"Quick! fetch the doctor!" cried the poor father.
Fernanda made a negative gesture, and weakly muttered: "No; send for the father confessor."
But no notice was taken of this remark. The doctor came, and after carefully considering the case, he called Don Juan aside and said to him:
"Your daughter has taken a large quantity of laudanum."
"For what?" asked the father without understanding.
"For the reason that these quantities are generally taken—to poison herself."
"Daughter of my soul! what have you done?" cried the unhappy parent, and he was about to rush back to his daughter's room, but the doctor detained him.
"She is in no danger now. She has brought up all the poison, and with the medicine I am going to give her she will soon be quite herself. The important thing now is to avoid a repetition of the act."
"Oh, no! I will see about that."
And he ran to his daughter's room, but he could not get a word out of her; she persisted in asking for the father confessor. At last he went himself to fetch the priest, and soon returned with him.
During the confession Don Juan walked up and down the wide corridor of the house, a prey to burning curiosity. At last the father confessor appeared, and without replying to the father's dumb look of inquiry, he took him by the hand and conducted him to his own room, where they shut themselves in. When they came out at the end of an hour the old banker's cheeks were on fire, his white hair was in disorder, and his eyes showed signs of weeping. He bade farewell to the canon on the staircase and went back to his room, where he remained with the door locked. There he stayed all day and all night, without heeding the messages that his daughter sent him to come and see her.
The father confessor offered himself to interview Garnet and make all the arrangements. The Indian chuckled with delight when he learnt what was wanted. But his plebeian nature and avarice, which had always been his ruling passion, turned his head. When the canon came to discuss the matter with him, he found him completely changed; he hesitated, grunted, shook his head, talked in broken phrases of the luxury that Fernanda had been brought up to, and of the great expenses accruing to matrimony. In short, he asked for a dot. The father confessor, who was a just man, full of feeling, could not contain himself before such low conduct, and he overwhelmed him with insults. But the churl did not mind that. Being sure of Don Juan's daughter, he stood his ground, laughed like a beast, scratched his head, and muttered some coarse remark which increased the canon's anger.
When, with many evasions, he had to acquaint Don Juan with what had happened, the disgraced parent was nearly mad with despair and anger. He tore his hair, used very strong language, and spoke of shooting his daughter and then himself. With much trouble the canon succeeded in calming him. At last he listened to reason and the negotiations went on, and after disputing like merchants over the amount of the dot, it was settled what it should be, and Garnet consented to give his toad-like hand to the most highly prized girl in Lancia at that time.
But the worst had to come. Fernanda had to be told. When she learnt that a marriage was arranged between her and Don Santos, she was utterly overwhelmed with dismay, and she fainted away. When she came to, she plainly said that she would never do it, no, not if they flayed her alive. Neither her father confessor's remarks, nor the prospect of disgrace, nor the tears of her father, could persuade her. It was only when she saw her frantic parent put the mouth of the revolver to his temple to take his life, that she rushed to stop him, promising to accede to his wish. And this was how this unnatural marriage came about.
When the noble sons of Lancia learnt the arrangement, they were all overwhelmed with disgust. An immense wave of shame swept into their cheeks. This wave of feeling only came to Lancia with such marked effect when there was a question of fate favouring some Lancian more than was just. If somebody drew a successful lottery ticket, or got some good appointment, or if it were a question of a marriage with a rich woman, or a great success in business, or somebody got famous by his talent, the fine perspicacity of the inhabitants of Lancia was in revolt, and at once set to work to depreciate the money, the talent, the instruction or the industry of the neighbour, and to put things in their true light. Such a feeling might easily be confounded with envy, nevertheless the truly observant would soon gather from the remarks in the gatherings at shops and in the gossips in the streets, that it was only love, albeit it might be too warm, which prompted them to deteriorate the merits of their neighbours and thus generously to renounce the reflected glory which might have accrued to them from a false conception of their value. The marriage of Garnet caused profound astonishment, which was followed by an outcry of indignation. Never were the cheeks of Lancians so dyed with shame as they were at that moment; not even when the press of Madrid happened to eulogise a certain comedy written by a son of the place. What rude remarks ensued, first against Don Juan, and then against Fernanda! Strange to relate, the young men were wild with rage; they maintained that legislation was deficient if it had no power to prevent such unnatural proceedings. The result of all this was that the turbulent feelings aroused by the news were to be vented by the youths of Lancia in a stupendous farce, of which we have witnessed the inaugurations, to testify to their profound disgust at such an out-of-the-way marriage.
The persons concerned heard of the plan, and they tried to evade the blow by keeping the day of the ceremony secret, and then to have it celebrated outside the place. But their precautions were of no avail. The young men found out that the marriage was to be in the early days of February at the estate that Estrada-Rosa had, half a mile from Lancia. Spies were placed in the Calle de Altavilla and round about Garnet's house to prevent them going off unobserved, and a thousand ingenious plans for the annoyance of the bridal pair were hatched in the most fertile brains of the town. As the preparations for the carnival were at the same time, it was decided that the first blow should be in the form of a great burlesque masquerade that was to leave the house of Paco Gomez at twelve o'clock and parade the streets. In a carriage drawn by four oxen arrayed in pink calico, with their horns adorned with branches there were three mummers which were supposed to represent Fernanda Estrada-Rosa, her father, and Garnet, the latter in a cocked hat. From time to time the carriage stopped, and they performed such a ridiculous farce that the people roared with delight, and crowds gathered to witness it. Fernanda was made to kiss Garnet with transports of enthusiasm, and he being smaller could only encircle her with his arms below her waist, and Don Juan meanwhile was laughing and shaking a bag of money. Occasionally another mummer appeared from the bottom of the carriage, and he was supposed to represent the Conde de Onis. He gave Fernanda a kiss, turned his back on Garnet, and then vanished as quickly as he came. As this pantomime was to be performed in the Calle de Altavilla, in front of Estrada-Rosa's very house, the scandal was dreadful, and the crowds immense. Don Juan in a paroxysm of anger acquainted the Governor, who was a great friend of his, with the facts, and determined to leave with Fernanda the next day. The malicious youths, who had foreseen this determination, had contrived means to render it ineffectual, and they had prepared as we have seen a grand performance of rough music for the night.
