Maza was trying to prove that there had not been such losses and it was all make-up.
"It is not true; it is not true. He who says he has lost a copper, lies!" (Then lowering his voice and giving his hand to Gonzalo.) "How are you, Gonzalo? Yes, I know you arrived yesterday. You are all right. I am glad of it. I repeat, that he lies! Why, they don't dare to tell me so!"
"They have lost six thousand reals in the thirty performances, according to the account that the baritone has given me," said Don Mateo.
Maza ground his teeth. His indignation impeded his speech. At last he burst out:
"And you listen to that drunkard, Don Mateo? Get along! get along!" (With assumed disdain.) "By dint of consorting with comic players you have lost your head for business. You have got rusty."
"Listen to me, you blusterer. I did not say I believed him. I said that was what the baritone's calculations came to."
Maza leaped up, and returned to the centre of the room, tore his hat violently from his head with both hands, and, waving it frantically, he vociferated:
"But, señor; but, señor! We seem to be made fools of here! Well, you tell me what has become of twenty thousand and more reals which the receipts came to, and almost as much again for admissions paid at the door?"
"The salaries have very much increased," said the harbor-master.
"You are not drunk, by Gad, Alvaro! You are not drunk—I will tell you in a minute what the salaries are" (counting on his fingers.) "The tenor, six crowns; the treble, another six; that's twelve; the bass, four; that's sixteen; the contralto, three; that's nineteen; the baritone, four—"
"The baritone, five," interrupted Peña.
"The baritone, four," persisted Maza in a rage.
"I am certain it is five."
"The baritone, four!" roared Maza again.
Alvaro Peña now rose in his turn, fired with the noble desire of getting the better of his opponent, and then ensued a hot and furious dispute, which lasted about an hour, and all, or nearly all, the members of that gathering of celebrities joined in. Such a battle resembled the famous engagements that took place between the Greeks before the walls of Troy; there was the same fury and heat, the same primitive simplicity in the arguments, and the same candid, rough violence in the invectives.
"You are an addle-headed blunderer!"
"Hold your tongue; you are a ruffian!" "You are a bellowing ox!" "I tell you it is not true, and if you want it plainer, you lie!" "Goodness, what a goose! You are like a silly woman."
These altercations were very frequent, almost daily incidents at the Club. As all those who took part in them had a straightforward, perfectly primitive way of dealing with questions, similar, not to say equal, to that adopted by the heroes of Homer, the argument started at the beginning of the dispute continued until the end. There was a man who would spend an hour incessantly saying: "One has no right to meddle with anybody's private life!" or "That may do in Germany, but not here in Spain!"
Then cries briefer, and more to the point, such as "windbags!" "windbags!" filled the air until the crier collapsed on the sofa with exhaustion.
But what the arguments lost in variety they gained in intensity, for they were expressed with great and forcible energy, and in tones raised to such a pitch that some of the voices became quite hoarse, which was generally the case with Alvaro Peña and Don Feliciano, who had the loudest voices, but the weakest throats. When the Corporation had the trees of the Promenade de Riego trimmed, it caused a commotion in the Club; when the clerk of the House of Gonzalez and Sons decamped with fourteen thousand reals, it caused another heated discussion; when the parish priest declined to give a certificate of good conduct to the pilot Velasco, Alvaro Peña burst a blood vessel in his excitement. But no bad feeling remained after these violent scenes were over, neither were the personal remarks recollected that the discussions gave rise to.
How could it be otherwise, since there seemed to be a tacit understanding that none of the ungracious epithets were to be resented? The local character of the subjects was unique. Politics were little studied in Sarrio; it was only when the papers noticed some event of great importance that the inhabitants of the place took a passing interest in them.
Twenty years ago the rich banker, Rojas Salcedo, was elected representative of the place in Parliament, and he paid one visit to Sarrio to make himself acquainted with the town. Nobody thought of disputing his election. The presidents and secretaries of the colleges generally met together, and computed from the Acts the number of votes that he was entitled to. The reason of this was that Sarrio had always been a commercial town, where everybody could gain a living without having recourse to Madrid for government appointments.
The majority of the young men, after having passed two or three years in some college in England or Belgium, took their places in their fathers' offices as their future successors; the others, the minority, followed some military or civil career with a fixed income, and only came occasionally to pass a few days with their families.
It must, in one word, be confessed that Sarrio was a sleepy place, dormant amid all the great manifestations of mind, amid all the regenerating lights of contemporary society; nobody studied the profound problems of politics, and the terrible controversies engaged in by the different parties in other places, to gain victory and power, left them utterly unmoved. In short, in the year of grace, 1860, there was no public life in Sarrio. They ate, they slept, they worked, they danced, they played, they paid their taxes, but they were absolutely wanting in public spirit.
When that evening at the club the dispute had utterly worn them out and spoiled their digestions, Don Mateo, beaming with delight, announced to the company that he did not mind about the departure of the dramatic company, for he had for some days past been arranging a surprise for the Sarrienses; and after a great deal of trouble the matter was concluded.
He was in treaty with the celebrated Marabini, the phrenologist, the prestidigitator; probably Tuesday, yes, Tuesday or Wednesday, they would moreover be able to admire his wonderful skill at the theatre; he would, moreover, bring with him some dissolving views and a tame wolf.
Gonzalo meanwhile had left the billiard-room and was looking at half a dozen West Indians playing at chapo. When they struck the ball all the gold seals that hung from their enormous gold chains rang like bells. These chains and these seals were the greatest inducement and the chief bait that the artisans of Sarrio used to persuade their sons to go to Cuba.
"Fool! and you could come back in a few years with a fine cloth coat, a well-got-up shirt-front, patent boots, and a watch-chain like Don Pancho's!"
This last inducement was too much for any lad.
"Will it go seven times round my neck, dear father?"
"Yes, boy, yes; and you will have pencil cases and seals hanging on to it."
And so with their heads full of the prize the poor fellows went off on the "Bella Paula," the "Carmen," the "Villa de Sarrio," or any other sailing vessel, to perish with yellow fever or hunger, lured to destruction by the glitter of the trumpery jewelry like the voices of the terrible Lorelei.
The gestures of the Indians while at billiards being those of people unaccustomed to restrain and compose their feelings, were strange and funny, and a source of delight to the young men of the place, whose antipathy to the West Indians was always shown in making fun of them. Who tapped upon the floor while the balls were running like Don Benito? Who bent from one side to another, and twisted and contorted himself as if the destination of the ball depended upon his movements, like Don Lorenzo? And who could equal Don Pancho, who was little and fat, almost square, in his way of sinking in a heap on the sofa after having struck a ball, to better see the havoc he had made on the table? Occasionally one of them addressed a word of impatience to the fellow: "Get up, my boy; don't excite yourself!"
