But, as yet, Ramon, like all neophytes, especially if they are prone to exaltation and enthusiasm, exaggerated on the example of the teacher. In shirt-collars, for instance. Because Pepe Castro wore them high and stiff, was that any reason why Ramoncito should go about God's world with his tongue hanging out, enduring all the preliminary tortures of strangulation? And if Pepe Castro, in consequence of a nervous affection he had suffered from all his life, constantly twitched his left eyelid—a very graceful trick no doubt—what right had Ramon to spend his time grimacing at people with his? Then, too, the young civilian scented not only his handkerchief and beard but all his clothes, so that from a distance of ten yards, it was almost enough to give you a sick headache. And there was certainly nothing in the doctrines of his venerated master to justify this detestable habit.
But the noblest and loftiest precepts of a great man too often degenerate, or are perverted, when put into practice by followers and imitators. Pepe Castro, though he was aware of his disciple's deficiencies and imperfections, did not cast them in his teeth. On the contrary, with the magnanimity of a great nature, he showed his clemency in pardoning and screening them. In his presence no one dared to make game of Ramoncito's collars or grimaces.
It was a little after four when the two "Savages" came out of the club, buttoning their gloves. At the door stood de Castro's cart, which he sent away after fixing an hour for his drive. He was first to pay a visit by Ramoncito's request. They went down the Calle del Principe, where the club was situated, not hurrying themselves, and looking curiously at the women they met. They paused now and then to make some important remark on this one's elegance, or that one's style; not as bashful passers-by who gaze and sigh, but rather as Bashaws, who, in a slave market, discuss the points of those exposed for sale. On the men they bestowed no more than a contemptuous glance, or, as if that were not enough, they shrouded themselves, so to speak, in a dense puff of smoke, to show that they, Pepe and Ramon, belonged to a superior world, and that if they were walking down the street, it was only in obedience to a transient whim. Whenever Castro condescended to be seen on foot, his face wore an expression of surprise that his presence was not hailed by the populace with murmurs of admiration.
Maldonado was the more talkative of the two. He expressed his opinion of those who came and went, looking up at Castro with a smile, while his friend remained grave and solemn, replying only in monosyllables and vague grunts. Ramoncito, it may be noted, was as far below his companion physically as mentally. When they walked out together they really looked very like some learned professor shedding the dew of learning drop by drop, and an ardent disciple greedy of knowledge.
"By the way, where are we going?" asked Castro, vaguely, when they had gone down three or four streets.
"Why, were we not going to call on the Calderóns?" asked Ramon, timidly, and a little disconcerted.
"Ah! to be sure; I had forgotten."
Maldonado kept silence, wondering in his heart at the singular faculty of forgetfulness possessed by his friend. And they went along the Carrera de San Jeronimo to the Puerta del Sol.
"How are you getting on with Esperancita?" Castro condescended to inquire, blowing a cloud of smoke, and stopping to examine a shop-front.
Ramoncito suddenly turned very grave, almost pale, and began to stammer a reply.
"Just where I was. Sometimes up, sometimes down. One day she is very sweet—well, not sweet—no; but any rate she speaks to me. Another day she is as gloomy as the grave; hardly comes into the room before she is gone again; scarcely notices me—as if I had offended her. Once, I understood, she had some reason to be vexed, for at the opera I often go to the Gamboas' box, and I fancy she had taken it into her head that I was sweet on Rosaura. Can you imagine such folly? Rosaura! But I have not been near them for this month past, and she is just the same, dear boy, just the same. The other day I had her to myself in the little room for a few minutes, and in the greatest haste I just managed to tell her that I wanted to know where we were; for you see I cannot hang on for ever. Well, she listened to me patiently. I must tell you that I was altogether carried away, and hardly knew what I was saying. When I ended, she assured me she had nothing to be vexed about, and fled to the drawing-room. After that, would you not suppose that it was a settled thing? Tell me, would not any man in my place suppose that he was on the footing of a regular engagement? Nothing of the kind; two days after, when I called, I tried to say a few words to her apart, as a lover may, and she snubbed me—she froze me. So there I am. I do not know whether she loves me, or ever will, and I have not the peace of mind to go about my business, or do anything on earth but think of that confounded little slut."