It had to be ready betimes, for the marriage had not yet taken place, but they did not want them to escape without it. Armed then with as many noisy instruments as they could muster, with great glass slides on which were painted the same grotesque figures of the carriage, with coarse designations below, three hundred youths assembled in Altavilla with torches in their hands, and they were accompanied by half the people of the place, who encouraged them with their laughter. The noise was horrible. When it ceased, a voice was heard to shout some indecent couplet, upon which the hilarity became outrageous. Lieutenant Rubio, always original, crept along the cornice of the chapel of San Fructuoso, situated almost in front of Estrada-Rosa's house, and rang a bell. Paco Gomez went swiftly from one group to another prompting them in the most insulting couplets, so that the chief points should be given in the loudest tones. Moro went on blowing his serpent enough to hurt his lungs, whilst the Chatterbox who had been one of the most active promoters of the "rough music," treacherously entered the house of Don Juan, pretending to come like a faithful friend, when in reality he was spying out what was going on there. But the political chief thought it was time to officiate as Neptune and calm the stormy waves. When the "rough music" had got so far, he sent to Altavilla, Nola, the head of the municipal guards, accompanied by two of the company, who happened to be Lucan the Florén and Pepe le Mota, with orders to stop the scandal and clear the street. The Lancians had long given up recognising the divine origin of authority, when it was represented by Florén, or Pepe le Mota. And not only did they cast a doubt upon their right divine, but when they saw them from afar the spirit of rebellion seemed to increase. Was this because the Lancians were predestined by the blind impulses of their nature to war against the established order? It is not very probable. None of the historians of Lancia have noted rebellion against institutions as an especial characteristic of the race. It is more natural to suppose that what irritated them most was the nose of Nola, which was just like the button of an electric bell, and the unpleasant voice of Lucan the Florén, and the monstrously bent legs of Pepe le Mota. Besides, these respectable agents of government authority were quite cognisant of the anarchical tendencies manifested sometimes by the people of Lancia. But they never thought that their appearing without proper precautions among the crowd of Altavilla, would entail their leaving it without truncheons, without sabres, without kepis, and with buffeted cheeks. Nevertheless, such is the recorded account.
The political chief, not wishing to submit blindly to the decrees of fate, sent immediately for the lieutenant of the civil guard to come with eight of his company, to avenge the unfortunate Nola, Lucan, Florén, and Pepe le Mota. Inflamed with success the harlequins of Altavilla tried to resist. In the meanwhile the lieutenant, a prey to martial ardour, ordered all swords to be unsheathed, and with a fierce smile he charged upon the crowd like a wild boar, and all the Lancians were terrified at the sight. There was a strong tendency to retire from the field of battle, but at that moment somebody infused courage into their hearts by holding out deceptive hopes of victory. "Down with the civilians!" "Down with the cocked hats!" "Death to the potato-face!" Such were the seditious cries that issued from the throats of those rash youths. And some stones were thrown at the same time. The trombones, bassoons, and cornets à piston, of which the harmonious strains had accompanied so many mazurkas in the bosom of peace, were suddenly transformed into warlike weapons, shining formidably in the light of the torches. The cocked hat of the lieutenant was struck ignominiously to the ground by one of them. Whereupon he picked it up, and his bellicose spirit was so stirred, that a line of foam encircled his lips, and he rushed into the battle with his eyes aflame and breathing hardly. Then the youths of Lancia rallied with renewed vigour, whilst menacing cries filled the air, and the swords of the civilians were soon heard upon some of their backs.
The retreat of the fine young fellows of Lancia on that memorable night, when pursued by the bloodthirsty civilians, was like the flight of a herd of deer from jackals.
The ground was strewn with bronze instruments, witnesses of the fray. The indomitable lieutenant gave vent to his anger for some time in the streets, animating his company with strong interjections, and urging his party on to the pursuit of the rebels, like a hunter calling his pack of hounds in pursuit of a stag.
Thus it was that Paco Gomez, being persistently followed by cocked hats, found himself obliged to avoid a blow by jumping into the larder of the confectioner shop of Don Romana, where he fell headlong to the ground on a dish of soft eggs, and completely destroyed a magnificent burrage tart destined for the precentor of the cathedral. And it was the same with Jaime Moro, who, after losing Don Nicanor's serpent in the fray, narrowly escaped being immolated by the magnificent sabre of a civilian. It was only by taking the precaution of lowering his head, when the blow was struck, that he escaped an effusion of blood. The sword came in contact with the wall of a house, doing no little damage thereby; and months afterwards, Moro delighted in showing as a trophy the piece that was broken away, to strangers who came to Lancia, and with the relation of his prowess on that memorable night, his heroic heart was filled with pleasure.
Many others of those magnanimous youths underwent considerable discomfort from their conduct; some from the sword-cuts, and the majority from the falls and the shocks which resulted from the disbandment. Nevertheless the victory was not gratuitous for the agents of the government.
Besides the destruction of the cocked hat of the lieutenant, and several contusions of his subordinates, the constitutional power suffered an important reverse in the person of one of its oldest representatives—in the person of Nola, the head of the municipals. As we know, this person, who was so unpopular in Lancia on account of the shortness and excessive roundness of his nose, lost in the first struggle his kepis, his sword, and the honour of his cheeks. Anger and revenge reigned in his heart. But he could not do anything to gratify these feelings, because he was deprived of all coercive means. Instead, however, of prudently retiring to the portal of the Ecclesiastical Court, like Florén and Pepe le Mota, he remained in the middle of the street contemplating the battle with anxiety, and on seeing that it was going in favour of the institutions that he represented, delight overflowed his municipal heart.
"Good luck to the guardians! Long may they have it! Down with the rabble! These vagabonds are punished for once!"
Such were the bellicose cries that issued from his throat. Nevertheless, when least expected, considering that his enemies were flying in complete confusion, he received a blow on his button of a nose from what turned out to be the smooth, compact surface of a piece of lime. The whole of his nervous system was affected by the blow, and being unable to withstand such a shock, he fell senseless to the ground, after his brave spirit managed to utter the melancholy remark, "I am undone! These shameless fellows have done for me!"
So fell that valiant supporter of order, that brave fellow, who had always been victorious in his incessant struggles with the vagabonds of the suburbs. He was lifted up and taken into Don Matia's apothecary's shop which happened to be near. From thence he was taken to the hospital, and the town lost its protecting shield for some days, for neither Lucan el Florén nor Pepe le Mota could be compared with Nola in energy. Whilst these events were going on in Altavilla and the adjacent streets, Don Juan Estrada-Rosa, a prey to indescribable rage, was pacing his room and tearing his hair. The hypocritical consolations of the Chatterbox, or as he was also termed the Magpie of Sierra, were powerless to calm him; and he talked of rushing into the street and avenging himself upon the insolent mob.
"What has my poor daughter done to them?" he exclaimed with a trembling voice which nearly broke into sobs.
Fernanda had retired early to her room and gone to bed. It is difficult to know whether the excitement in the street conveyed anything to her or not. When Don Juan after a sudden resolution went up to her room to waken her, the eyes which encountered the candle that he lighted, were dry and brilliant, without signs of having either slept or wept. He told her to dress immediately, and he gave orders to the servants to light all the lights of the house, so as to deceive those without, and he then went out with her by the coachhouse door which led into a little solitary street. They were only accompanied by Manuel Antonio, and they went by the quietest streets to the house of the Pensioner. Once there, they sent a message to Don Santos for him to come immediately and another to the father confessor. When they had both arrived, the father, daughter, and these two gentlemen, with Manuel Antonio and Jovita Mateo, sallied forth secretly from Lancia by the high-road of Castille. After going some way they waited for the coach that Don Juan had ordered. The six had to manage as best they could in the little carriage, and it fell to Manuel Antonio's lot to sit on the box. Half an hour later they were at the banker's country-house. An altar was quickly erected, and before the morning broke, the father confessor blessed the union of the affianced pair. Fernanda did not open her lips the whole way, and she preserved the same silence during the preparations for the ceremony. She appeared tranquil, in a state of absolute indifference, or rather of somnolence, like a person who having been violently awakened from a dream is hardly conscious of what is going on around. And this lethargy continued after pronouncing the "Yes" before the altar. Neither the affectionate, eloquent conversation of the priest, nor the incessant jokes of Manuel Antonio during the breakfast, nor the caresses of Jovita, nor the assumed rough sort of cheerfulness of her father, could draw her from her strange absence of mind. The day broke, a sad, foggy day that filtered through the windows in a melancholy fashion. They all did their best to seem cheerful; they talked in a loud voice, they made fun of the servant's dullness, and Manuel Antonio's fear of some contretemps. Nevertheless, a deep sadness pervaded the atmosphere. When there was a pause in the conversation, the brows wrinkled and the countenances darkened, and when it was resumed the words sounded melancholy in the luxurious dining-room.