Don Feliciano Gomez took a seat by Gonzalo, who soon wearied of his good-tempered, superficial conversation, which he always accompanied by an affectionate poke in the ribs at every instant.
"When is the great day to be, Gonzalino? Soon, eh? You know I am longing to see you with your young lady on your arm, going to high mass! All right, my dear; all right; go and be happy. At home, the girls [it was thus he always termed his old sisters] don't leave me a moment's peace; since yesterday it is: 'When is Gonzalino going to be married? Don't forget to ask him!' Well, the poor things have known you ever since you were born. There is nothing like matrimony for a peaceful, contented life. You will say, 'That being so, why have you not married yourself, Don Feliciano?' Listen my boy, why should I marry, when I can live happy as a bachelor? What do I want? I have a home, with two dear girls who take the utmost care of me, whom I adore——
(Poor fellow! report in the place gave quite another version.)
"And so I have nothing to complain of—is it not so, my boy? Certainly, when I was young I had other ideas, but, as years go by, one ceases to think of them. Look here, if any one said to me now: 'Feliciano, would you like to go back twenty years?' Bah! let another dog have that bone. The best age for a man is fifty. Don't you doubt it, Gonzalino. It is then that one can eat and sleep in peace. Is there a young woman that is worth a dish of sardines freshly fried?
"But they have to be fried just before they are eaten; if fried during the soup, they are not worth a brass farthing. Or a lobster with fresh draft cider? Doesn't it make your mouth water, my boy? And now you are going to be married, and there will be a kissing and 'my darling' here and 'my love' there—is it not so? Well, well, as things go it is a good thing. The girl is of good family. Don Rosendo is rich—you are doing well, doing well, my boy. But, I say, why don't you marry the little one, Venturita, who is pretty? I don't say that the elder one is ugly, but there is no doubt that the younger one is more attractive; she is just like a rosebud. What roguish eyes! what teeth! what gracefulness! But if you are engaged to the other sister, I have nothing to say. But what comes up to prettiness! And it would be the same family—"
These remarks made a strange impression upon Gonzalo. It was the formulation of what he had vaguely felt in an uncomfortable way ever since the previous evening. Yes, it was quite true, what beautiful eyes, how mischievous, and yet how candid! What an alabaster skin! What lips, what teeth, what golden hair! Cecilia, poor thing, was plainer than when he went away and less attractive. How was it possible that she had taken his fancy? Gonzalo had, in fact, to confess to himself that she had never taken his fancy as Venturita certainly now had. Why then—?
Well, it was no use asking questions. He was only a lad at the time; he had not been accustomed to seeing ladies; Cecilia's kindness had impressed him. Then there was a certain satisfaction in being engaged. Then the distance which enhances the beauty and increases the value of things. In fact, everything had combined to bind him to that girl. But, if only he had seen Venturita sooner! It was better not to think of that. The affair was too far gone to be retracted. Unlike himself, he remained a good quarter of an hour pensively looking at the marble balls without seeing them. Don Feliciano had gone.
At last his healthy, sanguine temperament asserted itself over the ridiculous fancies that threatened to disturb him. He rose from his seat, the frown which had momentarily darkened his brow was soon banished by the genial smile which was his particular attraction. He shrugged his shoulders with contempt, and that gesture seemed to say: "I am going to marry the plainer of the De Belinchon girls. Well, and what then? In any case it would have been with one or the other, unless I married no one. I want to be happy. It is not necessary for happiness to come from without; I have it within, in the even temper God has given me, in the money left me by my parents, in this marvelous health, and in this ox-like strength."
When he returned to the sitting-room, he found that all the habitués had been thrown into great perturbation by the news just brought in by Severino, of the ironmongery shop.
"Don't you know what has happened, sirs?" They all left their seats and surrounded the store-keeper, who spoke with visible agitation.
"Don Laureano was robbed and assassinated last night."
"What! Don Laureano, who lives in the country house?"
"Yes; he of Las Acenas. They say that, at half past two, or thereabout, nine masked men entered the house; they knocked the servant down with sticks, they tied up the señora and the maid-servant, and they killed Don Laureano. What they must have made them suffer before they gave up the money! The good man only had twelve thousand reales, and those he had hidden away, but they tortured the women until they made them disclose the hiding-place." A shudder of horror went through the notabilities of Sarrio. They turned as pale as if they had assisted at that fearful scene.
The house of Las Acenas was a mile from the town, in the solitude of a pine forest, but nobody took that into account; they imagined themselves assaulted in their houses in la Rua Nueva or de Caborana and cruelly assassinated. Oh! what acts of violence! Santo Cristo, what atrocities!
The first moments of surprise that elapsed were followed by remarks in low voices. The robbers could not be very far off. Such a thing had never happened before in Sarrio, or its suburbs, in anybody's recollection. Marin asserted that he had seen some suspicious-looking men about for some days past. This news gave rise to an inward panic among the bystanders. They all determined not to go out any more at night, but this determination they kept to themselves.
The mayor said that, in his opinion, the robbers must have come from Castile.
"From Castile?"
"Yes, señor; from Castile."
"I have heard my father (who is now in glory) say that in the year 1805, seventeen men, armed, and on horseback, appeared in Sariego. They prowled round the place, and finally robbed Don Jose Maria Herrero of seventy thousand crowns that he had hidden under one of the bricks of the hearth."
At any other time, the customers of the café would have said that because such an event had happened in the year five, it did not necessarily imply that the same thing should occur in Las Acenas in the year sixty, but just then no one felt equal to controverting the statement.
Then they continued to talk of the event of Las Acenas in subdued tones, and they seemed all to concur in the wildest, most extravagant ideas. But as Gabino Maza was never known to agree for more than ten minutes together to what was said in his presence, he suddenly seized the opportunity of some very silly remark, made by Don Feliciano Gomez with the perfect naturalness and modesty that characterized the conversation of this distinguished merchant, to pounce upon him in a manner as violent as it was unjustifiable.
"What ridiculous thing will you think of next? What is the good of a house-to-house visitation? Do you think you are going to find Don Laureano's money in a heap there?"
"If the money is not found, some trace might be discovered."
"Of what, you dunderhead, of what?"
Then the dispute had full swing. The cries and noise were indescribable. At last, as usual, nobody could hear anything, nobody could understand anything. The voices were perfectly audible over the whole Plaza de la Marina, but the people were so used to it that they did not stop to listen.
THE notables of Sarrio resolved to abstain from setting foot in the street at night, therefore the Club, Graell's shop-parlor, and even Morana's, were all deserted at an early hour. The five or six locksmiths in the town were given more orders for locks, bolts, iron bars, and patent keys than they could execute.