"It seems to me," replied Castro, without diverting his attention from the window before which they stood, "that the girl has begun the attack."
Ramoncito looked up at him with surprise and respect.
"The attack?" said he.
"Yes, the attack. In every battle the important point is to be the first to attack. If at the moment when the adversary is about to advance, you attack him with decision, you are almost sure to succeed; if you hesitate, you are lost."
As he uttered the last words, he turned away from the shop-window and continued his majestic progress along the side-walk. Ramon did the same; he had very imperfectly understood the application to his case of this simile, derived from the art of fencing, but he abstained from asking any explanation.
"So that you think——"
"I think that you are preposterously in love with the girl, and that she knows it."
"But then, Pepe, what reason can she have for refusing me?" Ramoncito began in a fume, as if he were talking to himself. "What does the girl expect? Her father is rich, but there are several children to divide the money. Mariana is still young, and besides, you know what Don Julian is. He would be torn in pieces sooner than part with a dollar. Honestly, waiting for his death does not seem to me a very hopeful business. I am not a nabob, but I have my own fortune; and it is my own, without waiting for anybody to die. I can give her as much comfort and luxury as she has at home—more!" he added, giving his head a determined shake. "Then I have a political career before me. I may be Under-Secretary or Minister some day when she least expects it. My family is better than hers; my grandfather was not a shop-keeper like Don Julian's father. Besides, she is no goddess; she is not one of those girls you turn round to stare at, you know. Why should she give herself airs when I take a fancy to her? Do you know who is at the bottom of it all? Why, Cobo Ramirez, and such apes as he, who have turned her head for her. The little fool expects a prince of the blood to come courting her, perhaps!"
Ramoncito denied his lady's beauty, a sure sign of his being deeply and sincerely in love with her; his affection was not the offspring of vanity. His excess of devotion led him to run her down. Castro reflected that his companion's personal defects might have something to do with his ill-success in this and some other affairs; but he did not express the opinion. He thought it safer, as he closed his eyes and sucked his cigar, to pronounce this general truth:
"Girls are such idiots."
Ramoncito, agreeing in principle, nevertheless persisted in driving the application home.
"She is a little goose. She does not know herself what she wants. I say, Pepe, what would you do in my place?"
Castro walked on in silence for a little way, staring up at the balconies, wondering, no doubt, that all the world did not come out to see him pass. Then, after two or three deep puffs at his cigar, he put on a very grave and judicial air, and replied: "My dear fellow (pause), in your place, I should begin by not being in love. Love is pour les bébés, not for you and me."
"That is past praying for," said the young deputy, looking so miserable that it was quite sad to behold.
"Well, then, if you cannot get over the ridiculous weakness, at any rate do not let it be seen. Why do you try to convince Esperancita that you are dying for her? Do you think that will do any good? Convince her of the contrary, and you will see how much better the result will be."
"What would you have me do?" asked Ramon anxiously.
"Do not make such a show of your devotion, man; don't be so spoony. Do not go to the house so often and gaze at her with eyes like a calf with its throat cut. Contradict her when she talks nonsense; hint that you have seen much nicer girls; give yourself a little consequence, and you will see how matters will look up."
"I cannot, Pepe, I cannot!" exclaimed Ramon, wiping his brow in excess of anguish. "At first I could master myself, talk without embarrassment, and flirt with other girls. Now, it is impossible. As soon as I am in her presence, I grow confused and bewildered, and do not know what I am saying, especially if I find her cross; every word she utters freezes me. You cannot imagine how haughty she can be when she chooses. If I try to talk to some one else, Esperanza has only to smile to bring me to her side at once. I did once pass nearly a month, almost without speaking to her; but at last it was too much for me. I would rather talk to her, even when she ill-treats me, than to any one else in the world."
