CHAPTER VII
THE INCREASE OF THE CONTINGENT
The terrible difficulties that were to arise with the marriage of Emilita, on account of the anti-bellicose opinions of her father, were got over with more facility than could have been expected.
History will not speak (although it could with more reason than it does of many events) of that solemn day when Nuñez had to go in proper form and ask Don Cristobal for the hand of his daughter, of the memorable embrace with which the latter received him, clasping him warmly to his civil breast with that incredible fusion of two heterogeneous elements created to repel each other, and the artless graces of the sweet coy angel are taken for granted and understood. If this particular page were the subject for any historian, he could not abstain from drawing attention to the extreme importance of such concord, which until then had been considered impossible, and at the same time he would impartially show the reverse side of the picture, laying before future generations the way the maligned patrician, Don Cristobal Mateo, was the victim of a social injustice, and of the persecution of his brother citizens.
It must be said that all the world in Lancia thought themselves entitled to joke this respectable and ancient functionary on the marriage of his daughter, sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly, but whenever the matter was referred to, allusion was made to the antagonistic opinions he had hitherto held on the abolition of the land forces. The marriage was called the increase of the contingent, and some were impertinent enough to give it that name before his future son-in-law.
One can easily conceive what it cost him to give up a tiresome and ill-judged fad.
But in spite of all the diatribes and murmurs of the neighbours, that hurt Mateo's feelings more than they affected his good humour, and in spite of the envy that burned in the majority of hearts, the increase of the contingent was to be consummated.
The time fixed for the auspicious occasion was the month of August. By that time it had acquired such importance that, as generally happens in little places, hardly anything else was talked of. The relations of the Pensioner, and his four daughters were numberless, and they all expected to be invited on the day of the marriage. And then, on the other side, some of the worthy and punctilious officers of the battalion of Pontevedra, friends of the bridegroom, were filled with the same desire.
As it was not possible to entertain so many people in the poetic dwelling of the Pensioner, they thought of celebrating the marriage in the country. The house most fitting for the occasion, by reason of its proximity to the town, was the Grange.
Don Cristobal made the request to the count, with whom he and his daughters were on very friendly terms, and he immediately placed it at his disposal. The happy union, the safe pledge of peace between the civil and military elements, was celebrated early in the day at the church of San Rafael. Fray Diego performed the ceremony, as he enjoyed great prestige among the officers for being the strangest priest and the most inveterate toper of the capital. More than twenty ladies, and almost as many gentlemen, assisted at the service. That over, they all resorted to the Grange to spend the day there. Carriages were not required to go to a place so near the town. But they had the Count of Onis and the Quiñones' to convey the bride and bridegroom, and a few elderly people like the two Señoritas de Meré. The guests included almost all the Grandee's party, several of that of the de Merés, and a good number of officers.
The count had the old house arranged as well as possible. It was as well known to almost everybody as their own homes, for being so near the town, and having such a beautiful wood, it was the best place for fêtes champêtres, and the counts had never refused permission for these occasions. When they had arrived and enjoyed the chocolate, which was waiting for them in the large room, paved with brick on the ground floor, which served as dining-room, they dispersed without ceremony over the house and about the estate, prepared to kill the time as well as they could until the bell rang for dinner.
The bride, with Amalia, who had been her bridesmaid, and two other ladies sat quietly in one of the rooms. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks red, and it was in vain that she tried to conceal the deep emotion she was feeling under a dignified and serious demeanour.
Those in her company, who were all married, caressed her incessantly, passed their hands over her hair, gave her little pats on the cheeks, and sometimes took her by the hands and impressed a kiss on her forehead, with the half tender, half ironical condescension evinced by the long experienced to the novices in matrimony. There is not one who does not feel at the sight of a bride the echo of certain distant music in her heart, the taste of the honey of the remote moon comes to her lips; but it comes, alas! with the bitter taste of several years of matrimonial prose. In every married woman there is a poet disillusioned of his muse. Hence the Byronic smile on her face at the sight of the happiness shining in the eyes of a bride.
Emilita had changed her character in a quarter of an hour. All the playfulness and sprightliness she had hitherto displayed was now changed to gravity and sedateness. She talked wisely with the matrons, her companions, about starting the larder, about domestic servants, who were considered by all to be dreadfully going down, and the price of meat. She seemed to have grown so old in this quarter of an hour that it was surprising not to see some silver threads in her golden hair. To turn to her sisters, they, in strange contrast, seemed to have lost some years since the investiture of the younger one. They had gone back to childhood. Like creatures longing to disport themselves in the light and air, the three rushed into the wood, making the silence that reigned there ring with their voices and innocent shouts of laughter. Virgen del Amporo! how they jumped! how they laughed! What impish tricks those little mad things were up to! For the greater enjoyment of the innocent games that their youthful retrogression demanded, they threw off their mantillas, let their hair loose, took off their gloves, cast aside fan and parasol, did all that youth could suggest, and were as pranksome as any children. Not only was their angelic hair allowed to float upon their shoulders, but they took off watches, rings, and bracelets and handed them to papa, taking him by the collar to give him a thousand caresses, like bright and affectionate children as they were. Then, seeing that some of the officers of the battalion were looking at them, they turned red and confused, pinned up their skirts until the foot and part of the leg was visible, and then ran through the wood, avoiding, like the nymphs of Diana, the ardent glances of the officers.
And when they reached a distant solitary spot, where the shadows deepened, and they were beyond the reach of mundane noises and malicious eyes of men, they shouted with delight like God's little birds to their companions to come and enjoy the delightful quiet where they could display their charms and enjoy themselves without fear of being surprised. Then one proposed to play at skipping and the rest acceded, clapping their hands. Jovita was the first. Jump, jump, until she fell on the grass in a state of exhaustion, pressing her hand to her heart that palpitated with fatigue, not with the insane agitation of youthful passions. Then another jumped, and then another, until they were all exhausted but merry, their rosy cheeks and bright eyes showing the pleasant happiness accruing to an innocent mind. When tired of this they proposed the game of "Let them give unto the kite a little onion with the mite." What laughter and merriment ensued! How the quiet wood echoed with the silvery voices of those beautiful, delicate creatures! Wearied of this game they dispersed for a little. A few formed a group seated at the foot of the trunk of an oak, and went in for the pleasant enjoyment of recounting in a low voice a thousand puerilities; others went in with enthusiasm for the search of little blue flowers, with which they made chains to deck themselves with; others ran after each other like swallows in the air uttering piercing screams the while. The steadier ones devoted their efforts to catching grasshoppers and other timid insects. But they soon reassembled, for a very daring girl proposed climbing a tree if they helped her; and another one said Yes, she would help her. So bear a hand! the spirited girl, who was named Consuelo, set about putting her little feet in the most accessible branches. The wayward companion, who was no other than Socorro, the third of the Pensioner's sirens, helped her. Consuelo finally climbed to where two branches crossed, from thence she got on to another, and all the nymphs applauded, and shouted with enthusiasm.