The robbers of Las Acenas had not been caught, and every one declared, with more or less authority, that they were still prowling about the place, ready to slip in anywhere at some unexpected minute. Nevertheless, as one gets accustomed to everything, even illness, and even to the discussions at the atheneum, they became accustomed to the danger, and again sallied forth of an evening, after taking great precautions to well lock up their houses.
The first to venture was Marin. As all Doña Brigida's efforts to induce him to retire to rest at a reasonable hour were of no avail, she let him go out without any pity.
Don Jaime asked permission to carry under the blue military cloak that he wore at night an old, short gun kept in the garret, and the magnanimous señora granted the permission under the condition that he take it unloaded. Then Alvaro Peña sallied forth, for having a certain military reputation and being a man of reputed courage, it behooved him to show bravery at such a critical time.
He carried two saddle pistols in his pockets, and a sword-stick in his hand.
The mayor, Don Roque, who from time immemorial had repaired to Morana's with Don Segis, the chaplain of the Augustine convent, and Don Benigno, the curate of the parish, there to imbibe in the course of the evening from four to eight quarterns of Rueda wine, could not put up with the domestic hearth for more than three days; so he also sallied forth into the town.
The octogenarian official, Marcones, armed with carbine and sword, accompanied his chief, himself carrying a revolver and a sword-stick. Don Melchor, Gabino Maza, Don Pedro Miranda, Delaunay, Don Mateo, and all the others soon followed suit, and repaired to the nocturnal resorts. The West Indians held out longer. Thus Graell's parlor, Morana's, and the Club were transformed into veritable arsenals at nightfall. Each one, on his arrival, put his war accoutrements against the wall, and on leaving the places they seized them with an intrepid courage worthy of the Biscayan blood that coursed in the veins of nearly all of them.
The old-fashioned harquebus stood side by side with the modern repeating rifle, the cylindrical iron sword by the steel bladed modern sword-stick, the heavy bronze pistol by the plated revolver. And this diversity of war accoutrements served to sustain the warlike spirit so necessary for the occasion.
Certain other measures of great utility had been adopted. The watchmen had orders not to extinguish any street lamp until twelve o'clock at night. They were provided with more powerful whistles than the old ones; and they had orders to keep their eyes on any stranger passing along the streets at night. The townsfolk wisely agreed among themselves not to make way on the sidewalk for anybody, as it might not be a friend, and everybody knows how propitious to criminals the custom of making way on the sidewalk is. Full of this idea, Don Pedro Miranda and Don Feliciano Gomez met one night in the Calle de San Florencio. They were both muffled up in their cloaks, with their swords unsheathed, prepared for any emergency, when Don Feliciano cried to Don Pedro from afar:
"Bah! bah! make way yourself," returned Don Pedro.
"You are the one to make way," replied the merchant; "make way, make way."
"Bah, bah, be kind enough to let me pass," returned Señor Miranda. Neither man budged an inch. They unmuffled themselves and unsheathed their swords.
"Will you have the kindness?"
"Will you have the goodness?"
Who knows what awful tragedy might not have taken place in Sarrio at that instant, if they had not recognized each other?
"Does it happen to be Don Feliciano?"
"Is it Don Pedro?"
"Don Feliciano!"
"Don Pedro!"
And rushing to each other, they shook hands with effusion.
"What a fate would have been yours had I not recognized you, Don Feliciano!" exclaimed Señor Miranda, showing his broad iron sword with its bone handle.
"And yours would not have been agreeable, Don Pedro!" returned the merchant, as he made passes in the air with his finely polished Toledo blade.
One had to go down two steps to enter Morana's shop. The shop was a confectioner's, although it did not look like it; it was the only confectioner's in Sarrio. Nowadays there are three, if I am not mistaken. I say, it did not look like a confectioner's, because church tapers, wax hands and feet and bodies for votive offerings were sold there and had gradually become the chief stock in trade instead of a mere supplementary one; and this was due to the lack of greediness in the town, which speaks very well for it. It is usual in Spain for the folk of little villages and towns to be passionately fond of sweets, for want of the pleasures peculiar to great towns, for, say what one may, the pleasures of the table even are not equal in small towns to those of large ones. In the first place, clever cooks are not forthcoming, the food has not the variety induced by the laws of biology, and the palate has not risen to the state of culture from a right and just estimate of the culinary science.
Perhaps it will be remarked: "But the nuns of St. Augustine used to make sweets." Yes, but we must remember that this manufacture was limited exclusively to preserves of cherry, quince, pear, and apricot, almond tart and burrage tart, and a particular sweetmeat shaped like fishes' fins, called orange flower.
I can only repeat the fact that there are few high livers in Sarrio. After all, rare as this abstemiousness may be in towns in the interior, it is common in maritime places, which are known to be less under ecclesiastical sway. For observation teaches the visitor of the towns that more sweets are consumed where church services and religious rites absorb the greater part of life, and where enthusiasm for the religious sentiment is evinced in nones, masses, confraternities, and canonries, which shows that there must be some mysterious affinity between mysticism and sweetmeats.
This branch of Morana's business was exhibited in the shop by two pine wood cupboards, painted blue, with glass doors at each end of the counter. In these cupboards there was a fair show of caramels, spiral cakes, sugar cakes, almond cakes, madeleines, and above all the celebrated tablets, the renown of which must certainly have reached the ears of our readers, as it dates from remotest time. The secret of the magic composition of these tablets we have never been able to discover, but their fascination was irresistible, and, strange to say, it was based upon their extraordinary hardness. At the age when Morana's tablets are eaten, the chief thing is not that the sweets should be delicate, savory, and exquisite, but that they should last a long time. It was not easy to get the teeth into them at all, but once in this stick-jaw paste, the extrication from it presented a really difficult problem.
Allow me to offer a delicate tribute of affection and gratitude to these tablets which, from four to eight years of age, constituted the greatest joy of my existence.
It is perhaps to their sweet influence that the author of this book owes the optimistic spirit which, according to the critics, shines in his works.
Morana, daughter and successor of another Morana, who was dead, was a woman of forty years of age, of a pallid complexion, with gutta-percha plaisters on her temples for the severe pains in her head.
She married a Juan Chrysostom, who, according to Don Segis, the chaplain, did not take after his patron saint.
Nevertheless, when he administered corporal punishment to his wife, he seasoned it with rather a rare amount of learned talk.
"I who love this woman," he exclaimed, as he commenced operations—"I who love this woman like a wife, and not like a servant, according to the Apostle Paul's command—you have read the Apostle Saint Paul?—what right have you to read, you great ass!"