The two young men walked on in silence, as though under the burden of some great calamity. Pepe Castro was deep in thought.
"You are lost, Ramon," he said at last, throwing away the end of his cigar, and wiping the mouth-piece with his handkerchief, before putting it by. "You are utterly done for. What you say has no sense in it. If you had any notion of managing yourself, you would never have got into such a mess. Women must always be treated with the toe of your boot; then you get on all right."
Having given utterance to these few but profound words he again pulled up in front of a shop window.
"Look," said he, "what a pretty dog-collar, it would just do for Pert if I bought it."
Ramon looked at the collar without heeding, completely absorbed in his melancholy reflections.
"Yes, Ramoncito," the young man went on, laying his arm on his companion's shoulder, "you are altogether done for; still, I venture to say that Esperanza will love you yet, if you only do as I tell you. Just try my plan."
"I will try; I must come out of this fix one way or another," replied the youth pathetically.
"Well, then, for the present you must go to the Calderón's not more than once a week, or less. We will go together or meet there. You must not find yourself alone with her, or in some weak moment you will undo everything. You are not to talk much to Esperanza, but a great deal to the other girls who may be present. Then you should sing the praises of rosy cheeks, tall figures, fair skins—of everything, in short, that is least like her, and be sure you are sufficiently enthusiastic. Contradict her, and without seeming too much grieved. You are very obstinate, and it does not do to discuss matters too much, a tone of mild depreciation is far more effective. You had better glance at me from time to time; I can give you some covert signals, and so you will always be sure of your ground."
And thus, by the time they had reached the door of the Calderóns' house, Castro had expatiated on his masterly plan of campaign, with many valuable hints and details. Only a marvellously lucid intellect, joined to wide and rich experience, only the most subtle nature could have entered so completely into the secret struggle to which Esperanza's objection to Ramon had given rise in his soul. At the same time he was the only person who could solve the riddle. Maldonado reached the young lady's home in a state of comparative tranquillity. As to his inmost purpose, it may be said that he had fully determined to assume the utmost dignity he could put on, and to offer a bold resistance to Esperanza's advance and attack.
To begin with, he thought proper to put his hands in his pockets and pinch his lips into an ironical and patronising simper. He thus entered the little drawing-room where the banker's family were assembled, gently shaking his head as though he could not hold it up for the weight of many thoughts it contained. From the elegant to the coarse—as from the sublime to the ridiculous—there is but a step, and it would be bold to declare that Ramoncito, at the beginning of his interview with Esperanza, always kept on the right side of the narrow rift. There is some reason for supposing that he did not. What is, at any rate, quite certain, is that the young lady did not immediately detect the change, and when she did, it did not make so deep an impression as he had hoped.
In the little sitting-room, when they were shown in, Mariana and Esperancita, with Doña Esperanza, the grandmother, were seated at their needlework; or, to be exact, Doña Esperanza and her grand-daughter were at work, Mariana was lounging in her chair, her eyes fixed on vacancy, and not moving a finger. Pepe Castro and Ramon, as being intimate with the family, were made welcome without ceremony. After shaking hands—excepting that Maldonado did not go through the ceremony with Esperancita—they sat down; Esperanza quite unable to imagine why Ramon intentionally neglected her, by way of a worthy beginning to the grand course of unpleasant discipline by which he hoped to school his beloved. Pepe took a chair next to Mariana, and Ramon next to Doña Esperanza. Before seating himself he had a momentary weakness. Seeing Esperancita sitting at some little distance from her mother, it seemed to him a favourable opportunity for a few private words, and as he moved his chair he hesitated; an expressive frown from Castro brought him to his senses.
"The sight of you is good for weary eyes, Pepe," said Esperancita, fixing her smiling glance on the illustrious dandy.
"They are beautiful eyes which see him now!" Ramon hastily put in.
Castro, instead of replying, looked sternly at his friend, and the deputy much abashed, went on to remedy his blunder.
"Fine eyes are the rule in this family."
"Thank you, Ramon. But you are beginning to be as false as all politicians," said Mariana.