The bride retired to change her dress, and she soon reappeared with the same impassive demeanour.
According to Don Juan's arrangements they were to go immediately to the next town and there take the postchaise. The insulting people of Lancia were thus to be frustrated. When they went down to the garden, where the carriage was waiting, a cold, fine rain was falling. Fernanda kissed her father and got into the carriage. On receiving that kiss on his cheek, the poor old man felt as if a current of cold air passed through him paralysing his members and freezing his heart.
The priest cried:
"Good-bye, Fernanda, take care of yourself, Fernanda. Good-bye, Santos. Come back soon."
And so they were off. In less than an hour they arrived at Meres, waited for the diligence, and got in. The attentions of Garnet could not provoke a smile or gracious word from the lips of his bride, but his grotesque gestures and the nonsense that he talked sometimes brought a look of fatigue and disgust into the young girl's marble face. She slept at intervals or looked with vacant eyes at the landscape. When they arrived at the neighbourhood of Leon it was night.
But what happened at Leon? On arriving at the place, where the diligence changed horses, they found a large crowd of people, they heard rough voices and the discordant sound of musical instruments with the jingling of bells, and large transparent pictures were seen waving over the crowd.
Paco Gomez, being richer in resources than Ulysses, had written beforehand to some friends of his at Leon, suggesting that they should organise some rough music when Garnet and his bride passed that way. Everything was in readiness. Nevertheless the preparations would have come to naught had it not been for the treachery of Manuel Antonio, for on his arrival at Lancia he secretly made Paco acquainted with all that was taking place. Whereupon Gomez profited by the telegraphic communication, recently instituted, and put himself in communication with his followers. Fernanda was some time in realising that this excitement was on her account, but when some cries that reached her ears made her sensible of the fact she turned pale, her eyes dilated, and uttering a cry she threw herself against the little window with the intent of throwing herself out, but Garnet caught her by the waist. The young girl struggled for some moments in fury, but not being able to free herself from those strong bear-like arms, she threw herself back in the seat, covered her face with her hands, and burst into passionate sobbing.
Dios mio! Her sin had indeed been great, but what a fearful punishment!
CHAPTER X
FIVE YEARS AFTER
Five years have passed. The noble city of Lancia has changed little in appearance and still less in customs; several gilded cages in the form of gorgeous houses, built with Indian money round about the San Francisco Park; foot-ways in various streets that never had them in former times, three more lamps in the Plaza de la Constitución; a supplementary municipal guard that owed its existence, less to the necessities of the service, than to the efforts of the justice of the peace, a fellow of excellent ideas almost entirely devoted to Venus, and whose propitiatory sacrifices to Vulcan were only made at the expense of the municipality; in the Bombé promenade a few bronze statues with falling drapery of which the erection caused great scandal, and the magistrate Saleta was informed at the Grandee's evening party that the half nude was a hundred times more suggestive than the complete; a few silver threads in the heads of our old acquaintances; and the radiant countenance of Manuel Antonio, the most fetching of all the sons of the famous city, showed signs that his beauty was on the wane, like a dream fading in the cold wind of morning, or snowdrops falling in the silence of a day in winter.
The same vegetative, dull, sleepy life; the same gatherings in the shop-parlours, where the sweets of slander were regaled; and personal nicknames still weighed like lead upon the well-being of several respectable families. On sunny afternoons there were the same groups of clerics and military airing themselves in the Bombé. The great bells of the cathedral continued to peal at certain hours, when old lady-devotees were seen hastily wending their way to the service of the rosary, or nones, and the monotonous voice of the canons sounded solemnly in the silence of the old vaulted aisles.
In Altavilla at the evening hour the eternal groups of youths still laughed and talked in loud tones still loth to let any pretty dressmaker, or plump servant-maid pass by without rendering them homage with their eyes or lips, and not seldom with their hands. And there in the heights of the firmament there were the same clusters of greyish clouds heaped together in solemn silence over the old cathedral to listen on melancholy autumn nights to the wind moaning through the high tin arrow on the tower. We are in November. The Conde de Onis was accustomed to ride on dull days as well as fine. The society of men pleased him less and less. His character had become more secretive and melancholy. Sin had destroyed the feeble germs of cheerfulness which nature had put in his heart. The gloomy, extravagant, fanatical temperament of the Gayosos had been increased by the incessant gnawing of remorse, his imagination was distorted, his slight activity enervated, and his whole existence darkened.
People worried him. He imagined hostility in their glances, and he saw hidden meanings in their most innocent remarks that made his blood boil with rage. He never dared enter churches, nor fall on his knees as formerly before the bleeding crucifix in his mother's room. If he heard hell mentioned, he fled in terror. He gave plentiful alms to churches, and paid for Masses he never heard; he put candles before the images, and in the privacy of his chamber he puerilely amused himself in asking fate, by the tossing of money, whether he would be eternally damned or whether he would only go to purgatory. When he heard the chant of priests going to a funeral he grew pale, trembled and stopped his ears. At night he would suddenly jump up from sleep in a cold sweat, crying miserably: "There is nothing but death, nothing but death!" For some time he lived thus in almost utter retirement without going out more than he was made to by her, whose will ruled his own. But at last his suffering became too intense, and he feared his gloomy thoughts would upset his reason, so he took to riding or walking in the country until he was tired out. The physical fatigue relieved his mind, and the sight of nature soothed his tormented imagination.
It was a dark, cold evening. The clouds pressed heavily upon the hills looking towards the north, and hid the high mountains of Lorrin that stretch like a distant curtain in the west. Heavy rains had fallen converting the low part of the town into a lagoon, and the roads, which went from thence, into seas of mud. In spite of this, the count ordered his horse to be saddled. He left Lancia by the Castilian Road, and galloped amid splashes of mud across meadows and chestnut woods. The yellow leaves of the trees shone like gold, a thousand little streams made their uncertain way down the base of the hill where the waters were deposited on the pasture land with its gentle soft green undulations. A darker fringe marked the stream of the Lora, which hides itself mysteriously under the osiers and thick lines of alder trees. The count, with his head thrown back and his eyes half closed, inhaled with delight the fresh humidity of the afternoon. The road flanked the hill in gentle decline. Before crossing it, and losing sight of the town, he stopped his horse and cast a look back. Lancia was a heap, albeit not large, of red roofs over which waved the dark arrow on the cathedral spire. Below was a yellow spot—the oak-wood of the Grange, and a little lower down were the old orange-coloured turrets of his solitary house. The rain had ceased. A cold wind dispersed the clouds and scattered them behind the mountains; the sky became clear with the pale blue of autumn days, and a few stars appeared like diamonds in the horizon. The trees, mountains, streams and verdure-clad valley shone indistinctly under the clearness of the twilight. The count again put his horse to a gallop and quickly descended the hill which hid Lancia from view. The wind affected his senses and whistled in his ears producing a sweet intoxication that dissipated the black clouds of his imagination. Along the muddy road he only met a stray herd of cattle with its driver, or a waggon drawn leisurely by oxen, in which the carter carelessly slept at the bottom. But before turning a corner he thought he heard the distant sound of wheels and bells. It was the coach that arrived at Lancia in the evening. As it passed by him, he cast an absent glance into the interior, two large shining eyes encountered his own, which gave him a sort of an electric shock. He quickly turned his head again, but there was nothing then to be seen but the back of the coach disappearing in the distance. He pulled the rein of his horse and followed it, but after a few moments in a stunned sort of way stopped ashamed, and went on with his ride.