The wine was very good, one can almost say it was the only good thing in the place, and that was because it did not remain long in the bottle, for Don Roque, Don Segis, Don Benigno, Don Juan, "the old Salt," and Señor Anselmo, the cabinet-maker, took care to empty it. It was a white wine, strong and superior, and it went to one's head with alarming facility.
The customers of the shop left every night between eleven and twelve, rather stumbling in their gaits, but silent and quiet, which prevented any scandal. They sallied forth arm in arm, leaning one against the other, and they went along without saying a word, albeit with much puffing and blowing.
Their instinct, which never completely left them, instigated this prudent behavior, for they knew if they spoke much or little, some dispute would arise and then a scandal would ensue. Not a word—not a word; it was better even not to whisper—and when they arrived at their houses, they murmured a gruff "good-night" and the one left last was Don Roque, as he lived further away than anybody.
So these venerable men got intoxicated every night in this solemn, quiet, patriarchal fashion.
Two of them, Don Juan, "the old Salt," the clerk of the harbor-master, and Don Segis, were reaping the consequences of that course. "The old Salt" had a nose enough to frighten one. When least expected, the hour of retribution came for Don Segis, who, seized with an apoplectic fit, was left with one leg dragging as if a weight of six pounds were tied to it. It is true that the insatiable chaplain was not contented with his four quarterns of wine at the confectioner's; he made Morana give him a glass of gin in each, which greatly added to the expense; if he had six quarterns of wine, he had six glasses of gin; if eight, eight; and so on.
The effect of all this gin was evident.
"But, Don Segis, how can you drink so much gin at a time?"
"There is nothing for it," he replied in a tone of humility; "if I did not take a glass with every quartern, child of my soul, what would become of me? I should be ill."
The conversations at Morana's were less exciting and thrilling than those of the Club. Very few things interested these old parties; the most important local matters, which excited storms in the Club, were here treated, or rather touched upon, with indifference.
When the Gonzalezes sent off the captain of the "Carmen" and put an Andalusian in his place, they only said in a quiet tone:
"If the Gonzalezes have done so, they had reasons for doing it," for they were quite indifferent on the subject.
"It is true," said another, after some time, raising his glass to his lips.
"Ripalda seems a good fellow," said a third, after five minutes, as he put his glass down on the counter.
"Yes, he seems so," replied another gravely.
Ten minutes passed in meditation. The customers gave affectionate kisses to their glasses, which shone like topaz. Don Roque at last broke the silence.
"There is no manner of doubt that Don Antonio embraced her."
"Embraced her," said Don Juan, "the Salt."
"Embraced her," echoed Don Benigno.
"Embraced her," corroborated Señor Anselmo.
"Really embraced her," added Don Segis in a lugubrious tone.
Their minds were occasionally exercised on the subject of dovecots. Señor Anselmo and Don Benigno were devotedly attached to this pursuit; each had his dovecot, his doves, and mode of management, and long and lively discussions were held occasionally on the subject. The others listened without daring to give an opinion, as they raised their glasses to their lips in solemn silence.
The crime of Las Acenas horrified them, but it did not cause as great a commotion as in the rest of the neighborhood.
At the end of five or six days they returned to their patriarchal customs, and such was their bravery that the majority left their arms behind in the shop.
It was nearer one o'clock than twelve when Don Roque, who had exceeded by three quarterns his usual six, sallied forth with the other five frequenters of the confectioner's in a serried line to their different homes.
Marcones closed the file with his gun on his shoulder. The first of the line was Don Segis, who lived in a little two-windowed house, close to the Augustine convent; then came Don Juan "the Salt," then the coadjutor, and finally Señor Anselmo, pulling out the enormous shining key with which he beat time when he conducted the orchestra, and opened the apartment where he slept.
The mayor remained with his aide-de-camp. He said something, but his aide-de-camp did not hear him. They directed their steps toward home, which was not far off. But before arriving there, Don Roque, who puffed and blew like a whale, and whose walk was unmistakably like the gait of that creature, suddenly stopped and gave a long discourse in a loud voice, of which Marcones caught nothing but the word "robbers" repeated several times. The official, alarmed, looked all round to see if he could see anybody while loading his gun, but he saw nothing to give him reason to suppose that the villains were at hand. Don Roque made another remark, if such a term can be applied to a series of strange, intermittent sounds, both horrible and depressing, but Marcones managed to gather that his chief wished a hunt made in search of the criminals of Las Acenas. Marcones thought that the force was hardly equal to the undertaking; but discipline forbade objections. Moreover, he nourished the hope that few murderers cared about taking the fresh air at such an hour. So, after a careful examination of their weapons, they took their dangerous course through all the streets and alleys of the town.
One is in honor bound to state that Don Roque walked in front as the leader of the valorous enterprise, with his revolver in his left hand, and his sword-stick in his right, leaving his noble breast a mark for the enemy's bullet. Marcones, weighed down by the weight of his gun and his eighty-two years of age, walked six steps behind.
It was a moonlight night, but great black clouds occasionally darkened the sky, and the light of the petroleum lamps burning at the corners of the streets was not sufficient to banish the gloom in them.
Sarrio had five chief streets, known respectively as Rua Nueva, which runs to the harbor; the Calles of Carborana, of San Florencio, of La Herreria, and of Atras. These streets, long and narrow, run parallel to each other. The buildings are generally low and poor. Other smaller streets cross and communicate with the principal ones, and lead to branch roads where the spacious residences of the West Indians are built, and which constitute what may be termed the suburb of Sarrio.
As the party was passing through the Calle de Atras, near to that of Santa Brigida, they heard cries and lamentations, which obliged them to halt.
"What's that, Marcones?" asked the mayor.
The old official shrugged his shoulders philosophically:
"Nothing, señor; it is at Patina Santa's."
"How dare they commit these enormities? Let us go there. Let us proceed."
"Let us proceed," was a phrase both used and abused by Don Roque, as it conveyed his sense of the decision, rapidity, and energy of his authority to remedy all grievances. Patina Santa was the great high priest of one of the two temples of pleasure existing in Sarrio, but the sordid, wretched appearance of these temples was quite unlike the ancient famous ones of Greece.
"What scandal is this?" cried Don Roque in his stentorian voice as he approached the miserable dwelling.
Three or four lads in the street flew away like birds at the sight of the dignitary, but the doves remained.
Two of them stood at the door and two more were at the windows. Those at the door wished to withdraw at the sight of the mayor, but he caught hold of them.
"What is this scandal—eh?" he repeated.
The girls began to explain the cause of the commotion, but hardly had they uttered a word than Don Roque interrupted them, vociferating:
"To prison with you!"
"Señor, I—"
"To the prison—ah! To the prison, away with you all! Be off, everybody! Where is the ruffian Patina?"