"I do every one justice," replied he, blushing with delight at hearing himself spoken of as a public personage.
"Why, how long is it since I was here?" said Pepe to the girl.
"A fortnight, at least. It was on a Monday; Pacita was here. And this is Saturday; so you see—thirteen days."
No one recollected so precisely when Maldonado had called last. Castro accepted this proof of interest with entire indifference.
"I did not think it was so long. How the time flies!" said he profoundly.
"Evidently. It flies for you—away from us."
The young man smiled affably, and asked leave to light a cigar. Then he said:
"No. It flies fastest when I am with you."
"Faster than with Clementina?" asked the girl in an innocent tone, which betrayed no malice. But Castro looked at her gravely. His connection with Osorio's wife had hitherto remained more or less a secret; and that it should be known here, in her sister-in-law's house, disturbed him. Esperancita blushed scarlet under his inquiring gaze.
"Much the same," he said coolly. "We are very good friends."
"Are you going there to-day?" asked Mariana, not observing this by-play.
"Yes; Ramon and I are going—Saturday? Isn't it? And you?"
"I am not inclined to go out. I have been suffering a little these few days from sore throat."
"Do not say you are ill, mamma," said Esperancita, pettishly; "say you would rather go to bed early." Her mother looked at her with large, dull eyes.
"I have a relaxed throat, my dear."
"How opportune!" exclaimed the girl, ironically. "I have not heard a word about it till this moment."
"If you wish to go," said Mariana, understanding at last, "your father will take you."
"You know very well that if you do not go, papa will not care to go either."
Her voice betrayed her irritation. A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Ramon's face, and he shot a look of triumph at Pepe. It was when she heard that he, too, was going that she had begun to wish to join the party.
The conversation now drifted into common-place, dwelling chiefly on the most trivial subjects: the news of the day, or the singers at the opera. Tosti's beauty was again discussed. Ramoncito, in the joy of his triumph, dared to call it in question, and abused tall and, above all, red-haired women. He admired only brunettes, round faces, a medium stature, and black eyes—in short, Esperancita; there was no need to name her. His friend Pepe, alarmed by this outburst, which was directly opposed to all the plans of siege on which they had agreed, made a series of grimaces for his guidance, and presently brought him back into the right way; but he then went so far into the other extreme, and began to contradict himself in so disastrous a manner, that the ladies presently remarked it, and he got bewildered and tied himself into a knot, from which he could not have extricated himself but for a timely rescue by his friend and chief.
To remedy the blunder to some extent he entered on a long account of the sitting of the day before, with so many details that Mariana began to yawn, like the simpleton she was, and Doña Esperanza devoted herself to her embroidery, and made no secret of thinking of something else. Esperancita at last made a sign to Castro to come and sit by her. He obeyed, taking a low seat at her side.
"Listen, Pepe," said she, in a low and tremulous voice. "Of late you have been very sullen with me. I do not know whether I can have said anything to vex you. If so, pray forgive me."
"I do not know what you mean. I could never be vexed by anything that such a sweet little person as you might say," replied the young man, with the lordly smile of a Sultan.
"I am glad it was a false alarm on my part. Many thanks for the compliment, if you mean it—which I doubt. It would grieve me to the heart to displease you in any way," and as she spoke she blushed up to her ears.
"But I hear you are very apt to be displeasing."
"Oh, no!"
"So my friend Ramon tells me."
Esperancita's countenance clouded, and a deep line marked her childlike brow.
"I do not know why he should say so."
"Your conscience does not prick you?"
"Not in the least."
"What a heart of stone!"
"Why? If I have hurt his feelings it is his own fault."
"So I told him. But I believe his complaint is in a fair way to be cured, and that he will not again expose himself to your thrusts. He has been more cheerful and less absent-minded these last few days."
Castro was quite honestly doing his best for his friend.
"I should be only too glad to hear it," said the girl, with perfect simplicity.