"It must be Fernanda." A passing, but very definite feeling told him the fact. Nevertheless he might be mistaken. He had heard no news of her arrival. He knew that she had been a widow for some months. Garnet had at last met his end like an ox from a fit of apoplexy. But at the same time everybody knew that the widow of the Indian bore a deadly hatred against Lancia ever since the humiliating practical joke that her compatriots had played on her at the time of her marriage. The fact of her not having come there at the death of her father the preceding year was a clear proof of it. The Count thought of all this for some minutes, and then put it from his mind, for his thoughts were changed by the sight of a dark thick cloud which presaged another storm. But something indefinite and sweet remained in his mind, which put him in a good humour. He turned the horse and arrived at Lancia very late in the evening, very tired, and covered with mud; but his heart was light and cheerful without his knowing why.
Fernanda never hesitated for an instant. She saw him, and knew him so well, that she even noticed the marks that time and care had left upon his face. He seemed older, and she thought she saw silver streaks in his long red beard. At the same time she was agreeably impressed by the suffering, anxiety, and sadness that she read in the eyes that rested an instant upon her. The memory of her old fiancé had always remained green in the depths of her heart. Neither treachery, scorn, nor the thousand distractions to which she resorted in her frivolous, restless, Parisian life had been able to destroy it. If she had found happiness in the power of wealth and health, she would not have been open to that soft wave of sympathy which delighted her for an instant. In such perverse pleasure in the count's sadness there was the bitterness of the slighted woman, but there was also a certain breezy, vapourous feeling like hope, which sang and laughed in her soul, and dissipated the black thoughts which had accumulated in her mind. It was necessity, and not will which obliged her to return to Lancia where she had vowed never again to set her foot. Her husband had made a will in her favour, which his brothers had disputed, and the consequence was a lawsuit, which was soon given in her favour.
She came accompanied by an old servant of her father's, whom she had made her dame de compagnie, and a majordomo. From Madrid she had telegraphed to a cousin who, with Manuel Antonio, two of the daughters of Mateo, and a few more friends were awaiting her arrival on the badly paved Place of the Post, where the diligence stopped. And then followed embraces, huggings and kisses, questions, exclamations and tears. The offended heiress of Estrada-Rosa never thought she could have felt so much pleasure in returning to her native place. In the ardour of their affection, her friends almost carried her off to her house. There they all left her with the exception of Emilita Mateo, to whom Fernanda signed to remain. Then the two friends, with their arms round each other's waists, went slowly up that wide polished staircase which Fernanda had so often trod as a child with bare feet. They soon shut themselves in the old library of Estrada-Rosa to enjoy an hour of sweet confidences. Amid smiles, kisses, and vows of eternal friendship the history of those five years was told. Fernanda talked of her late husband in a tone that lapsed from compassionate to depreciative, for she had lived with him in a state of antagonism of ideas and tastes that had kept them apart. She had been neither happy nor miserable. They had been five years of excitement, filled with crowded streets, splendid theatres, magnificent hotels, gorgeous dresses, many acquaintances, and not a single friend. Her husband devoted himself to the satisfaction of her fancies like some wild bear who obeys the whip of the keeper with growls. They had had one child that had died at four months old.
The skittish Emilita was very unhappy in her marriage. Nuñez had turned out a fast man. Fernanda knew something about it, but not much. It is not easy to go into certain significant details in letters. He began very well, but then he went wrong with bad companions; at first he took to gambling, then to drinking, then he went after women, and it was this last that Emilita felt so deeply. She had willingly pardoned him all the rest. She had borne his coming home drunk in the early hours of the morning, she had pawned her earrings and her mantilla for him, but she could not stand seeing him going into the house of a bad woman who lived in the Calle de Cerrajerías. On saying this the Pensioner's daughter burst into a torrent of tears. The sight of her trouble was the more distressing, as a piquant sort of cheerfulness had always been her peculiar characteristic. Fernanda caressed her tenderly and wept with her. After some minutes silence she said:
"But do you go on loving him?"
"Yes, girl, yes," she exclaimed with rage, "I cannot help it. I am more and more blindly in love."
"Well, por Dios! Your poor father must be very much put out."
"As you can imagine! And the worst of it is," she added, weeping bitterly, "that now he has returned to his mania against the army. He says awful things about soldiers! Yes, yes, awful! Directly I enter the house he begins going on, on purpose to annoy me. My sisters support him. They call us idle good-for-nothings, and say that the contingent ought to be reduced."
Here the tender heart of the wife of Nuñez was torn with sobs. Fernanda, who had also cried at the sight of her affliction, could not help smiling.
"Your sisters, too?"
"I should think so! They all—they all want it to be reduced!"
When the daughter of Estrada-Rosa had shown her that the reduction of the land forces was not so easy as it seemed, her spirits gradually rose. Then they arranged a surprise for the Lancian society. Fernanda was to appear that evening without previous announcement at the house of Quiñones. The idea filled them both with childish delight, and after concerting the details, Emilita went off, promising to return and fetch her friend. It was ten o'clock when they both mounted the stone steps, which were as damp as ever, of the large seignorial stairway of the Quiñones. On arriving at the top, Emilita would not let the servant announce them, but opened the door herself, and pushed Fernanda in. She was an apparition calculated to throw all the guests into ecstasies. The daughter of Estrada-Rosa was resplendent in a most elegant dress from one of the first modistes of Paris. Her beauty, which her compatriots had only known in the bud, had blossomed during the five years of refined and elegant life into a magnificent rose. She had always been admired for the dignity of her bearing, the brilliancy of her large dark eyes, and the delicacy of her skin, but her beauty had acquired in Paris the necessary adjuncts of the most finished manners, and a perfect taste in dress—two distinctions she would never have attained in Lancia. Her black silk dress revealed her neck and shoulders, and a few strings of pearls, twisted in her hair, were all the ornaments she wore. Amalia was the first to see her, and the sight of her beauty caused a sudden chill at her heart, but she recovered herself immediately and ran to greet her.
"Oh! I knew you had arrived, but I never thought you would be so kind as——"
Their eyes met and that glance revealed the hatred that burned in the depth of their souls. But circumstances were changed. Five years ago Amalia had been the most elegant and distinguished lady of the place; the only one whose bearing and refinement of manners had raised her to a more cultivated and spiritual sphere. But Fernanda now had the advantage of her, for the former had visibly aged. Many silver threads were noticeable in her hair; her complexion, always pale, had lost its freshness; then her desire and taste for dress had palled, and she had gone on taking the tone of the ordinary commonplace society surrounding her, and so had become more and more careless of her appearance. A bitter smile wreathed her lips, as she exchanged the necessary greetings with Fernanda, who enjoyed her triumph with a grave, serene content.