But lo and behold! Rubio, the lieutenant of the Third, a man known among his companions in arms as a genius in the art of enslaving the opposite sex, suddenly raised his bold head above the bushes. The nymphs, on seeing him, uttered a piercing cry, and stood petrified in the act in which he had surprised them. Consuelo, from the top of the tree, apostrophised him violently. If it had been in her power she would have immediately transformed that new Actæon into a stag. But there, entre nous, it is possible that she would have preferred first to transform him into a husband, regardless of a more exact rendering of the classical metamorphosis.
But Rubio, the lieutenant of the Third, knew perfectly well what these shrieks and apostrophisings were worth. He was not put out, he smiled maliciously, and called with a rough voice to his brothers in arms. What confusion! What terror among those merry daughters of the wood as the sons of Mars approached in a closed line! Without picking up their mantillas, gloves or parasols, nothing, in short, that belonged to them, they fled through the plantation uttering cries of terror. But the satyrs in red trousers willingly followed them, caught them up, and took them captive with hateful laughter. In the meanwhile poor Consuelo, besieged by three of these bold satyrs, simply declined to come down until they went fifty yards off. But they, the cruel creatures, they refused. The nymph entreated, got angry, and was on the point of crying, but neither her anger nor her tears could soften the stony hearts of the infamous satyrs. At last she resigned herself to coming down, and although she took many modest precautions, they managed to see a foot charmingly shod, and a suspicion of leg, which made them roar with delight. But where was Rubio? Where was the most terrible and fiercest of all? They did not know, but at the end of some time he appeared from the glade, bringing with him Socorro, the most sentimental of Don Cristobal's undines. His cruel features bore an expression of triumph, and hers evinced the shame and submission of a captive. Many hours later, near midnight, seated at a table of the Café Marañón, and surrounded by eight or ten of his companions, the lieutenant of the Third related with a malevolent smile his conquest of the nymph, calculating that he had managed to imprint at least twenty-five or thirty kisses on different parts of her bewitching face, and all the sons of Mars applauded and celebrated this fresh triumph of their heroic companion with Homeric shouts of laughter.
Finally the conquerors modified their tyranny, and order was re-established, thanks to the opportune arrival of the Señoritas de Meré, who appeared with Maria Josefa and Paco Gomez. The little ladies, the only ones, in fact, to whom the matrimonial event was due, had turned over their boxes for a befitting toilette for the occasion, and Carmelita wore a dress of black bombazin, which only came out on state occasions, whilst Nuncita, being younger and less sedate, was able to wear a clear dress bordered with flowers, such as are only seen in pictures of the past century. They were very cheerful, satisfaction shone in their eyes, but their legs were not equal to the eternal youth of their hearts; they supported themselves on sticks, and leant with their free hands on the arms of their companions. They were received with cheers and hurrahs. Many rude jokes were levelled at them, to which nobody assented more willingly nor laughed more heartily than the little saints of Meré, so there was little merit in quizzing them. They were never seen to be cross with their friends, and so fun was pushed so far with them that it sometimes bordered on coarseness; but they were very prone to intestine warfare, and to get cross with each other; however, we know the leading feature of these performances.
The bold spirit of Lieutenant Rubio, sharpened, by the circumstances, conceived a most happy idea; he thought the best way of passing the time until the dinner-hour would be to construct a swing in which the ladies could be pulled backwards and forwards for some minutes by the gentlemen, who would have the pleasure of managing the apparatus. No sooner said than done. Ropes were found, a board was cut, in less than a quarter of an hour everything was in order. Whilst the arrangements were being completed, Rubio kept on giving expressive winks to his companions, who understood, smiled, held their tongues, and greatly admired the audacity and penetration of the lieutenant of the Third. The swing was now fixed. Who is to be the first? They all evinced the same shame, and the same colour suffused their cheeks. One mischievously thought of suggesting Nuncita. The rest applauded the idea. Nuncita held back in dismay. Carmelita neither conceded, nor withheld her permission. The entreaties were repeated on all sides.
The young men seemed each minute to be more taken with the idea. At last, almost by force, and amid the frantic applause of the party, Cuervo, the herculean cornet of the First, took the "child" up in his arms and seated her on the board.
"Hold tight, Nuncia!" cried Paco Gomez, whilst the aforesaid cornet and some other friends began to swing her.
"Gently! gently!" exclaimed Carmelita.
No fear; they were careful because they were afraid she would fall. But, carefully as they moved the swing, the air gradually began gently to raise her skirts. The officers laughed and went on with the swing until there was quite an exhibition.
"Go it! go it!"
The girls, with mingled amusement and shame, hid their faces, fell into each other's arms, and whispered into each other's ears.
"Stop! stop, gentlemen!" cried Carmelita.
Nobody took any notice. The "child's" clothes went higher and higher. One did not know where they would stop.
"Stop! stop! por Dios, señor cadet!"
"Go it with her!" cried the soldiers.
And the swing went quicker and quicker, and Nuncita was so frightened that she had no time to think of modesty.
"Señor cadet! señor captain!" cried Carmelita all trembling, waving her arms, with her lower jaw distended, beating against the upper one, which was also distended, with a strange trembling. "Señor captain, stop, por Dios! For the love of the Holy Virgin! Stop! stop! stop!"
"So-o-o!" exclaimed Paco.
But the captain was obdurate and would not leave off. The skirts of Nuncita were now as high as they could go. The young girls turned their backs, and some ran laughing to hide themselves among the trees. It was only when the officers had completed their shameless act that they gave in and allowed Nuncita to get down. Her sister, instead of being angry with the guilty ones, flew upon "the child" full of fury, with her eyes flaming with rage.
"Get down, you bad girl! you shameless creature! Is this the education you learnt from your parents? Is this what the confessor tells you to do?"
Nuncita, quite upset, puckered up her face and began to cry.
The young men and women tried to calm the infuriated Carmelita. The captain and the cadet took all the blame. It was in vain. The anger was not appeased until it had vented itself in many violent and offensive remarks. The poor "child," seated sobbing on the ground with her face hid in her hands, excited the compassion of all present, who interceded for her incessantly.
It was then a question as to who was to get up into the swing next? Nobody wished to, which was very natural. How could one be swung by such bold, shameless men? It was in vain that soldiers and civilians explained their conduct in the past event, and solemnly swore not to do it again, but to be orderly and prudent and always under the ladies' orders. But they were not to be trusted. The lieutenant Rubio especially inspired them with a great terror as they considered him, and not without reason, as the instigator of all the shameless tricks.
But when they were quite at their wits' end, lo! and behold Consuelo, the brave, determined child, who shortly before had climbed the tree, whispered to one of her companions, came forward and said, to the horror of the other girls:
"I will do it. Help me, gentlemen."
A cry of enthusiasm greeted these spirited words. For some instants nothing was heard but "Viva Consuelo! viva Consuelo!" from the delighted company. There was not one that did not wish to help her and load her with flowers and presents. The athletic cadet, with a knightly air, knelt on one knee and asked her to place her foot on the other. The intrepid girl, nothing loth, consented, and with one spring she was on the seat. Both soldiers and civilians thought they were in luck's way. They exchanged looks of intelligence, they had no intention of keeping their word, and they were determined to repay the girl's confidence with the blackest treason. But when they were getting the apparatus ready and preparing to execute their malicious design, Consuela made a sign to her friend, who immediately came forward with a handful of pins and fastened her skirts together in such a way that even when the swing moved the point of her foot could not be seen.