Castro sang the praises of his friend and earnestly recommended him to Esperancita's good graces. But as he poured exaggerated eulogies into the girl's ear, his tone of disdain and the satirical smile which accompanied them somewhat weakened their effect. And even if it had not been so, she would have received them with no less hostility.
"Come, Pepe, you want to make a fool of me?"
"Indeed, Esperancita, Ramon has a great future before him, and in time may very likely be made Minister."
The hero in question, meanwhile, was explaining, with his usual fluency, to Mariana and her mother, how he had discovered an extensive fraud in the custom-house returns on imported meat: three hundred and fifty hams had been brought into the country, a few days since, smuggled in with the cognisance of some of the officials. Ramoncito meant to bring these men to justice without delay. Mariana implored him not to be too severe with them; they were perhaps fathers of families, but she could not mollify him. His sense of municipal rights was more rigid perhaps than the muscles of his neck—to judge by the number of times he turned his head to look where Pepe and Esperancita were talking. He was not jealous; he had absolute confidence in his friend's loyalty; but he wanted his beloved to hear him when he brought out certain phrases: "To the bar of justice;" "I can no doubt obtain an adverse verdict;" "The municipal law requires that they should be prosecuted," and so forth, so that the angel of his heart might fully appreciate the high destiny in store for her if she were united to so energetic an administrator.
They now heard steps in the adjoining room, and a cough which they all knew only too well. Doña Esperanza when she heard it hastily handed her work to her daughter, or, to be exact, crammed it into Mariana's hands.
When Calderón came in, his wife was stitching with affected diligence, while her mother was sitting with her hands folded, as if she had not stirred from her attitude for a long time. Ramon and Castro had scarcely noticed the manœuvre. The reason of it was that Calderón could not forgive his wife her apathy and indolence, regarding these faults as positive calamities, and himself as most unfortunate for having married so inert a woman. Not that any work she might do mattered in the household; but his vehemently laborious temperament asserted itself against one so diametrically opposed to it. Mariana's limpness and indifference irritated his nerves and gave rise to sharp discussions and frequent squabbles. She feebly defended herself, declaring that her parents had not brought her up to be a maid-of-all-work, since they had enough to allow her to live like a lady. Whereupon Don Julian would turn furious, and declare that it was the duty of every one to work, or at any rate to do something; that total idleness was incomprehensible; that it was a wife's duty to see that the property of the household was not wasted, even if she could not add to it, &c. &c. And, finally, that the mistress's incurable indolence was at the bottom of their domestic discomfort.
Doña Esperanza was very unlike her daughter; by nature she was active, vigilant, and at least as avaricious as her son-in-law; she could never sit a quarter of an hour without something to occupy her hands. In the affairs of the house, indeed, she played no important part, because Calderón took a pleasure in managing and ordering everything himself. And this indicated a contradictory characteristic which must here be mentioned for a full comprehension of his character. He complained that his wife did not undertake the care of the house, and that he consequently was compelled to manage it, but at the same time, though he knew that his mother-in-law was both capable and willing, he would not leave it to her. This gave rise to a suspicion that, even if Mariana had been a prodigy of energy and method, he would no more have entrusted her with the management of domestic affairs than with his business. His suspicious and sordid nature made him prefer toil to rest; he would have liked to possess a hundred eyes to watch over everything that belonged to him. Doña Esperanza also lamented her daughter's incapacity, and eagerly seconded her son-in-law's stinginess, helping him very materially in his close vigilance. But while she herself found fault with Mariana's apathy, she was her mother after all; she hated that Calderón should blame her, and acutely felt their matrimonial differences. Consequently, whenever she could avert one she did so, even at the cost of some sacrifice, concealing Mariana's faults and voluntarily taking them on herself. It was for this reason that she had so precipitately handed to her the cushion she was embroidering.
