistle. Quentin went to the door of the house; at the same time, a small window was opened, and Pacheco said in a low voice:

“Is that you, Quentin?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right down.”

The door opened noiselessly, and Don Paco and Quentin entered a dark vestibule.

“This way,” said Pacheco’s voice.

“Why don’t you light a lamp?” asked Don Paco.

“Light can be seen at a distance.”

They crossed the vestibule and entered a kitchen illuminated by a lamp.