Merciful heavens, what a commotion then ensued!
The girls at the windows had nothing for it but to come downstairs, and Patina came with them, for Don Roque brooked no delay. Cries and lamentations filled the air, while the strident voice of the mayor cried out incessantly:
"To the prison—ah! To the prison—ah!"
The unhappy creatures called on God and the Virgin; but the mayor, with his infuriated face and flaming eyes, raised his voice still higher as he deafened himself with his cry:
"To the prison—ah! To the prison—ah!"
There was no help for it.
The watchman, who had approached at the sound of the first ah's, led them off to the town prison, in attendance on his worthy chief, while the neighbors watched the scene from behind their window-panes in mingled compassion and derision.
Don Roque exercised his authority by locking the door of the dovecot himself, and handed the key over to Marcones, and with the usual "Proceed," they continued their perilous course. The mayor and his aide-de-camp had not gone very far when, in one of the narrowest and dirtiest streets, they espied a man's figure cautiously approaching a door, which he tried to open.
"Stop!" whispered Don Roque in the ear of his subordinate. "There is one of the thieves."
The official only caught the last word, but it was enough to make him drop his gun.
"Don't tremble, Marcones, for there is only one," said the mayor, seizing him by the arm.
If the venerable Marcones had been at that moment in full possession of his faculties of observation, he might have detected a decided tendency to a convulsive movement in the hand of his chief. The thief, hearing the steps of the patrol, suddenly turned his head and stood motionless, with his hand still on the door-handle. Don Roque and his companion also stood motionless, and the moon appearing from under a cloud shed its light upon the direful scene.
"Hsh! hsh! friend," said the magistrate at the end of some time, without advancing a step.
The robber heard this exclamation of authority, and took flight at one and the same moment.
"At him, Marcones! Fire!" cried Don Roque, courageously running in pursuit of the criminal.
Marcones wished to follow his chief's injunction, but fear made him helpless.
The trigger fell without emitting a spark. Then, with martial promptitude, he cast aside the weapon, which was useless, drew his sword and made valiant efforts to keep pace with the mayor, who, with intrepid courage, was at least twenty paces in advance, in pursuit of the robber.
The fellow now disappeared round the corner of a street.
But on their arrival there the pursuers saw him attempting to gain the next.
"Boom!"
Don Roque fired his revolver, crying at the same time:
"Take that, thief!"
He again disappeared, and again they caught sight of him in the Calle de la Misericordia.
Boom! Another shot from Don Roque.
"Take that, thief!" But the villain, doubtless as a last resource, and to prevent any watchman stopping him, began also to cry:
"Thieves! Thieves!"
Then the sharp, long whistles of the watchmen were heard, followed by another and another.
The street of San Florencio was well lighted, and the criminal was clearly visible, trying to get quickly under the shadow of the houses.
Boom! Boom!
"Take that, thief!"
"Thieves!" returned the fugitive, without ceasing flight.
Two watchmen joined the column of attack, and ran, brandishing their pikes, by the side of the mayor.
The thief seemed, at all cost, anxious to reach the Rua Nueva, so as to gain the harbor, where he could secure himself in a boat, or cast himself into the water. But before arriving there he stumbled and fell prostrate on the ground. Thanks to this accident, the patrol gained upon him considerably, and had almost reached him when the villain jumped up with great celerity and flew off swifter than the wind. Don Roque fired off the last two shots of his revolver, still crying:
"Take that, thief!"
He disappeared round the corner of the Rua Nueva. Arrived there, the magistrate and his force, now near the Plaza de la Marina, saw no sign of the criminal anywhere. They took a few hesitating steps on to the said plaza, and there they stopped, not knowing what course to take. "To the mole! To the mole! He must be there," said a watchman.
They were just about to proceed farther when a window of one of the houses was suddenly opened and a man in night attire said in sonorous tones that resounded in the silence of the night:
"The thief has just entered the Café de la Marina."
These words were uttered by Don Feliciano Gomez.
When the patrol heard them it rushed to the door of the café and abruptly made its entrance. The sitting-room was empty. There at the end, by the side of the counter, were three or four lads in white aprons standing round a man who was lying, more than sitting, upon a chair.
The mayor, the officer, and the watchmen rushed at him with their pikes, swords, and sword-sticks at his chest, and all with one accord cried:
"Take that, thief!"
The criminal raised his terror-stricken face, now whiter than wax.
"Ah—if it is not Don Jaime, God bless my soul!" exclaimed a watchman, lowering his pike. All the others did the same, dumb with astonishment. For indeed it was a fact that the villain they had so hotly pursued was no other than Don Jaime Marin, taken unawares as he was about to enter the door of his house.
They had to carry him home and bleed him. On the following day Don Roque appeared to ask his pardon, which was granted. But Doña Brigida, his severe spouse, would not grant it until she had given expression to a storm of recriminatory adjectives, among which that of "drunken" figured frequently.
Don Roque submitted meekly to the attack, and the matter dropped.
PREPARATIONS for the wedding had begun in the Belinchon household. They were started very cautiously. Doña Paula sent for Nieves, the embroideress, and a long conference ensued with closed doors. Then patterns were ordered from Madrid, and a few days later the señora, accompanied by Cecilia and Pablito, took a journey to the capital of the province in the family coach. The prying Don Petra, who was passing along the Rua Nueva as Doña Paula and her children returned, saw the servant take from the carriage large, heavy parcels that looked like bales of material.
All Sarrio then soon knew that preparations for the trousseau of Don Rosendo's eldest daughter had commenced, and Doña Paula had one of her heart attacks when she heard that it was known. The blame was cast on Nieves, but she declared that she had never breathed a word on the subject. Doña Paula declared she must have done so; the embroideress wept, and there was a regular scene.
Well, as the cat was out of the bag, there was no use making any more mystery about it. The room at the back of the house, the one that looked on to the Calle de Carborana, was the scene of operations for the staff working at the linen under Doña Paula's orders and Nieves's instruction. It consisted of four persons besides the two maids of the house, when domestic duties permitted, and Venturita, and Cecilia herself. It was a merry party, as work did not prevent chatting, laughing, and singing all day long. Merriment welled from the young creatures' hearts, and bubbled forth in aimless laughter that sometimes lasted a long time. If one of them dropped the scissors—laughter; if a skein of thread caught on a neck—laughter; if the cook came with a red face to ask the señora for the money for the milkwoman—hearty laughter. Not only were those working at Cecilia's trousseau young and merry, but, from the directress herself, they were all pretty.