The ladies immediately surrounded her. There was a rush of kisses and embraces, accompanied with loud expressions of delight. The men, who formed a circle behind, also stretched out their hands and pressed that of the beautiful traveller. And between so many congratulatory and pleasant greetings, and either from forgetfulness or shame, nobody dared make any remark about the loss that the young girl had recently sustained, and so there was no allusion made to the cross old bear who slept his eternal sleep in a cemetery at Paris. When the excitement of the greetings had somewhat abated, Amalia took her smilingly by both hands and exclaimed as her eyes swept over her costume:
"Do you know mourning is very elegant in Paris?"
Fernanda made a moue of disdain.
"Dress is of little importance if mourning is in the heart," said Maria Josefa, whose tongue had grown considerably sharper in the five years that had passed.
Fernanda's cheeks flushed red. She was as ashamed as if it were a crime at not feeling the loss of Garnet. Then, irritated by the sense of antagonism, she was on the point of showing her vexation; but she turned her back and began talking to some other ladies.
At that moment the Conde de Onis came out of the library and advanced to greet her. She gave him her hand with an affectionate smile. Nevertheless, the dark circles round her eyes betrayed her emotion. To hide her feelings she went on to the library saying with assumed levity that she would leave them all as she much wished to see Don Pedro.
The noble Grandee was sitting in his chair with the cards in his hand. His hair and his beard were white, but just as erect and fierce-looking as ever. His energetic features seemed more marked; his piercing eyes shone with a fiercer fire. Moving with difficulty his great athletic body, so helpless in the lower limbs, the lines of his face were distorted with an expression of ferocious impotence that inspired sadness and fear. But if he was broken down in body, his proud spirit, seemed only to assert itself the more remarkably. His respect for himself at bearing the name of Quiñones increased every day, with his scorn for all other people born under the stigma of any other name. Being profoundly thankful to Heaven for the favour accorded him, he would have thought it a sin to envy other men the power of using their legs. What was the good of Juan Fernandez being able to walk, run and jump if, after all, he was only named Juan Fernandez? The only thing that troubled him sometimes was whether it was befitting the dignity of a Quiñones to have utterly helpless extremities, and if it would not be preferable for them to participate in the glory of the rest of his body. But such unpleasant thoughts were put away by thinking that dead or alive, those extremities occupied a superior position in society.
When Fernanda entered the library he fixed his eyes on her, and gave her a look, which took her in from head to foot. Neither the girl's beauty, nor bearing, singularly elegant as it was, seemed to please him, for he immediately turned to the cards and said in an insolent, patronising tone:
"Holla, little one! Is it you? When did you arrive?"
In spite of being offended at such a tone, Fernanda saluted him affectionately.
"I am pleased to see you so well, dear," he continued, "and I take the opportunity of condoling with you. You know I have not written letters for years. I was sorry about Santos. Do you hear, Moro? Are you ever going to give me a decent card again? He was a good subject, an excellent neighbour, incapable of harming any one. You will not get another husband like him. He had one quality not easily met with—modesty. In spite of the money that he made he never pretended to go out of his sphere; he always showed himself respectful to his superiors. Was it not so, Saleta, that he was not one of those parvenu popinjays who, as soon as they hear the clink of money in their pockets, forget all about profits and percentage, as if they had never gone in for them. Valero, sit down and say if this trick will be mine. Have you come to settle here, child? or are you going back to the franchutes?" (français).
Fernanda, who was keenly alive to all the gall of this discourse, made a cold reply, and after a few words she returned to the drawing-room.
Don Pedro was vexed by the stamp of elegance and distinction borne by the daughter of Estrada-Rosa. He was angry to think that any one could rise in their turn, albeit but a few degrees. He abhorred all that was foreign, especially Paris, where he imagined the Los Quiñones had no especial prestige. He even suspected with horror that they were unknown there. But, as may easily be supposed, he put such a disagreeable idea out of his head. For if it took complete possession of his mind, what was left for the noble gentleman? Death, and nothing else.
The party of tresillo was composed of old acquaintances. Saleta, the great Saleta, whose lies went on flowing from his mouth so glibly and easily that he always had to go on lying. But Lancia almost lost in him one of its most magnanimous amusing fellows; for, retiring on a pension three years ago, he went and settled in the country, but he only stayed there one year, for he became homesick for Lancia, Quiñones' gatherings, and, above all, the jokes of his colleague Valero; so he left the Gallician regions and came back to live with the Lancians. Valero, having become President of the Chamber, became every day more bombastic, noisy, and lisping. He was sitting on the left of the distinguished host. Facing him was Moro, the unattainable ideal of all the marriageable girls, whose indefatigable head easily stood twelve hours of tresillo without any ill-effects, or fatigue. Of all the institutions created for men, the most solid and respectable is that of tresillo. It may well be compared to the immutable laws of nature, so unchangeable is its stability. It was as true to Moro that a spade is worth more than a club, as that falling bodies represent a movement uniformly accelerated. And there, in the dark corner of the room, the celebrated Manin was sleeping in the same armchair, with his short breeches, green jacket, and hob-nailed boots. His hair was grey, almost white, but that was not the worst of it, for the sad part was, that he was no longer regarded in the place as a fierce hunter, grown grey in contending with the bears of the mountains. That legend had gradually passed away. His compatriots were right: Manin was nothing but a country clown. His deeds of prowess were now a subject of joke, and he was looked upon as the old buffoon of the mad, illustrious Señor de Quiñones.
Fernanda managed at last to withdraw from the congratulations of her friends, and retired to a corner apart. She was sad. The hostility of the people of the house depressed her, but that was not the chief cause of her sadness, although she tried to think so. The real reason of it, ashamed as she was to confess it to herself, was Luis. The kind greeting of her old fiancé had suddenly awoke all her recollections, all her illusions, and all the joys and sorrows of old times that slumbered in the depth of her soul like birds amid the leaves of a tree. The agitation of her mind was intense, but nothing, or very little, betrayed itself in her grave and cold demeanour. Nevertheless, she felt a great shock when she heard the following words close to her ear:
"How beautiful you have grown, Fernanda!"
She had been so full of thought that she had not noticed the count had taken a seat by her side. Involuntarily she raised her hand to her heart, and she replied immediately with a smile:
"Do you think so?"
"Yes; and I am getting old, am I not?"
She made an effort, and looked him straight in the face.
"No; nothing but a few grey hairs in your beard, and rather a weary look."
The trembling of her voice contrasted with the apparent indifference which she chose to give to her tone.
The count instantly grew serious. He put his hand to his brow, and at the end of some moments, he replied in a gloomy tone, as if he were speaking to himself:
"Weary! yes, that is the right word. Very weary! Weariness is exhaled from every pore."
Then they were both silent. The count was plunged in profound meditation which brought a deep furrow to his brow. After a while he renewed the conversation by saying:
"I saw you before I came here."
"Where?" she asked with assumed surprise.
"On the road. I went out this afternoon for a ride, and the post-chaise passed me. I knew you perfectly."
"Well, I did not see you. I only recollect meeting two or three peasants, but I did not recognise anybody."