The weaker sex applauded with mad enthusiasm.
"Good, Consuelo! good!"
The men, vexed and defeated as they were, dared not protest too much, but they complained of her want of confidence, whilst the maiden herself, proud of the feat, looked at them with a smile of derision. The pins were such a success that no girl got up into the swing without prudently having her skirts pinned together.
Whilst such memorable scenes were being enacted in the wood Jaime Moro, scorning rural pleasures, tried to get Fray Diego and Don Juan Estrada-Rosa to make up a party for a game of tresillo.
He was bored in church, he was bored in the woods, in the town, and in the country. He only recovered his serenity of mind, and regained his equanimity and cheerfulness of spirits, when he took the cards into his hand. Fate was against him. There were no cards in the house. But he did not give in. He went down into the kitchen, called a servant aside who looked sharp and active, and giving him a pourboire, he told him to run to the town and get a couple of packets of cards. In the meanwhile he was strenuous in his efforts to entertain his companions, chatting away on subjects most interesting to them, and, above all, trying to conciliate Don Juan, who showed a decided tendency to go off and take a turn in the grounds and pay a visit to the mill like the other guests. Moro was at his wits' end, fearing he would not hold out till the servant's return, but happily he arrived in time. Directly he held in his hands the much-desired cards he was another man. Secure now of victory, he dragged off his friends to one of the quiet rooms of the house, had a square table brought, candles, beer, cigars, and there they were!
After such a narrow shave of losing it, Jaime Moro enjoyed his pleasure with a gusto that was enviable. A large number of shallower people, without sufficient imagination to understand or enjoy the delights of tresillo, had gone off, with the Pensioner as their guide, to take a turn round the place, and afterwards to visit the new-fashioned mill which the count had had erected a short time ago.
Captain Nuñez, the bridegroom, with a few of his friends who were less partial to the feminine sex, such as Garnet, Don Enrique, Saleta, Manin, and a few others, were of the party. They could not get the count to go because he was not to be found. It was said he was giving orders to the men and surveying some works a little way off, but he was not anywhere about. However, a capable sort of half majordomo volunteered to act as guide.
The property was situated on the decline of the same hill as that on which Lancia is built. At the back of the house there was a wood that shut out the view of the town, so that although it was so near it seemed as if it were a hundred miles away; at the same time it protected it against the north and west winds, only leaving it exposed to the gentle breezes from the south and east. The noises of the town did not penetrate as far as there; only the bells of the cathedral muffled by the distance sounded sweetly at certain hours of the day. The high road goes behind the wood. Another little one branching from it brought it into communication with the estate. As we know, there was no park à l'Anglais here, or au Français, no little gardens, or cascades, or artificial grottoes. It was a property half for amusement, half for work. First came the wood, then the house with its courtyard, then a large deserted garden, and then immense meadows extending along the skirt of the hill as far as the river and even to the opposite bank. Sheep graze in these meadows, and the tinkling of their bells with the barking of the dogs are heard. It is easy to imagine that you are in the bosom of solitary nature, so profound is the peace, only broken by the song of a bird or the moo of a cow.
The excursionists went through the stables that were in good order, for the count was much interested in the cattle. Nevertheless, Saleta affirmed that he had seen much better in Holland, and one or two coarse incidents were here given to show the care of the Dutch in this respect. When they had been over the stables, they took the road across the fields and went down to the river, adorned on either side with alder trees and poplars, which formed at intervals a thick coppice, under which the river made its dark and gloomy way. The Loro is one of the smallest, and yet one of the most original rivers in Spain. Before arriving at the sea, "to die" as the poet says, it makes as many twists and turns as any crafty old fellow, who tries to evade the law to which all created beings are subject. It is impossible to imagine a more capricious stream. It sallies forth, brave and buoyant, as if it were going on for miles straight away to the ocean. But after a quarter of a mile it stops, turns, and meanders back nearly to where it started from, which gives some cause for thinking that it is going to take a higher course. It then starts afresh, not willingly, but by force of circumstances; this time it is lost to view, and everybody thinks it will never reappear, but it is not so. When the sly fox knows that he cannot be seen from the town, he sets about returning to it, but for shame's sake he makes a little détour, and stays a short while at some village near the same district. It never takes a frank and open course. Like all depraved characters it abhors the light, and takes every opportunity of avoiding trouble, by hiding under bushes, where it stops and grows corrupt in degrading idleness. Nobody can trust it. Many fine young men have been deceived by it seeming like an old rheumatic invalid, incapable of taking a step, and following its invitation to bathe where they were made to think it was only about a foot and a half deep, they were miserably drowned in its slimy depths.
In this river there were no naiads of celestial beauty ready to cleave the crystal waters with their alabaster arms, and no gracious undines with fair hair to come forth at night and play upon the surface.
The river Loro is gloomy, inimical to all poetic fancy, no fantastic figures hover there. The only thing it seems to take pleasure in harbouring is a vast quantity of frogs, so large that it makes one giddy to think that a number of them can live together, and the banks resound with the cheerful sound of their harmonious voices, which thundering sound prevented Saleta declaring, as he did when a little distance off, that when on the banks of the Yumuri on a certain evening, he was lucky enough to kill a crocodile with a stone. 'Tis true that under the piercing glance of his colleague Valero, he hastily added that the crocodile was quite young and only had one row of teeth.
They went for some distance along the gloomy bank of the Loro and crossed it by a rustic bridge, where the count had had it turned from its course by means of an aqueduct to work a mill. But just then a sudden desire seized the friends of the bridegroom, who were genuine representatives of the most vigorous and masculine element of the battalion, to show off the strength and muscular power of their legs. A lieutenant jumped the aqueduct. A captain, to be in no way behind the subaltern, did the same, but he got his feet wet. His amour propre being excited, he took off his coat and jumped it again easily. The others did the same. The scene then assumed the appearance of the Olympian games, or still more those of the famous American display. But Nuñez was a great jumper. He was well known in all the army, especially in the infantry, as an adept in this art. He jumped three or four times with the greatest ease; but naturally wishing to surpass his companions, and give a striking proof of his skill, he affirmed in a scornful tone that that was nothing, and that he was capable of jumping the aqueduct backwards. These words were received with respect by his colleagues, but also with a silence which the captain took for sceptical. He did not divest himself of a particle of his uniform, such courses were only for neophytes, but took a leap, and arriving at the edge of the water, turned and jumped, but unfortunately his feet were caught in some rushes and he fell flat into the stream. He was hidden for a moment from the sight of his friends, and came up puffing and blowing like a regular triton, saying that it was nothing, and that he was going to jump again to show them how it could be done. But his father-in-law would not allow it. He passed his hands over his body to see if he were wet, as of course he was, and then a prey to the wildest agitation, he, who a short while since would have exterminated the whole army completely, set to bawling:
"He must change his things! Now, at once!—Inflammation of the lungs!—Change his things!—Shivers!—Rheumatic fever!"