Nieves was a tall, graceful, red-haired girl, with a white, transparent skin, clear blue eyes, a perfect nose and mouth, twenty years of age, and endowed with a disposition that was Heaven's own blessing. It was impossible to be long melancholy in her company. Not that she was talkative or witty, nothing of the sort; the poor girl had little more intellect than a fish, but her boundless good-humor shone from her eyes in such a charming manner, and rang forth from her throat in such clear tones, that it was quite infectious. By the work of her hands she supported a paralytic mother, and a bad, idle brother, who treated her shamefully when she was unable to give him sufficient money with which to get intoxicated.
Her troubles, which would have been insupportable to anybody else, only momentarily disturbed her equanimity, and, rising above them, she soon recovered her habitual cheerful spirits. She enjoyed the blessing of perfect health, the only pain she ever knew being an occasional stitch in the side from overmuch laughter. Valentina, also an embroideress, and also with red hair, was not so pretty; her eyes were smaller, her skin less delicate, her nose less regular, and she was smaller of stature.
On the other hand, her bright locks were curly, and clustered very prettily on her forehead, her hands and feet were smaller and more delicate than those of Nieves, and the striking point of her face was a constant little trick of knitting her brows, which gave a pleasant piquancy to her features, as it was not due to bad temper.
Encarnacian was a needlewoman too; she was a great, strong, bouncing girl with a vulgar face. The artisans of Sarrio thought she was the flower of the flock, but she would not have pleased the taste of a refined, intelligent person.
Teresa, also of the same trade, was perfectly Moorish in coloring; her hair was as black as jet, and her large eyes were as dark as her hair, and her nose and mouth were regular; she was considered ugly in the town on account of her swarthiness, but she was really a type of Oriental beauty. There was nothing remarkable in Generosa, one of the two maids of the house. Elvira, the other, was a pale little thing, with large, languid eyes, and very graceful figure.
The working classes of Sarrio have never gone in for the ridiculous imitation of ladies, which is so frequent nowadays in other places in Spain. They think, and I am of the same opinion, that the fashions adopted by ladies would not enhance their natural grace; in fact, they would lessen it. And this is logical, for, in the first place, they are not accustomed to drawing their waists in, as fashion demands of its slaves, and as little towns have no good dressmakers, the imitation would be both inferior and ugly; whereas, who upon the terrestrial globe, or upon any other globe, can compete with the charm of the girls of Sarrio when they don the richly embroidered fichu, crossed in front, and tied behind? Who can equal their fascinating mode of arranging the curls on their foreheads with a studied carelessness? Who can take part in a giraldilla with more consummate grace, or give in a more coquettish way a push to a young fellow who gets out of his place, while saying with a mingled smile and frown:
"Good fellow, you are mad, or on the road to it. Look out, or I shall pinch you!"
Who can sing with more sentiment and with less ear the couplet:
| "When Aben Hamet Granada left, |
| He felt his heart of joy bereft." |
There is no doubt that the artisan girls of Sarrio, whose strict ideas of taste are the admiration of both Spaniards and foreigners, especially nowadays when characteristic features are on the wane, are quite right to maintain their independence and to hold their own costume in spite of the dressed-up young ladies of the cities. Because (be it said softly, so as not to be overheard), the truth is they are much prettier. And this I say without meaning offense to anybody in particular; Heaven forbid.
There is no traveler in the Peninsula who, on thinking of Sarrio, will not echo this assertion with more of the enthusiasm natural to him.
There is no Englishman who stops for a few days at this port but who, when talking to his friends at Cardiff or Bristol of this Spanish town, will begin by raising his eyebrows and smacking his lips with delight, with "Oh! oh! oh! Sarrio! the young girls there are very, very, very beautiful." And if Englishmen say it, what will be said by the Spaniards, and particularly those who have lived so long under their beneficent influence?
The four workers, including Nieves, although she was rather superior, belonged to this much-admired class of women for whose prosperity and continuance in their ways I offer daily prayers to Heaven, and advise every good Catholic to do the same.
On working days they were dressed in cotton gowns, with a little woolen fichu tied behind and a silk handkerchief falling back on the neck from the uncovered head. Nieves, as an exception, wore a black fringed fichu.
They had just sat down to work after dinner. The sun poured through the panes of the two windows despite the blinds. The workers were gathered together in one of the corners of the room to escape its rays. Teresa, the most musical of the party, started a sentimental song in sad, drawn-out cadences in a sweet, timid voice, so that the others should join in parts; and in effect Nieves soon "took second," and the rest followed suit, some taking first and others second, which resulted in a somewhat melancholy harmony, tinged with romance. Romance may vanish from customs, and be banished from the novel and the stage, but it still finds a delicious haven of rest in the hearts of the artisans of Sarrio. The music continued until Pablito saw fit to disturb it by breaking in suddenly with his bleating voice. The needlewomen stopped singing, raised their heads in alarm, and then burst out laughing.
"Madre! what a fright you gave me!"
"I thought it was a cow!"
"And I thought it was a cock crowing—and I still think so," said Venturita.
The handsome Pablito, reclining in his armchair in the other corner, laughed loudly at his own expense. He certainly was of a jocose turn of mind, as we shall have occasion to see later on. From the time of the commencement of his sister's trousseau Pablito evinced a sudden taste for a sedentary life that had not hitherto been noticeable in him. Who had ever seen him before stop a minute in the house after dinner? Who would have thought that he could spend the morning in that armchair chatting with the workers? Nevertheless, it was a fact. For the last month he had not been out riding or driving, and he did not spend more than an hour in the stable during the course of the day.
Piscis was quite upset. He came every day to fetch him out, but it was in vain.
"Look here, Piscis, I have to clean my silver spurs, so I can not go out." "I say, Piscis, I have to go and get a bill of exchange cashed for father."
"Look here, Piscis, Linda is ill and can't be ridden."
"She is all right now," growled Piscis.
"Have you come from the stable?"
"Yes."
"Well, anyhow, I can't go out to-day—am out of sorts."
Sometimes Piscis entered the room and sat waiting silently; it was certainly not for long, because he was always thinking the women were making fun of him, and this prevented him being at his ease. When he thought the right moment had arrived, or when he noticed symptoms of boredom in Pablo, or when some other circumstance beyond our province occurred, he rose from his seat and made a sign with his hand to his friend as he gave a long, low whistle, for they understood each other better by whistles than by words. They both objected to articulate sounds and eschewed their use in each other's company, but Pablito did not relish the sign at that moment.
"I say, Piscis," he said, "I am dreadfully idle. Be so kind as to go to the stable and ask Pepe to put another oil compress on Romeo."
"I will do it," returned Piscis with a frowning face.
"All right, Piscis; thank you very much. Ta-ta! You will come to-morrow, eh? Perhaps I shall be able to ride then."