Don Julian came into the room reading the feuilleton of La Correspondencia, which he carefully preserved and stitched together. Don Julian, strange as it may seem, was very fond of novels; but he only read those which came out in the Correspondencia, or the religious tales he gave his daughter who was at school. He had never been known to go into a bookseller's of his own accord to buy one. And not only did he read them, but he was very prone to weep over them. He was deeply sentimental at the bottom of his heart; it was a weakness of his constitution, like rheumatism or asthma. The misfortunes or poverty of others touched him greatly; if he could have remedied them by any means not involving any loss of money he would no doubt have done so at once. Generous deeds made him shed tears of enthusiasm; but he thought himself incapable of doing them—and he was right. And he made great efforts to do violence to his instincts; he was by no means the least ready to give of the rich men of Madrid. He set aside a fixed sum for the poor, and entered it in his accounts as though they were his creditors. But when once the monthly allowance was spent, he might, perhaps, have left a poor wretch to die of hunger in the street and not have given him a penny; not for want of feeling, but by reason of the strong hold figures had over his mind. The idea of depriving himself of a peseta for any other form of outlay than buying to sell was beyond his ken. Thus far his almsgiving had superior merits to that of other men.
As he now entered the little morning-room his face betrayed traces of emotion. After greeting his visitors, he said, as he seated himself in an arm-chair:
"I have just read an exquisite chapter in this novel—quite exquisite! I could not resist the temptation of bringing it in to read to these ladies."
He paused, not daring to propose it to Castro and Maldonado, though he would have liked to do so. He was very fond of reading aloud, because he did it fairly well, and Mariana took pleasure in hearing him; so far they were well matched.
"Read it, by all means, my dear; I do not think that Pepe and Ramon will object," said his wife.
Pepe bowed slightly; Ramoncito hastened to express enthusiastic pleasure: he was devoted to fine passages, &c. From the father of his inamorata he would have listened to the reading of a table of logarithms.
Don Julian wiped his spectacles, and, in a mild throat-voice which he kept for such occasions, began to read the episode describing the sufferings of a child lost in the streets of Paris. But his eyes instantly grew dim and his voice began to break, till at length he was so choked by emotion that he could scarcely be heard, and Ramon took the paper and read on to the end. Castro, looking on at this absurdity, hid a superior smile behind volumes of tobacco-smoke.
The chapter being ended, every one praised it in the most flattering terms. Mariana looked at her work, and observed that she would need a piece of silk for the lining, since the cushion was nearly finished. Doña Esperanza, to whom she made the remark, was of the same opinion.
"Ramoncito," said she, "be so good as to ring that bell."
The young civilian hastened to comply, and the lady's maid immediately appeared.
"I want you to go out and buy me a yard of silk," said her mistress.
The girl, having taken her instructions, was about to depart on the errand, when Don Julian, who was listening, stopped her.
"Wait a moment," said he; "I will see if I do not happen to have the thing you want." And he briskly left the room. In three minutes he returned with an old umbrella in his hand.
"Do not you think the silk of this umbrella might serve your purpose?" he said. "It seems to me to be just the colour."
Castro and Maldonado exchanged significant glances. Mariana blushed as she took the umbrella.
"It is, no doubt, the right colour," she said; "but it is full of holes; it will not do."
Esperancita pretended to be absorbed in her work, but her face was of the colour of a poppy. Doña Esperanza alone took up the question and discussed it seriously. Finally, the silk was rejected, to the chagrin of the banker, who muttered various uncomplimentary remarks on the management and economy of women.
Ramon, by this time, could no longer endure the torments of Tantalus, to which his friend's plans had condemned him; he never ceased gazing across to the spot where Pepe and Esperancita were chatting. He began by rising from his chair under pretence of moving about a little, and walked to and fro. By degrees he approached the couple, and stood still in front of them.
"Well, Esperancita, is it long since you saw Pacita?"