And other exclamations more or less coherent that gave proof of his profound interest in the officer's health.
In spite of his martial calling, Nuñez acceded to the entreaties, and turned back to the house with his face frowning and furious, fully resolved to undress as far as his underthings, and go to bed whilst they sent to Lancia for a change of clothes. All his friends crowded round him, and so they arrived at the house.
Emilita, who was at the window, seeing them come along like this, asked in surprise:
"What is this?"
"Nothing," cried Papa, "but Nuñez fell into the aqueduct."
On hearing these words, Emilita naturally uttered a shriek of horror, and fell senseless into the arms of several ladies. Nuñez, transformed into a hero, forgetting his own health, ran to her assistance. In a few moments the place was filled with glasses of water, and two or three bottles of anti-spasmodic appeared upon the scene. When she began to recover consciousness and the critical moment of tears arrived, her sister Micaela, no longer able to control herself, attacked her father violently:
"This has been an act of cruelty! Do you think your daughter has a heart of bronze? You must indeed be deficient in tact to hurt a poor creature like this!"
The poor creature repaid the defence with an affectionate look as she gave her her hand. The Pensioner, being then reduced to the last stage of humility, scarcely dared to murmur, that seeing that Nuñez was at her side, there was no cause for so much concern.
The ladies thought that Micaela had been disrespectful to her father, but they could not do less than admit that it had been a blunder, and they were full of sympathy for the unhappy bride.
CHAPTER VIII
FERNANDA AND THE WINE
Fernanda was not present at any of these scenes. Early in the day she had resorted to the wood, but soon tiring of playing the part of modest nymph with her friends, she wandered off to more solitary places. Her head, generally so erect, was bowed under the weight of depression or preoccupation; her flexible, supple figure moved from side to side like the body of a bedouin; those dark African eyes, the most precious ornament of the noble city of Lancia, were fixed upon the ground, and the very deep line on her forehead testified to the fixed, gloomy drift of her thoughts.
How much she had gone through these two months! The impression that her love for the count had made in her heart, checked at first by pride and the hope of having it returned, had full sway directly she discovered the secret of his disaffection, and her whole being became possessed with the passions of love and jealousy. These feelings were all the more acute, inasmuch as she clearly saw that she had long been deceived by Luis, who had feigned affection for her whilst his heart was given to another.
The miserable treachery of Amalia enraged her and inspired her with horror and exasperation. But that of the count, it must be confessed, added poignancy to her grief and depth to her passion.
Nevertheless she knew how to maintain the same friendly relations; but in spite of herself, and without her even being conscious of it, a slight shade of bitterness and scorn betrayed itself at times either in her manner, eyes, or tone, which did not escape the attention of the sharp Valencian.
With her ex-fiancé she retained a circumspect demeanour; she dropped the aggressive tone she had taken with him, and adopted a more suave and formal manner, but to her vexation, the emotion she experienced when speaking to him was not unfrequently revealed by a slight alteration in her voice, and by her turning alternately red and white. Her inner life during those six months was devoured by a feverish, anxious, uncertain activity, veiled with difficulty under a tranquil, proud demeanour. At times she could not bear the tension of the dumb rage which possessed her, and it vented itself in a torrent of burning, insulting words, which were uttered in a low voice, when she surprised any sign of intelligence between the traitors. Her ardent, proud nature, flattered by a father who indulged her to a fault, and by a score of adorers prostrate at her feet, rebelled like a wild colt against this obstacle, the first she had ever encountered in her life.
In these moments of frenzy she fostered ideas of revenge. She wrote several anonymous letters to Don Pedro, but none arrived at their destination, for she tore them up before posting them, because the pride, that was one of her characteristics, revolted against such a low proceeding; and they were destroyed with bitter tears of anger. After tearing up the last that she wrote she had reason to be glad of her course of action, for she casually learnt that very evening, that no letter reached Quiñones without first passing through the hands of his wife.
Sometimes, unable to bear it any longer, she would throw herself into an armchair where she remained for a long time with her eyes fixed, in deep and miserable meditation. At these moments she was a prey to sudden fits of tenderness, she confessed without shame, nay even with voluptuous enjoyment, the love that she felt; she pardoned Luis with all her heart, and vowed to love him all her life long in silence and never to belong to another man. As days went by this feeling increased and took the form of a morbid, irrational desire. The excitement of her feelings, which took possession of her whole being, combined with the bitterness of wounded self-love, fostered this same desire. There was little wanting when she saw Luis at her side to make her open her heart to him and confess the passion that consumed her.
Hardly conscious of what she was doing, Fernanda sought for her ex-fiancé all over the place. Everything interested her; the wood, the house, the servants, even the animals grazing in the meadows were accorded a sympathetic glance. How pleasant even that tumble-down house corroded with damp and mice seemed to her! After wandering for some time through the most solitary parts of the wood, she absently made her way to the meadows; there she went along until she came to a certain spot where there were some workmen making a ditch to drain the land. She knew without inquiring that the count after inspecting the work for some time had gone off. She waited for a little while to divert attention, and then she went on with a slow step dragging her parasol along the ground like one who is uncertain where to go next. In fact she did not know, but that was not for want of an object, but because she knew not where the count was. A cruel idea floated in her brain without taking form—she fancied that Luis at that moment might be alone with Amalia. By degrees, as she walked through the fields, the idea gained force, and the stronger it grew, the more her heart was filled with spite and anger. Why? was she not perfectly aware of their criminal relations? Yes, and the more angry the idea made her, the more determined she was not to stand it, for she thought she had a right to prevent their being together. Without having a clear notion of what she was about, she quickened her step. Her nerves became more and more agitated; by the time she arrived at the courtyard she was perfectly certain that the adulterers were together, and alone. She entered the house, and like one who visits it from curiosity she explored it all, even to the most remote little rooms. But she did not find them, and the fact of not finding Amalia anywhere confirmed her suspicions. Tired with hunting about, and excited with nervous anxiety, she went again into the open air. She avoided people who might detain her and repaired to the garden, and directly she put her foot there she was imbued with fresh hope of finding them. That verdant spot where the little trees left to their own sweet will, were so interlaced as to form an impenetrable mass was a perfect place for love passages. She went cautiously and noiselessly along the paths which had almost disappeared under their carpets of grass, intersected in many places by brambles and branches of trees. Sometimes a little clump of irises obstructed her path and she was obliged to jump over it, or else a rhododendron, stretching its boughs to embrace a camellia in front, had formed a bower so low that she was obliged to bend a good deal to get along. She thought she heard the sound of voices a little distance off. She stood motionless and waited for some minutes, and then she turned to listen, and directed her steps to the spot whence it came.
It was them! Yes, it was them.
Before hearing the voice distinctly she knew it was them. They were going down a path much narrower and more secluded than the others, bounded on one side by the wall, and on the other by a high, quickset hedge.