This was said with great suavity and amiability, to throw his friend off the scent. Piscis growled a "good-day" without turning to the company, and left with his eyes aflame, uglier and more demoniacal-looking than ever. The same thing occurred the next day. In spite of his respect for Pablito, Piscis then came to the conclusion that he admired one of the needlewomen. Which? His perspicacity could not solve that question.
The young people began singing, but coming to the words:
| "Only thou, Divine woman, |
| Said a prayer |
| At my solitary tomb," |
Pablito gave vent to such a discordant bellow that they all burst out laughing; but Venturita became serious.
"Look here, Pablo, if you go on like that, you had better go off with Piscis."
It was then Pablito's turn to be cross.
"I shall go when I feel inclined. You are always the one to spoil everything."
Young Belinchon meant to infer that his sister Venturita was the only one who failed to recognize the gifts which Heaven had bestowed on him, and this was true; and all the company laughed as if they had heard a passage from "Rabelais" instead of a cross remark. Doña Paula, who had an idolatrous admiration for her first-born, and nourished a grudge against the girl for her sharp remarks, which she considered were not warranted by her beauty, came to her son's assistance:
"You are quite right, Pablo! She always does throw cold water on any enjoyment. Goodness, what a girl! The man who takes her will have something to do to keep her in order."
At that moment Gonzalo appeared at the door of the room; he bent like a bow to shake hands with his future sister-in-law, Ventura, and Cecilia. The latter became serious, for, without turning her head, she knew that all the workers were looking out of the corners of their eyes, and she knew the kind of smile that wreathed their lips. Every day was alike. Before Gonzalo arrived the needlewomen lost no opportunity in teasing the bride.
"Cecilia, which of these garments will you wear the day of your wedding?"
"Señorita, you will sleep in these sheets, they are so fine."
"You won't be the only one to find them so."
"I say, you rogue, what a fine young man you've got. You won't have such a handsome fellow, Venturita."
"Who knows!" returned the girl.
Cecilia listened to these words with a smile on her lips, and blushed. Since the beginning of the preparations for the wedding her cheeks, formerly so pale, were almost rosy. This animation, and the light which happiness lent to her eyes, made her look interesting and sweet, if not pretty. There is not a girl who does not become more or less good-looking on the approach of marriage.
Cecilia was naturally silent and reserved without being bad-tempered. She hardly ever spoke, except when she was addressed, and then her replies were sweet, clear, and to the point. Timidity, which lends a certain charm to youth, was not the characteristic trait of her character, but our heroine had a sweet serenity and a certain sympathetic force in all her actions and words that revealed the perfect purity of her mind. This serenity was taken by unobservant people, if not for pride, which certainly could not be laid to the charge of Cecilia, for cold-heartedness. Even those who were most often at the house thought she was incapable of conceiving a great and tender passion. Accustomed to see her fulfil her domestic duties with the regularity of a clock, they would have required a power of penetration not possessed by many to divine the true moral worth of the eldest daughter of the Belinchons. The majority of such beings live and die unappreciated because they do not possess any of the brilliant qualities that attract all that see them. Innocence may be ranked among the virtues of this class of girl, and rare as it is, it is one least calculated to add to the value of a woman's character. Very few are those who know how to appreciate the beauty of these crystal souls; see them without noticing anything to arouse attention. But the same can be said of certain philters that are poisonous and certain drafts that are life-giving, and because our unpractised, dull eyes can not discern the elements of life or death that lie dormant in them, are we to say that such do not exist?
It was difficult to divine whether sad or pleasant feelings filled Cecilia's heart, but it was not impossible. I do not know if she tried to hide them, or whether her particular nature impelled her to do so, but it was a fact that in her home she was misunderstood, even by her parents. If perchance it was a question of paying calls, or buying a dress, Doña Paula would ask her daughter with solicitude:
"And what do you think, Cecilia?"
"I think it is very nice," was the reply.
"Do you really think it is nice?" said the mother, looking into her eyes.
"Yes, mama; I think it is nice."
But Doña Paula was always left in doubt as to whether the dress pleased her or not, or what she really thought. She seldom cried, and when she did, she took such pains to hide it that nobody knew of it. Whatever distress she felt was only betrayed by a slight line in her forehead, and great happiness with her was only evinced by a little more intensity in the gentle smile constantly upon her face. When Gonzalo wrote to her from abroad, she went to her mother and gave her the letter directly she read it.
"Do you like the lad?" asked Doña Paula, after reading the letter with more emotion than her daughter had shown in giving it to her.
"Do you like him?" returned the girl.
"I? Yes."
"Then if you and papa like him, I like him too," said Cecilia.
Who would have thought from those cold words that Cecilia had been in love with him for some time? Nevertheless, as love is of all human sentiments the most difficult to conceal, and as there was no need to hide it when her parents' consent had been given, she let it then be seen quite clearly. In temperaments like that of our heroine the slightest indication signifies a good deal. The happiness that filled her heart was soon seen in her face by all who knew her intimately. Few beings have known greater joy on earth than that which Cecilia experienced at that time.
All the litter about the room, the paper patterns, the designs, the linen stretched in frames, the skeins of thread, all spoke a soft mysterious language to her; the flashing of the scissors, the darting of the needles, prophesied future joys to her. Sometimes they said to her:
"You will be seen, Cecilia, going to mass on Sunday on the arm of your husband. He will carry your prayer-book, he will leave you to go to the altar of Our Lady and will stay behind among the men; then he will wait for you at the door, will offer you the holy water, and then he will give you his arm again."
At other times they seemed to say to her:
"In the morning you will rise very quietly to keep him from waking, you will brush his clothes, you will put the buttons on his shirt, and when the time comes you will give him his chocolate."
Other voices seemed to say:
"And when you have a child!" But here the bride-elect felt her heart swell with delight, her hands trembled, and she cast a rapid glance at the needlewomen, fearing they had noticed her emotion. As the different articles of clothing were finished and ironed Cecilia put them away carefully in a press, and when that was full she took them to a room upstairs, where she artistically and carefully arranged the underclothing, petticoats, nightcaps, and dressing jackets upon long tables, set out for the purpose; then she covered them delicately with a linen cloth and left the room, locking the door and putting the key in her pocket.
After greeting the party Gonzalo took a seat near Pablito, and putting his hand familiarly on his shoulder he whispered in his ear:
"Which do you like best?"
And as he bent toward his future brother-in-law he cast an earnest look at Ventura, who returned it with a peculiar glance. Then both turned their eyes to Cecilia, but she had not raised her head from her embroidery frame.
"Nieves," replied Pablo, without hesitation, in his falsetto voice.
"I knew it, and I applaud your taste," said Gonzalo, laughing. "What a smooth skin—what teeth!"