On saying this a wave of crimson surged to her face in spite of herself. To hide her confusion she turned her head, and her eyes met those of Amalia, brilliant and steely, as they rested upon her. They looked at each other for an instant. The feline mouth of the Valencian was wreathed in a smile. Fernanda tried to respond by a similar one, but it was a failure. She turned again to the count, and talked of indifferent subjects, of theatres, music, and projects of travel.
Nevertheless, Luis became more and more preoccupied; he seemed to lose his self-control, and talked at random, as if his thoughts were straying afar. He was silent for some moments, struggled to say something, moved his lips, but instead of their articulating what he wanted, they expressed something quite different, something trivial and ridiculous that he was ashamed of directly he had said it. Fernanda watched him attentively, regaining the calmness and self-possession that he was rapidly losing. She seemed absorbed in the conversation, describing her travelling impressions with naturalness, and expressing her opinions with unconcern, as if there had been nothing between them but an old and tranquil friendship. Finally, availing himself of an instant's silence, he summoned resolution to say:
"When I approached you, you seemed very thoughtful. Of what were you thinking?"
"I do not recollect. Of what would you have me think?"
The count hesitated a moment; then encouraged by the gracious smile of his ex-fiancée, he ventured to say:
"Of me."
Fernanda looked at him in silence with playful curiosity, under which shone a delight impossible to hide. The count coloured up to the eyes, and he would gladly have cut his tongue out before having said those two fatal monosyllables.
"All right," said the girl, jumping up from her chair. "Au revoir, I am glad to see you friendly."
"Listen!"
"What is it?" she said, turning back, as she was going away, and glancing at him with two smiling, malicious eyes that completed her conquest of him.
"Pardon, if my words offended you."
Fernanda tossed her head disdainfully and went off, exclaiming:
"Repent sinner, or hell will have you!"
"Hell!"
This word, uttered at random, as a joke, gave him a sudden shock, and called him back again to the habitual tenor of his thoughts. All the Gayosos had lived under the influence of this baneful idea. But the terror of his ancestors seemed concentrated in his mind, tormenting and maddening him to a degree. Amalia had had a hard struggle to distract him for a little time from his scruples. Therefore, when she now signed to him to come to her she saw he moodily rose from his seat, and came towards her with slow, unwilling steps. She had too much tact and pride to show any vexation at the short conversation just held with his old fiancée. She received him with the same smile, speaking with her habitually assumed tone of cheerfulness, and she did not mention Fernanda's name. But her pallid lips contracted with anger every time his eyes turned towards the girl, which they often unwittingly did.
A beautiful child with blue eyes and long fair hair now appeared at the door with a servant.
"Oh, how late!" exclaimed the Señora de Quiñones. "Why are you so late in bringing her, Paula?" she added severely.
The servant replied that the child was so amused at playing: "Let them give to the kite," that she cried every time they wanted her to go to bed.
"Are you not sleepy yet, my treasure?" said the lady drawing her to her, and passing her hand caressingly over her curls.
The guests were very interested in the little creature, and she went from one to the other, receiving caresses from one and the other, and returning them with good-night kisses.
"Good-night, Josefina. Until to-morrow, my treasure. Have you been good to-day? And has your godmother bought you a doll that shuts its eyes?"
The count regarded her with tears in his eyes, whilst he made incredible efforts to master his emotion. He always felt the same when he saw the child. When his turn came he only brushed her fair cheek with his lips; but Josefina, with the fine instinct of children, who always know who loves them, threw her arms round his neck, and gave evidence of particular affection for him. Fernanda also regarded her with intense interest, with a curiosity so great, that she opened her eyes wide. Josefina was six years old, she had a creamy complexion, eyes of infinite sweetness, and something sad and delicate about her diminutive person. One detected at once her likeness to the count. When the child left him, his eyes met Fernanda's, and he was so embarrassed, that he took a seat farther off.
Josefina was dressed with taste. The Señores de Quiñones brought her up with every indulgence like an adopted child. This had been for some time the favourite topic of gossip in Lancia. The cost of her little hats was guessed at with the greatest interest; the number of her toys was commented upon, and calculations were made as to what her marriage dot would be. But such remarks ended by getting stale. It was only when the subject came up, that some sarcastic allusion was made, or some new discovery whispered. The child came to a stop before a group, in which figured Maria Josefa, the young lady with the long spiteful tongue, and Manuel Antonio, as beautiful as the first rays of morning.
"Listen, Josefina; who do you love best—your godmother or your godfather?" asked he of the child.
"My godmother," replied the child, without hesitation.
"And who do you love most—your godfather or the count?"
The child looked at him astonished with her large blue eyes, and a shade of distrust passed over them, as, with a frown on her beautiful brow, she returned:
"My godfather."
"But does not the count bring you lots of toys? Does he not take you in his carriage to the Grange? Has he not brought you the little waggon?"
"Yes, but he is not my godfather."
The group received this reply with a smile. They knew that the child lied, for Don Pedro was not a man to inspire any one with affection.
"But I think the count is also your—fa—godfather."
"No such thing. I have only one godfather," returned the child, now getting angry. And then she left the group.
She then went to where Amalia was, and placing herself before her, she crossed her little arms upon her chest, and making a curtsey, said:
"Godmother, your blessing."
Whereupon the lady gave her her hand, which the child kissed with reverence. Then, taking her in her arms, she kissed her on the forehead.
"You must go to bed, my daughter. Go and ask your godfather for his blessing."
So the child went to the library. These old world customs were a great pleasure to the Señor de Quiñones. Josefina approached him timidly. That great paralysed gentleman always inspired her with dread, although she tried to hide it according to her godmother's injunctions.
"Señor, your blessing," she said in a subdued voice.
The pompous old Grandee paid no attention, and looked at the cards he held in his hand, whilst wrapped in his grey cloak with the red cross, he seemed to grow bigger and bigger before the frightened eyes of poor Josefina. She thought that there was nobody in the world more immense, more imposing, and more worthy of respect than that noble señor; and Don Pedro shared the same opinion, so that all other beings with whom he came in contact seemed a chaotic mass, in which only two or three were possessed of any individual character. The child waited, with her little arms crossed, for about a quarter of an hour. At last the Señor de Quiñones, after playing a good card, condescended to cast a severe look upon the child which turned her pale. He then stretched out his aristocratic hand with a gesture worthy of his namesake, Peter the Great of Russia, and Josefina pressed her trembling lips upon it and then withdrew. The bombastic old fellow was not quite pleased at his wife treating the little foundling with so much indulgence, but he consented because it flattered his vanity, for Amalia, knowing his weak point, said:
"Treating her like a servant is what anybody would do in Lancia. We ought to do things in another fashion."
So Don Pedro could not but see the weight of that undeniable truth. Josefina crossed the drawing-room to go to bed. As she passed by Fernanda, she caught her by the arm and dragged her to her. All the joy and love that filled her heart overflowed with vehemence upon the little creature whom she covered with kisses. She forgot all about her rival whom she considered defeated. She only thought that it was a child of his, his blood, his very image. And she kissed with ecstasy those blue, deep, melancholy, eyes, that creamy skin, and those yellow curls that surrounded her face like a golden aureole.
"Oh, what beautiful hair! What beautiful curls!"
And she pressed her lips on the child's head with so much feeling that she was not far from crying.