Amalia had hold of the count's arm with an air that was half imperious, half careless, with her eyes on the ground, whilst he, smiling and subservient, bent towards her as he whispered words into her ear. Fernanda watched them through the foliage from a distance. Emotion glued her to the ground for some instants. The awakening of her pride as a woman seemed to outweigh her sense of misery and anger.
After an anxious scrutiny of Amalia's appearance, she could not forbear murmuring:
"What can this man have fallen in love with? Yes, she is a skinny cat!"
Her next thought was:
"What are they saying?"
Seized with a strong desire to hear their words, and without thinking of the danger that she ran, she went nearer and nearer to the hedge, bending her body so as not to be seen. Having found the shadiest, safest spot, she listened, although she could only hear them as they passed by, as soon as they were a little way off not a word was audible, so the snatches of conversation were rather incoherent.
"Her legs are very rough. You should see how fat she is getting. Neither starch nor rose powder soothes the irritation of the skin," said the lady.
"They are talking of the baby," thought Fernanda.
"I have never seen her in her bath. How much I would give to be present one day!"
"It is because you do not want to."
"No, no, but I do not want to expose you to the danger that would accrue from my doing so."
No more could be heard, but she felt she must wait for them to get to the end of the path and then turn.
"So I hear you were at those childish, silly old ladies," she heard Amalia say as they repassed her hiding-place.
"I assure you I was at the Casino. All the members of the club met to discuss the question of the re-decoration of the salon. It was to be over at ten, and we did not get away until twelve. You know the argumentative, aggressive character of Don Juan, don't you? I have not been to the de Merés for an age. Since some people set to——"
The words were here lost again to Fernanda.
That Don Juan must be her father? She would soon find out.
When they reappeared the count was tenderly caressing the hand of his beloved, and smiling and chatting with an expression of rapturous happiness.
"I have often thought of giving up seeing you. At night when I am alone in bed, I am a prey to terrible remorse, and I say to myself, 'There must be an end of this,' and I determine to leave Lancia, and I map out a new plan of life: I imagine myself travelling over all Europe; I forget you; I return at the end of some years, and instead of the old love a tender friendship fills my heart in which we can indulge without fear of Heaven's chastisement. But as the morning dawns, these resolutions vanish; I succumb to temptation; I see you at your house, and the more I see you, the more I hear your adored voice——"
Fernanda clutched at the trunk of a magnolia for support.
As they turned, it was Amalia who was speaking:
"This is not true. I have told you that I am always haunted by a black shadow. However much I pretend to imagine that I am the first——"
"The first and the last! I shall never love another woman but you."
"You don't know how jealous I am of the past. Every day more so. Tell the truth. Did you love her or not?"
"No."
"Then how could you——?"
Fernanda could hear no more, but she had heard enough to make the tears rush to her eyes. She was about to withdraw, when she saw the traitors come to a standstill at the end of the path.
Amalia threw her arms around her lover's neck, pressed her lips upon his mouth, and gave him a kiss that was prolonged, prolonged for an eternity. Fernanda closed her eyes; when she opened them they were going away hand in hand.
She lets them leave the garden, and then follows them immediately. Where are they going? Once in the courtyard, she notices that they stop and turn in the direction of the house. She enters on their track, but they have disappeared, and she does not know to which room they have repaired. She imprudently explores them all, overwhelmed with emotion she cannot control, whilst given over to a strong burning desire to find them out.
"Where are you going, Fernanda?" asks a young man.
"I am going to find the bride."
"Then you are going wrong, for she is at the other end of the house in one of the rooms looking north."
She turned back to avoid suspicion, and then explored the building again. At last she arrived at a certain little room which was locked, and which was no other than the celebrated Countess's Chamber. She was about to turn the handle of the door as she had done to the others when a slight sound rooted her to the spot. She put her ear to the door. "It is them!"
She left the place and ran like mad to the wood, where, arrived at a solitary spot, she sits at the foot of a tree and leans her head against the trunk. With her eyes fixed on space, her face changed and sad, and her hands crossed upon her knee, her whole attitude was expressive of dumb, despairing agony.
The hour for dinner arrived. Two parallel tables had been arranged in the large salon on the ground floor.
The dispersed party reassembled at the magic word of dinner shouted to the four winds by the rough voice of Manin and the silvery one of Manuel Antonio.
When poetic sentiments have their course in the open air in the middle of woods they greatly facilitate the secretion of the gastric juices. So the nymphs as well as the fauns did full justice to the olives, the cucumbers, and the slices of sausage before sitting down to the tables. By the unanimous voice of the military and clergy, worthily represented by Fray Diego, the task of giving each guest his seat was to be undertaken by the bride.
The merry, wayward Emilita, transformed suddenly into a very grave matron, filled the office with a tact and amiability that won her the approbation of the assembly; every girl was given the youth she liked best as a partner, and to every older person, was accorded the companion who was most congenial in character and tastes.
But mad was the applause when she put Lieutenant Rubio between the two Señoritas de Meré. She left this facetious act to the last, which cleverness saved the officer from thinking it was intentional.
Finding himself the victim of such a trick the military man was put out, and was even on the point of protesting against this arrangement of Emilita, but he controlled himself against this outrage of all the laws of gallantry; and as he was taking his place it occurred to him to parody the words of Napoleon as he looked at his two neighbours: "From the height of these two seats forty centuries contemplate me."
This remark won the applause of the company, and put the injured creature into a good humour, and he got on so well with his little old friends that he was that evening voted a capital sort of fellow.
Moro was seated by the side of the count, and during the dinner he impressed on him the advantage of having a billiard-table in the palace of the Grange. He knew every make, but the best was indisputably that of Tutau of Barcelona, and he praised up the article as if he were a traveller for the house. Luis' face showed his disappointment and vexation at not being by Amalia, but Emilita neither dared to put him there, nor by Fernanda. The first would have been a scandal, the second a vexation to both.
They feasted like at a banquet in the "Iliad." But the Achilles of this extensive repast was Manin, the rough Manin who, according to those that were next to him, consumed no less than eleven calabashes of wine. Certainly Manin deserved being called, if not a Sueve, as that would offend Saleta, at least a Lombard. He talked and halloed as if he were in the street.
The three Fates of the Pensioner, who from the time Fray Diego gave his blessing to their sister, had gained so much childish grace, threw pellets of bread at the officers, who cast glances at the bride, and winked at their friend Nuñez, as they murmured remarks which sent them off into fits of laughter.
Paco Gomez was having a battle royal with Maria Josefa. It was difficult to say which of the two had the worst of it, and which launched the sharpest, most envenomed darts. Saleta being some way off from his friend and censor, Don Enrique Valero, was enjoying himself to his heart's content, relating to Don Juan Estrada-Rosa and two other gentlemen how he made the conquest of a certain English lady, wife of a consul he had known at Hong-Kong, on his way out to the Philippines. The ship only stopped there twenty-four hours. In this short time he won her heart and made her go off with him. But he had to separate from her at once, for the event was made the subject of a diplomatic reclamation on the part of Great Britain.