"And what a figure! First rate, don't you know?"
Both looked at the embroideress, who raised her head, and seeing that the conversation was about her, she made a face.
"Come, don't talk in a whisper," said Doña Paula with asperity peculiar to the women of the people.
"Let them be, señora," returned Nieves; "they are talking about me, and in that they show their good taste."
"Certainly. Pablo was calling my attention to the ruddiness of certain lips, the transparency of a certain skin, and the golden hue of certain hair."
"Then they were talking of you, Valentina," said Nieves, blushing and nudging her companion.
"What an idea! Don't worry about that, as if we don't know who is the prettiest!" said the other, with evident pique.
"Gently, gently, señoras," exclaimed Gonzalo. "It is true that Pablo began by talking of the perfections of Nieves, but it is certain that he had meant to go on to those of all the rest, if he had not been interrupted. Is it not so, Pablo?"
"Yes, I meant to go on to Valentina."
Whereupon the girl referred to raised her head and looked at him with the half-frowning, half-roguish look that was peculiar to her.
"Take care, Nieves, that these young men don't forget themselves."
Pablo, without heeding the interruption, proceeded:
"And then from Teresa and Encarnacian, Elvira, and Generosa, I should have gone on to Venturita, for of course all men are at her feet; to Cecilia, no, for she is engaged; and then I should have said something about Señora Doña Paula, who, be it said without offense to anybody, is the most beautiful of all."
"What a humbug!" exclaimed the lady, pleased at her son's flattery.
Then Pablo rose from his armchair and embraced his mother affectionately.
"Get away, get away, flatterer!" she said, laughing.
"Come, open your purse, mama," said Venturita.
"I see! A spiteful remark as usual," exclaimed the young man in a rage, as he turned his head to his sister; but she only smiled to herself maliciously, without raising her head from her embroidery frame.
"You have done a great deal," said Gonzalo in a low voice, as he took a seat by the side of his fiancée.
"So, so," returned Cecilia, looking at him with her large, luminous eyes.
"But, indeed, it is a great deal. Yesterday you had not embroidered this clove. It looks to me like a clove."
"It is jasmine."
"Nor these two leaves, either."
"Bah! That is nothing."
"And what are you embroidering now?"
Cecilia went on plying her needle without answering.
"What are you embroidering now?" asked Gonzalo in a louder voice, thinking that she had not heard.
"A sheet—hush!" returned the young girl, slightly raising her eyes in the direction of the embroideresses, and quickly dropping them again.
At that moment Gonzalo's and Venturita's eyes met in a meaning glance over Cecilia's head.
"Well, you see, every one to his taste," said Pablito, as he looked fixedly at Nieves, as much as to say:
"Don't pay any attention. I only say that as a duty."
"What is there to suit everybody, Don Pablo?" asked Valentina in an ironical tone.
"Flowers, girl."
"Give them to the saints."
"And to pretty girls like you."
"If I am not pretty, I precede those that are, without any by your leave."
"The deuce she does! Valentina puts her back up directly one goes near her," exclaimed the snubbed young man.
The joke made the needlewomen laugh.
"Valentina does not like young men," said Encarnacian.
"She is quite right; you get nothing from young men but promises, lost time, and often a lifetime of misery," said Doña Paula sententiously, unmindful of her own fortunate lot. "As to that, Sarrio is quite demoralized; there is hardly a girl who keeps company with one of her own class. The young man is at least expected to wear a cravat, to carry a cane and a cigarette-holder, although he may not have a plate to eat off. Young girls do not mind being seen at dusk nowadays with young gentlemen, nor do they object to returning from fairs on the arm of one of them, singing at the top of their voices."
"Poor young things! I don't know what you expect. Because the son of Don Rudesindo married Pepe la Esquilla, and the pilot of the 'Trinidad' the Mechacan girl, you think all is gold that glitters. But seeing is believing. Look at Benita, the girl at Señor Matias's, the sacristan. She does not look very pretty now, eh?"
"Benita has her marriage lines," said Encarnacian.
"Lines, eh? She will see what her lines are worth."
"Señora, the lad can not desert her; if he does, she will pursue him all her life."
"Silence, silence, chatterbox; who put such ideas into your head?"
"It is a well-known fact that Benita has gone to law."
"Look here, señora," said the dark, sentimental girl, "it is quite true that we run risks, but what are we to do? The artisans of the town are just as bad; they mostly spend Sunday and Monday and one day in the week at the tavern. How many are there who take their wages home to their wives regularly? If the husband is a sailor, he sends it home one quarter, keeps it three quarters, and then keeps it altogether. The supplies ceasing, the unhappy woman is forced to work to get bread for her children.
"And then in other cases what thanks or reward does the wife get from her husband? If he does go out with her on a Sunday afternoon, he stops at every public house on the road and leaves the poor creature at the door; or if there is some friend with him, he shouts out some insulting remark at her that makes her blush like a peony.
"Yes, yes, señora, they are all such vagabonds. Goodness knows they are not worth the bread they eat. The other day I met Tomasina—you know the girl at Uncle Rufio's who married one of Prospero's clerks less than a year ago—well, she was at that moment going to get two reales from her father to buy some bread, for she had not had a mouthful all day. Her husband drinks nearly all his wages, so the poor thing has nothing to eat by the middle of the week.
"God help her! And most nights the great pig comes home hopelessly drunk, and nearly beats her to death. Sometimes the poor thing goes to bed bruised and supperless.
"And then, seeing these things, people want a—well, better hold one's tongue! But I do say, caramba, that if one has to go to the devil, it is better to go in a coach."
"Look here," intervened Valentina, raising her face with its habitual frown, albeit a trifle more pronounced, "don't go on like that; you say you like young gentlemen. Well and good. I don't care; but don't you throw all the dirty water on your own class. If they drink—and there are those that do—don't I also see gentlemen coming home quite intoxicated? And if they do beat their wives, half the time they would not do it if the women's tongues were not so long, don't you see? And Don Ramon, the music-master, beat his wife when he came home one night. You must know that, as you live near."
"I don't chatter about everything, girl," returned Teresa, somewhat dampened by the fear that her swarthy friend would make her reveal her nocturnal perambulations with Donato Rojo, the medical officer of health; "only I say there are many asses."
"Very well, leave them in peace, then, and don't talk of them, and they won't talk of you. Every one for herself, and let sleeping dogs lie."
"Listen, Valentina," said Elvira, smiling maliciously. "Do you think Cosme will beat you when you marry?"
"If I deserve it, he will. I would rather have a blow or two from my Cosme than the scorn of a fine gentleman—so there!"
"That's what I like to hear; take a lesson, take a lesson, girls," said Pablito.