At that moment a sharp, imperious voice sounded in her ears.
"Not gone to bed yet! you naughty girl."
And on raising her eyes, Fernanda saw Amalia with a pallid face and compressed lips, take the child roughly by the arm, and after giving her a sharp shake, she dragged her to the door.
CHAPTER XI
AMALIA'S RAGE
The next morning Paula, by command of the señora, took the child off to the ironing-room, sat her in a high chair, and asked a young girl, who was working at the window, for some scissors.
"What are you going to do?" Josefina asked.
"Cut your hair."
"Why? I don't want my hair cut."
Whereupon she got down from the chair with determination, but Paula turned back and put her up again.
"Be quiet," she said severely.
"I don't want to, I don't want to," she doggedly returned.
"It is certainly a shame to cut such beautiful hair," said one of the girls who was ironing.
"What do you mean, child? An order is an order."
And taking hold of one of the precious curls of hair, she cut it off with the scissors.
"Leave go, Paula!" cried the child, "I am going to tell godmother."
"Yes, precious, go and tell your godmother, indeed? All right, you shall tell her when it is done."
And paying no further heed to her protestations, and letting the words fall on deaf ears, she went on with the task quite undisturbed. But the child got down again, angry and furious. Then Paula called the sempstress Concha to her assistance, and she held her down on the chair until she was despoiled of every one of her curls, after which they arranged what was left as best they could.
"What a pity!" said the laundress again.
"It is not so bad, child," returned Paula, combing it with admiration.
At that moment the señora appeared at the door of the room.
"Godmother! come godmother! Look, Paula and Concha have cut my hair."
Amalia advanced some steps, avoiding the child's gaze, fixed her stern eyes upon her head and said in an imperious and cold tone:
"That is not right. Shave it off."
And she went away with a frowning brow, whilst Josefina, astonished, followed her with her eyes. Never had she seen her godmother so cold and stern. She was sad and thoughtful, and remained thus without making the slightest movement, until Paula had accomplished her task.
The little head was soon as smooth as a melon. The servants shouted with laughter.
"Child of my soul! what have they been doing to you?" exclaimed Maria, the ironer, with a tone of regret, although she could not repress a smile.
"Don't say that, woman," retorted Concha with a shade of bitterness. "Yes, she does look ridiculous."
She was a woman of five-and-twenty or more, extremely small, almost as small as Josefina, with sharp, keen eyes, and all the servants were afraid of her.
Paula laughed too and passed her hand over the little creature's head.
"When we want a jar for the vinegar we shall know where to go for it," continued Concha.
The wave of pity passed away. Guessing that the child had fallen into disgrace, the servants became quite facetious, exchanging jokes which were not pretty, but which made them nearly die of laughter. Josefina remained with her head down, quiet and silent. Then the jokes began to take effect, and two tears dropped from her long eyelashes.
"Crying for your little wig? What a shame to hurt her! It is not your fault, but theirs who brought you up like a princess, when you are only like us, and less than us," she added in a low tone, "for we have got fathers."
"Come, Concha, drop that! Don't fret the little monkey, you will soon have fresh hair," said Maria, in a maternal tone.
The child, touched by the kindness, began to sob and left the room.
When she entered the drawing-room in the evening like that, the count could not repress a gesture of anger, and cast an interrogative glance at Amalia, who replied to the gesture and look with a provoking smile. And in a loud voice she said that the child's hair had been cut by her orders, for she had noticed that she was beginning to be vain. It is so! and people flatter her so much that she has become unmanageable.
The count, enraged, immediately took the opportunity of repairing to Fernanda's side, where he renewed the conversation of the previous evening. The two were loquacious and affectionate. Fernanda related her life in Paris with no lack of details; and Luis was particularly expansive, not hiding the cheerfulness of his heart, and talking with animation in spite of Amalia's angry glance fixed upon him. During a pause, Fernanda raised her smiling eyes to her ex-fiancé and asked him, but not without a slight blush:
"Don't you know why the child's hair has been cut?"
The count looked at her without replying.
"Because I praised it yesterday, and allowed myself to kiss it."
It was the first time that Fernanda took his secret for granted. He felt a great shock; his face grew red, and so did hers. For some time neither of them could speak.
During the following days the count often walked down the Calle de Altavilla, and he spent a great deal of time in the Café de Marañón. Lancian society was moved to its very foundation at such an important turn of events, and henceforth he was an object of interest to three hundred pairs of eyes. He gave up going every day to the Quiñones' house, and went occasionally to the de Merés' little party, as it continued to be called in Lancia, although only one of the old ladies was now left in this world. Carmelita had died at least three years ago. Only Nuncia the youngest was left, and she was quite paralytic. From the armchair to the bed, and from the bed to the armchair was all that she could manage with great difficulty. She was also deprived of moral support, as in her sister she lost her protector from impulse. Since she was buried there was no one to keep her in order. With the sudden promotion to the category of persons sui juris, the poor "child" was a prey to great distress, everything worried her, everything was an insuperable difficulty. Those sharp scoldings had been less overwhelming to her, for if they had caused tears, they had been salutary in checking her juvenile ebullitions, and so prevented the fatal consequences attending her inexperience. Her guests were a few youths, and several young men of our acquaintance, with a sufficient number of graceful, pretty damsels who came to the house on the look out for a husband. For the "child," in this, and in every respect, kept up religiously the traditions bequeathed by her sister. She was the firm protector of all the courtships that arose in Lancia, however ill-advised they might be. The little house of the Calle del Carpio continued to be the forge, where the conjugal happiness of the worthy neighbours of Lancia was forged. The most constant visitor was Paco Gomez, because the house of the Quiñones was closed to him in consequence of one of his remarks. A certain stranger meeting him in Altavilla with a few others asked him how the Grandee came to be paralysed.
"He is not really paralysed," returned Paco, for he is not disabled at all, only his legs can't put up with all the heraldry stuff that he has got in his head, and so they double up rather than take a step.
This came to Quiñones' ears through a traitor, and he gave orders he was henceforth not to be received. He was the soul and the delight of the "child's" party, and the incessant way he made fun of Nuncita kept all the guests in a fit of laughter.
"I say, Nuncita, look! Don't talk too much, for do you know I saw your leg, and—and—and——"
The poor octogenarian blushed like a girl of fifteen. Nothing could have confused her more than this inopportune reference to the afternoon of the swing. Luis and Fernanda took to seeing each other there once or twice a week. Away from the angry eyes of Amalia, the count found it very pleasant, and he recovered his serenity of mind. They had long talks in a low voice without being disturbed by anybody. On the contrary the "child" took good care to give them room and opportunity. Nevertheless, he still visited at the Quiñones' house, and he saw Amalia secretly when she demanded it, but he was evidently colder and more distant. She was perfectly aware of the change, but she did not show her colours, and she did not mention his ex-fiancée. However, one day she could not help doing so.
"I know that you spend a great deal of time at the de Merés' talking with Fernanda."
He denied it in a cowardly fashion.
"Take care what you do," she continued, fixing her eyes on him, "for treachery may cost you dear."