Manuel Antonio being suddenly seized with a great interest in a scarlet subaltern by his side overwhelmed him with delicate attentions.
"Federico—a little olive—don't take so much mustard, it will spoil it. Keep yourself for the partridges. I know they are most excellent. Do you like Bordeaux? Stop a moment, I will get you some."
And rising from the table in his eagerness to serve, he fetched a couple of bottles and placed them before the youth.
"So Lancia seems to agree with you. When you came six months ago you looked thin and pale. I said, 'What a sad sight, and a young man so bright and pleasant.' Because I thought you were suffering from the chest. I know you had a hard time of it in Barcelona. Eh? and see now, whoever would have thought it? I recollect that when you arrived you wore a gabardine of the colour of flies' wings, very well made, and a scarf of a very pretty sky blue. I recollect that the civil costume suited you very well, but I like you better in uniform. It may be fancy, but I can't help it. I say that with the uniform and with the moustache you are, to my mind, just perfect."
Sundry significant coughs from the officers facing them paralysed him suddenly. But it did not affect him long, for he was incapable of being put to shame by anybody.
The one who was the most put out and cross was the ensign himself.
As the banquet drew to its close some of the gentlemen, favoured by the Muses, rose to propose toasts in verse or something approaching it. And those who had not a poetic vein congratulated the bridal pair in prose, but the result in either case was the same—to wish the bride and bridegroom an eternal honeymoon; and the periodical which announced the marriage the following day, also expressed the same wish. The toast of the father of the bride was the most original and interesting of all. Was it not strange to hear the bitter enemy of the armed force sing its praises, and declare himself a sworn partisan of the increase of the contingent, and the pay of the officers? He was so moved at his own words that the tears coursed down his cheeks. Of course some said he wept the wine he had drunk, but we are far from believing this malevolent insinuation, first, because it is absurd to talk of weeping wine, and secondly, because his tone was so sincere and his manner so pathetic that nobody could doubt that his words came from the bottom of his heart.
"It is a comfort," he said—"yes, it is a comfort that God has let me see my daughter marry an honourable soldier—for to speak of a soldier in Spain is to speak of honour. To keep up the army, to honour the army, is to keep up and honour the honour of the nation. To keep up the army is to keep up the power and prosperity of the country. To keep up the army is to keep up our prestige with the greatest nations of Europe. To keep up the army is to live respected by the world. To keep up the army is to keep up ourselves. To keep up the army——"
"Let the army be kept up, but let Don Cristobal sit down," called out somebody.
The Pensioner held his position, cast a look of sad reproach to the place whence the voice had come, raised his pocket handkerchief to his eyes to dry his tears, calmly drank the wine that remained in his glass, and gravely took his seat amid the applause and laughter of the company.
Fernanda did not open her lips during the dinner. All the efforts of Garnet, who, through the kindness of Emilita had been placed near to his much-desired lady love, were without effect. Neither by talking of saffron and describing how tobacco is gathered, making exact calculations on each load of sugar, and what would be the profit if duty were lowered, nor going over the hundred and one interesting details of the importation of salted meats from the Argentine Republic and the codfish from Newfoundland, could Romeo extract more than dry monosyllables from his Juliet. All she did was to hand him her glass from time to time, and say in an imperious tone: "Some more wine."
The Indian quickly complied with the request, and the young lady emptied the glass at one gulp, put it on the table, then cast her contemptuous eyes over the guests, and fixed them persistently upon Amalia. By degrees those eyes became heavier, the eyelids drooped, they became inflamed and turned from one side to the other with more difficulty.
Don Santos, who was astonished at this manner of drinking, ventured to say:
"Fernanda, you drink like a fish. Stupid! I am afraid I have offended you."
"Give me wine," returned Fernanda, giving him such a strange look that it quite upset him.
All the toasts having been now given, drunk, and responded to, the cheerful company again dispersed. The Pensioner and the officers averse to love-making were the only ones who remained at table. They entered into discussions on the best way of increasing, without much affecting the Treasury, captains' pay by eight dollars, lieutenants' by five, and ensigns' by three a month. Without this reform, the interested parties explicitly stated that there would very soon be a complete dissolution of the army, and it would cease to be the pivot of the honour of the country, and we should never rise to the dignity of other nations, nor have prosperity, power and honour in our lives.
Jaime Moro went in search of Fray Diego and Don Juan Estrada-Rosa and dragged them to the tresillo table. Don Juan had lost and so was reluctant, but the plausible fellow managed to convince him that the reason he had not won in the morning was because he, Moro, never lost at that time, but his luck always turned in the afternoon, so he had a good chance of winning now.
Seated at the end of the table was Manin, who, without interfering with the officers' conversation, employed himself in lazily cutting slices of bread with his clasp-knife, and putting large pieces in his mouth, which he washed down with long draughts of Burgundy left in the bottles. He did not approve of the dinner that Marañón, the master of the café of Altavilla, had supplied them. After stuffing like a savage, he said that all the dishes were just as if they came from the perfumers, and that where there was plenty of beans with black pudding, sausage and marrow bones, no macaroni was wanted. It must be observed that to Manin every dish he did not know was macaroni, which was a source of much amusement to the Grandee.
Whilst concluding the meal so indecorously, he kept up a stream of complaints against it, and Don Cristobal, at whom he cast sundry angry glances, seemed to be held in some degree responsible for it.
Suddenly the door was opened with a great clamour, and four girls rushed into the room in such a state of excitement that the little party was quite taken aback. Without paying any attention to the others, they all turned to Quiñones' majordomo:
"Manin, a bear! Manin, a bear!"
"Where?" he asked, without moving.
"In the wood."
"Who put it there?"
The four stood astounded at this strange question. At last one of them ventured timidly to remark:
"He came by himself."
"Bah! bah! bah!" returned the majordomo rudely.
And he returned to his lumps of bread with more ardour than ever, which perhaps justified malicious people of the town saying that they did not want to hear of the bears he had killed, for he was nothing but a rustic clown.
"But, child, say how you saw it," said the sympathetic Consuelo, who now put in her word, whereupon one who was paler than the others advanced and said with some difficulty:
"How fearful! Madre mia, how fearful! I thought I should have died—because you see the bear—the bear was horrible."
She was in such a state of panic, that she could only utter these incoherent words.
Then the resolute Consuelo came forward, and said in a firm voice:
"You see, Manin, this child was with us in the thickest part of the wood a long way off. She heard a bird sing, a mavis I believe—was it not a mavis? Very well, then she heard a thrush, and she turned in the direction whence the sound came. She went some distance, but could not come across it. When she turned back, the bear came out of the bushes, it attacked her, pulled her to the ground, and without doing her any harm, we do not know why, it went off and disappeared."
The famous bear-hunter then quietly rose from his seat, and said in the quiet, firm tone pertaining to heroes:
"Let us go and see what it is."
He asked for a gun, and followed from afar by the pallid damsels, he beat the wood. The only thing forthcoming was a German pig, one of a pair that the count had to improve the breed. The female had died, and the male wandered about sad and alone in the depths of the wood whilst his companion was metamorphosed into black puddings and chops. There were strong suspicions that the author of the attack was this widowed hog, but the young lady of the adventure swore and maintained that it had been a bear that had attacked her, and that they were not to tell her it was that animal, because she had often seen a bear in the zoological museum of the university.
Fernanda had gone off some time before with Garnet. They repaired to the garden. There the young lady took his arm and went several times up and down the same path, where she had seen the count and Amalia.
"You are very much in love with me. Is it not so?" she asked, suddenly.
The Indian surprised, murmured: "Oh! yes; they say that I am an ass, and it is true."
"And what do you feel. Come let us see. What do you feel? Explain yourself."
"I, what?" he exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, what do you feel when you see me? What do you feel when another man comes near me? Take the count for instance. What do you feel at this instant with my arm in yours? Describe me your sensations; what passes in your mind."
"I, señorita.... I don't know how to describe it. ....Your word is my law as much as if I were one of your family ... and it is the same with Don Juan your father, although he may be a bit cantankerous.... What does it signify to me if he be cantankerous or not? If I married you, I have a house thank God.... Yes, and it is not because I say it, but my house is worth more than his, as you know. But we would travel first, in France, Italy, England, whereever you like.... And if it cost us five thousand dollars, what would that matter?"
Garnet held forth for some time in this strain, and Fernanda turned a deaf ear to him. At last the boasting tone bored her, and she said, with a touch of anger:
"Will you be quiet, sir?"
Poor Don Santos was quite crushed, and they went on in silence for some time.
"How ugly all this is!"
"What?"
"Everything! The house, the wood, the meadows, the garden. See how hideous this magnolia is!"
"The house is very ugly, and very old; I have often said so. Still, they might give it a coat of whitewash and paint the balconies. The wood is worth nothing, it is no use, and it takes up space that would be valuable for garden produce, or wall fruit or such like."
Fernanda burst out laughing.
"Don't you suffer sometimes from sadness, Don Santos?"
"Sadness? never. I am always cheerful. Only once when I was robbed of eight thousand dollars by a knave I had an angry fit which lasted for two days."
"How ugly the sun is, now seen through the branches of the trees!"
"Would you like to return to the house?"
"No, take me to the river. I have a burning face, and I should like to refresh it with a little water."
They went down by the meadows to the river, and there the heiress of Estrada-Rosa, in spite of Don Santos' advice, bathed her face for some time. After she had dried it, they slowly ascended the path to the house.
"How am I now? All right, eh? You can't think how everything bores me here! I can't do any more; all this wearies me. I was not born to walk about the meadows like the cows. I like cities, salons, luxury. I should like to travel as you say and see Paris, London, Vienna. How stupid Lancia is! Is it not so? These eternal walks on the Bombé! That San Francisco Park! That tower of the Cathedral so black and so sad! Then always the same faces. The only amusing person in Lancia is yourself. Whenever I see you I cannot help smiling. Why do they call you Garnet? I think your colour is more like a turquoise. You had slaves there in America. Oh! how I should like to have slaves! It is so tiresome to ask for things as a favour! But, no, in America they have yellow fever. I should prefer to go to China."
The more she went on talking, the more excited she became, contradicting her own words, as her thoughts became more and more incoherent. Don Santos tried to make a remark, but she stopped him by putting her hand on his mouth.
"Let me talk, sir! I want to tell you all."
The Indian began to be anxious as the excitement of the girl went on increasing. She chattered away in a familiar, rude sort of way.
"Give me a cigar."
"Fernanda! A cigar! You will be ill."
"Silence! what are you saying fool? I sick! You are trying to annoy me! Give me a cigar or I will leave you here."
The Indian took out his case, and the pretty heiress took one, bit off the top with her sharp teeth, and asked for a match. Garnet gave her a lighted one, at the same time shaking his head in disapproval. When she had taken two or three whiffs, she made a gesture of disgust and exclaimed:
"What infamous cigars! Look, smoke it yourself."
And she put it in his mouth. There was no gesture of disgust with Garnet as he smoked it.
"I should think I will smoke it!" he said with a smile of beatitude. "They cost me two hundred dollars the thousand, but now you have tried one, they are worth a million."
"Come on and don't make impertinent speeches. Take me to the house. This glare sickens me."
They reached the courtyard arm in arm. There a young fellow called out to them:
"Where are you off to? The people are in the wood."
"Tell the people that I scorn them all," returned Fernanda, with an angry gesture that provoked a smile from the youth.
"You don't know the house?" she added, lowering her voice and turning to Don Santos. "Then I will be your guide, you shall see it."
They mounted the mouldy, shabby staircase, and Fernanda, chattering continuously, did the honours of all the rooms to the Indian.
"Here is the celebrated Countess's Chamber!" she exclaimed with a peculiar intonation when they reached it. "I am tired."
They went in and the girl shut the door.
"It is pretty, eh? It is the most beautiful and the brightest room in the house. If this furniture could only tell amusing secrets, it never would have done. Look, tell me something to make me laugh or you will see me cry like a very schoolgirl. See now, I am crying. Sit down here you silly. What a pretty waistcoat you have on! How well it shows the line of the figure! Look at this couch. It is large, eh? It is wide, it is beautiful, it is artistic. Look, then, I should like to burn it. To avoid sitting on it I am going to sit on your knees."
And she suited the action to the words. Garnet lost his head when he found himself with such a sweet burden, and with incredible audacity he put an arm round her waist.
The girl jumped up as if she had been pinched.
"What are you doing, you brute? Do you think that we are in the plantation and that I am some black wild creature?"
After looking at him for some time with angry eyes, her face cleared and her lips expanded in a sweet smile.
"Do you love me very much?"
"Of course not," said the Indian, in a teasing tone.
"Then you shall have one minute's happiness. See, I will let you give me a kiss, mind only one, and you must swear that nobody shall know about it."
The Indian made a solemn promise.
"Good! now give me the kiss here on the temple. The first and the last you will ever give me in your life. Wait a bit," she added once more jumping up. "For this kiss I am to give you fifty buffets on your purple cheeks. Do you agree to the compact?"
Garnet immediately consented. The young girl then reseated herself on his knees, and bent her head to receive the kiss.
"Good! now it is my turn!" she exclaimed with childish merriment. "Prepare to receive your buffets. What cheeks! Dios mio, how magnificent! Do you see how blue they are? Well, I am going to turn them green. Attention! One! the first. Two! the second. Three! the third. Four! Five!"
The strong, small hand of the beautiful vixen struck into the red cheeks of the Indian with no slight effect. His eyes began to get as red and angry as those of a wolf, his blood suddenly became inflamed, and with a sudden movement, he seized her roughly by the waist.
Fernanda uttered a terrified cry.
"What is the matter? Why are you angry?"
"Leave me, leave me, you brute!"
She struggled in desperation but she could not release herself.
Once more free, she was perfectly sober. She cast a vague, strange look at the Indian, and this look, suddenly assuming an expression of horror, was fixed upon him as upon some wild animal that had just attacked her.