He was so accustomed to the dominion of this terrible woman that the words sent a chill through him, as if some misfortune were hanging over his head. But when he came out into the street, away from the magnetic influence of those eyes that upset him, he was conscious of an impotent feeling of rage. "Why, after all, should she threaten me? Is she my wife? What right has she to me? What we are doing is a grave sin, it is a crime. Who can deprive me of repentance, of reconciling myself with God and being good?" Repentance had latterly been to him a vague desire due to his love being on the wane, and to his great fear of hell. Now it had changed into a real wish. Certainly it offered several attractions. He would renounce the sin bravely, purify himself, free himself from eternal fire—and then have Fernanda.
For some time past there had been only one bright spot in his criminal connection with Amalia—and that was Josefina. This little creature, white and silent as a snow-drop, sweet as a lily with the innocence of a dove, and the tender melancholy of a moonlight night, was like a delicious, refreshing balsam to his soul—a prey to remorse. How often, when holding her in his arms, he had asked with surprise how such an innocent, pure, divine being could be the child of sin. But that same child caused him fresh cruel torments. Never to see her alone, from day to day, to be obliged to hide his affection for her, to have to kiss her coldly like the others, and more coldly than the others, not to be able to call her the child of his heart, not to hear her lisp the tender name of father, sometimes saddened him to a point of despair. On one or two occasions he had been allowed to take her to the Grange. Then he passed hours in ecstasy, holding her on his knees, and caressing her passionately.
The child had become accustomed to these violent expressions of affection and she liked them. Sometimes she felt her fair head wet with the tears of her friend. Raising her eyes in surprise she would see him smile, then smiling too, she would reach up her coral lips for a kiss.
"Why are you crying, Luis? Have you a pimple?"
Josefina knew no more serious reason in the world for crying. She loved Luis dearly, and his general coldness saddened and surprised her. By degrees she had come to understand with precocious instinct, that the count loved her more than the others did, but he had to hide his feelings. So she, following his example, also adopted an indifferent manner with him when in public. But when they were alone, she reciprocated his expressions of affection with equal enthusiasm, and this without knowing why, without accounting to herself for what she did.
From the day her godmother ordered her hair to be cut, Josefina noticed that she had fallen into disgrace. She was not now kissed with transports of delights, her slightest wishes were not acceded to, and she was no longer the constant source of interest in the house.
Amalia took to scolding her, using a cold, displeased tone towards her, and the servants followed the example of the señora. The poor child, without knowing what the change signified, felt her little heart sink, she explored the faces of those about her with her beautiful deep eyes, and tried to decipher the enigma that they hid. She became daily more grave, more retiring, more timid. And as she found she was denied the toys or the sweetmeats that they used to lavish upon her open-handed, she left off asking for them.
Amalia, instead of delighting as formerly in her infantile ways, appeared to avoid them, she gave orders she was not to be brought to her bed in the morning as usual. When they met on the stairs, she passed by without looking at her. At the most she would go up to her and say in a displeased tone:
"You have not washed yourself yet. Go, see you are put right." Or else, "They tell me you did not know your catechism lesson. You are getting very idle. Take care and be good, because if not I shall lock you in the cellar with the rats."
She had formerly busied herself in teaching her, in putting the needle into her hand, and guiding her little fingers. Now she almost always left this task to the servants. She lived in a state of gloomy preoccupation which did not escape the domestics' notice. Josefina also was conscious that her godmother was changed, not only with regard to herself, but in her whole manner of life. And so her mind gradually conceived the idea that she was sad, and that she was suffering, and that this was the cause of her bad temper. One day the lady was alone in her room. She had flung herself in an armchair and sat motionless with her head thrown back and her hands hanging down, apparently asleep. Nevertheless, Josefina, who passed by the room, and ventured to look through the crack of the door, noticed that her eyes were open, very open, and that she was frowning dreadfully. Without knowing what she did, with the blind confidence that children have in themselves, she pushed open the door and entered the room. She went silently up to the señora, and throwing herself suddenly on to her lap, and looking at her with timid affection, she said:
"Give me a kiss, godmother."
The lady was startled.
"How is it you are here? Who gave you permission to come in? Have I not told you not to come up without you are called?" she asked, frowning still more severely.
"I want to give you a kiss," said Josefina in a subdued voice.
"Don't bother me with kisses, and mind you don't come up again without permission."
But the child, overwhelmed with emotion, not knowing to what to attribute this moroseness, and wishing to overcome it at all costs, began to cry, as she threw herself once more upon her lap and tried to reach her face.
"Go! leave me!" replied the lady, preventing her raising herself higher.
The child was obstinate.
"Don't you love me? Give me a kiss."
"Go away, child!" she cried, in a fury. "Go away, at once!"
At the same time she gave her a hard push, and Josefina fell on to the ground where her head came against the leg of a chair.
She got up, raising her hand to where she was hurt, but she did not cry. A feeling of dignity, often shown by childish hearts, gave her strength to keep from crying, although her eyes were filled with tears. She cast one look of unspeakable sadness on her godmother, and then ran from the room. When she reached the staircase, she threw herself down on one of the steps and burst into a fit of sobbing.
The thorns of life were indeed piercing the delicate flesh of that child whose path until then had been strewn with flowers. Amalia's spite grew worse every day, and the reserve and timidity of the child increased in proportion. But as she was only a child, this sadness would vanish when under the impulse of a fancy, and it was at such moments that the coldness and spite of the lady were most evident.
"Señora, Josefina does not want to put on her green frock."
"Why?"
"She says it is dirty."
Amalia then rose, repaired to the child's room, took her by the arm, and shaking her roughly, she said:
"What is this pride? Don't you know, silly, that you are only here out of pity? Take care and don't vex me, or one day, when least expected, I will put you in the street where you came from."
The servants heard these words and always bore them in mind. Until now Josefina had been brought up like a child of the señores, now she was treated like an illegitimate child, and afterwards like a little pariah. The servants now took pleasure in paying off the little attentions they had been formerly obliged to accord her, and the sharp rebukes they had incurred on her account.
Concha in particular, the dwarfish maid, felt an indescribable delight, peculiar to her malignant, spiteful character, every time that the señora evinced in any way her scorn for the adopted child. Josefina had a large, cheerful room looking on to the garden. Although Concha was head maid and dressmaker of the house, she had a duller room that she shared with Maria looking on to the street. Josefina's room had always been an object of envy to her. More than once she had given strong hints on the subject; and now, profiting by her mistress's state of mind, she got permission to sleep in the child's room under the pretext that Paula, who occupied the next bed, snored so loudly. So she installed herself comfortably there, and made use of the little girl's toilet things. A few days later she sent her to sleep with Maria without saying a word to her mistress. When Amalia did know of it, it had been going on for some time, and she heard it without any resentment at not having been told before, and she did nothing to alter what had been done.
Soon after, she thought of another means of degrading the child. Josefina dined at table with the señores. The pompous old Grandee had not consented to this at first, but he at last conceded to the importunities of his wife. Concha, full of spite like her señora, set to intriguing to deprive the foundling of this privilege. Exaggerating what it gave to do, the mess that it made, and the disturbance of the waiting at table, the little girl was finally removed to, and located at, a little table, which was put in the ironing-room near the kitchen. A few days after Amalia, in a fit of bad temper, said that the double service could not be tolerated, and that she was to dine in the kitchen with the servants. Concha sat her on a stool, pushed her a plate of thick soup and a tin spoon saying: "Eat."