"What are you doing here? Ah, yes!" she exclaimed raising her hand to her forehead. "My God! What has come to me? Am I dreaming?"
Then once more fixing her angry, menacing eyes upon him, she cried in a rage:
"What are you doing standing there? Leave the room immediately! Leave the room! leave the room!" she repeated with a voice which grew louder each time.
But when the Indian got as far as the door, she rushed before him, flew along the passages, and when she reached the staircase she fell down in a swoon.
She was lifted up and every care was bestowed upon her. When she recovered consciousness a torrent of tears streamed from her eyes, and continued all the afternoon. And when the party started for home she was still weeping.
"Did you see that this girl of Estrada-Rosa cried from the effects of wine?" said Captain Nuñez, laughing.
CHAPTER IX
THE MASQUERADE
Shortly before the rosy dawn opened wide the windows of the East, Satan, who rose in a mischievous humour, sent the most knavish and wanton of the demons to Lancia with orders to awaken it from its slumbers. So the minister of hell waved his black wings over the city, and gave vent to loud discordant laughter, which was effectual in arousing all the inhabitants from their dreams. They awoke with the most immoderate desires to upset, make fun of, and laugh at all ruling authorities, to improvise couplets, and say rude things. One of these people, we can imagine it must have been Jaime Moro, called his servant directly he had jumped out of bed, and asked him with a smiling countenance if Don Nicanor, the bass of the cathedral, would lend him his instrument. The servant without replying, instantly left the room, and soon reappeared with an enormous serpent (wind instrument) in his hands. And without any respect for his master, he applied the mouthpiece to his lips and produced a sound like the roaring of a lion. Moro, lightly attired as he was, made a pirouet and gave three or four taps of the heel in sign of great appreciation, as if that barbarous sound had touched the most delicate fibres of his heart. After trying himself to produce the same noise and ascertaining that he was quite equal to the achievement, he dressed himself, and after taking a hurried breakfast, he sallied into the street, wrapped in his cloak, under the folds of which he had put the instrument that had so delighted him. He stopped everybody with a mysterious wink, and retiring to the nearest portico, he, full of excitement, showed them his hidden treasure. Nobody asked what he was going to do with it. They smiled, squeezed his hand significantly, and whispered in his ear:
"When is it to be?"
"To-night. The carriage leaves at twelve."
"They will escape us."
"Bah! all precautions are taken."
And he went on his way muffled up to the eyes, for the cold was indeed diabolical.
The others not only smiled and pressed his hand, but each of them took from the pockets of his overcoat or from inside his gabardine some powerful instrument, albeit of an inferior kind to the above-mentioned one, and Moro applauded and praised each one, without boasting of his own superiority. And so he continued his round-about and tiring walk until he arrived not at Don Romana's confectioner's shop, which was the usual glorious termination of his morning expeditions, but at the house of Paco Gomez. The place resounded with the quick steps and many voices of a number of busy young people. They were all working with great energy, and with a diligence rarely seen in workshops. Some were cutting out banners, others were moulding cardboard masks, some were painting black letters on the sides of a lantern, some were dressing up two guy figures in gorgeous attire, and some were trying the mouthpieces of various wind instruments and serpents similar to that brought by Moro. The scene of action was an immense dismantled room. Paco Gomez lived in the palace of a marquis, to whom his father was majordomo and who never came to Lancia. The implacable practical joker was a vigilant and careful director of all the work of his companions, leaving the room every minute to give orders to the servants, or to receive some message sent to him. Never was he more indefatigable. He was generally rather disagreeable, and even with his jokes he brought to bear a certain scornful manner, either real or assumed, that made him more formidable. But now he strained every nerve in the matter, for it was a question of the most stupendous and best-arranged farce that the town of Lancia had ever witnessed since the monks of San Vicente came to found it. The cause of it was that Fernando Estrada-Rosa was to marry (the pen scarcely dares write it), Fernanda Rosa was to marry (how difficult it is to say it), was to marry Garnet!
From the time of the memorable scene at the Grange, Fernanda lived in a stupor of misery, in a depression of body and soul that alarmed her father. The doctor was sent for, and he said it was nothing more than a nervous attack, which would be cured by a journey to the court, drives and amusements. But the girl absolutely refused to try these remedies. She declined drives, theatres, parties, and, still more, a journey anywhere. She only went from her room to the dining-room, and from thence to her father's room, where she only stayed a short time. She had no energy to go on to the second floor, nor spirit to enter into, and direct the duties of the servants. She was mostly shut up in her own room, where she had nothing to do, and she would throw herself into a chair and remain for a long time motionless with her hands on her knees and her eyes fixed. Sometimes she began to read, but finding that the book conveyed nothing to her mind, she ended by casting it aside. Sometimes she appeared at the window, and remained whole hours with a miserable face upon the balcony, whilst her eyes were fixed on space, or on a point of the street without seeing the passers by, or replying to the many greetings made to her, or noticing that she was making herself an object of curiosity to the neighbours. But all at once she was seized with a desire to go to Madrid, and the journey had to be arranged instantly. She expressed her wish in the morning, and by the evening the father and daughter were in the diligence, so eager and vehement had the girl been in demanding the journey. Once started, her state of mind was completely changed. She threw herself madly and wildly into all the pleasures of Madrid that were attractive to a rich, beautiful, provincial girl. She passed two months in the intoxication of theatres, drives, grand evening parties, and concerts. A nervous sort of cheerfulness seemed suddenly to have taken possession of her, and she appeared happy in the midst of the noise and whirl of society, where she was soon known by the nickname of "The African." To add to the gaiety of her life, she liked to dine at cafés and restaurants like a dissipated youth. Don Juan was divided betwixt his pleasure of seeing her contented, and the acute sense of discomfort that the disorganised life, so contrary to his usual habits, and age, caused him.
One afternoon, as they were returning from the drive on the Prado, Fernanda suddenly began sobbing violently. Don Juan was astonished and taken aback, for she had been laughing all the afternoon, and making fun of a certain youth who persisted in following the carriage.
"What has come to you? Fernanda, my daughter!"
The girl did not reply. With her handkerchief to her eyes, and her body shaken by her sobs, she only wept more bitterly.
"Fernanda! por Dios! people are looking at you!"
The crying then changed to an attack of nerves, and Don Juan told the coachman to drive home at once. But before arriving there, the young girl ceased weeping, raised her head, and said in a tone of determination:
"Papa, I want to go back to Lancia!"
"All right, my daughter; we will go to-morrow."
"No, no; I want to go now, at once."
"But think, there is only one hour before the train goes."
"There is plenty of time."
There was nothing to be done but to have their things packed in the trunks and to rush in haste to the station, and the nerves of the excited girl were only somewhat calmed when the whistle of the engine announced their departure and they were off over the arid tracts of land outside Madrid.
The day following her arrival at Lancia, she did not appear to greet her father, nor to take chocolate with him as usual. When the father was thinking of calling her, a servant suddenly entered his room looking pale and agitated.
"The señorita is taken very ill!"
Don Juan repaired to his daughter's apartment, and found her in all the agonies of violent sickness.