How absurd an excuse for addressing her! He himself was conscious of it, and blushed as he spoke. Pepe flashed an indignant glance at him, but either he did not see it, or he pretended not to see it. The girl frowned, and replied, shortly, that she did not exactly recollect. This would have been enough for most people, but Ramon would not take an answer; on the contrary, he tried to prolong the conversation with vacuous or irrelevant remarks, and even tried to wedge a chair in between them and sit down; but Castro hindered him by covertly giving him a fiercely expressive stamp on the toes, which brought him to his senses. He continued his melancholy walk till, presently, he went back to his seat by the two elder ladies. He was soon engaged in an animated discussion with Calderón as to whether the paving of the streets should be done by contract or managed by a commission. He would have been only too glad to agree with his host; it was his interest to do so, since his happiness or misery lay in his hands, but the obstinate and fractious temper which Nature had bestowed on him led him to continue the argument, though he saw that Calderón was heated, and within an ace of being angry. Fortunately for him, before this point was reached, a servant entered the room.
"What is it, Remigio?" asked the banker.
"A man, Señor—a friend of Pardo's—Señor Mudela's coachman—has come to say that Señorito Leandro is not very well."
"Bless me! What has happened to the boy? He is not accustomed to such dissipation. He has spent all his life at school or tied to his mother's apron-string. He must be taken away from this life of excitement.—And what is the matter with him?"
Leandro was Don Julian's nephew, the son of a sister who lived in La Mancha. He had come to pay a visit to Madrid, and was leading a very jolly life in the society of other youths of his own age. He had begged his uncle to lend him his carriage for an excursion into the country. Don Julian, anxious not to offend his sister, to whom it was his interest to be civil, had granted the favour, though sorely against the grain.
"The sun and the dinner have upset him a little."
"Pooh! an attack of indigestion. He will get over that!"
"I think you ought to go to see him, Julian," said Mariana.
"If it were necessary, of course I should go; but, so far, I see no necessity. I say, Remigio, is he too ill to come here? Is he in bed?"
"Well, Señor," said the man, turning his cap in his hands, and looking down, as conscious that his news was serious, "the fact of the matter is this—one of the mares, Primitiva, is knocked up."
Calderón turned pale.
"And she could not come home?"
"No, Señor; she seems to be pretty bad, from what the Mudela's coachman says. Of course, those youngsters know nothing about it, and they let her drink her fill."
Don Julian started up in the greatest agitation, and, without saying another word, he left the room, followed by Remigio. The young men again exchanged meaning looks. Esperancita happened to see this, and turned scarlet.
"Papa takes such things so much to heart!" said she.
"How should he do otherwise, child?—a thoroughbred which cost him three thousand dollars! It is a shame in Leandrito!" And for some minutes the old lady gave expression to her wrath, which was almost as great as her son-in-law's. Castro and Maldonado presently took leave. Mariana, who had taken the disaster with much philosophy, asked them to dinner.
"Stay and dine; it is too late now for a walk."
"I cannot," said Castro; "I dine at your brother's."
"Ah, to be sure; it is Saturday. I had forgotten. We will look in, if I am no worse, at ten, when the cards begin."
"Do you dine with Aunt Clementina every Saturday?" asked Esperancita in a low voice, but with a peculiar intonation. The young dandy looked at her for a moment.
"Most Saturdays, since I dine with your Uncle Tomas."
"Aunt Clementina is very pretty and very agreeable."
"She is considered so," replied Castro, a little uneasy.
"She has heaps of admirers. Are not you one of the most ardent of them?"
"Who told you so?"
"No one; I imagined it."
"You imagined rightly. Your aunt is, in my opinion, one of the loveliest and most elegant women of Madrid. Good-bye till this evening, Esperancita." And he held out his hand with a condescending air, which pained the poor child. She showed her annoyance by addressing Ramon, who was standing a little apart.
"And you, Ramon, why cannot you stay? Are you, too, going to dine at Aunt Clementina's?"
"I? Oh, no."
"Then stay with us—do. We will take care not to bore you."
"I—bored in your society!" exclaimed he, almost overcome with delight.
"Well, you will stay, then—won't you? Let Pepe go if he has other engagements."
Ramoncito was about to accept with the greatest rapture, but Castro began to make negative signs at him over the girl's head, and with such vehemence that his hapless friend could only say, in a subdued voice:
"No, I cannot either."
"But why, Ramon, why?"
"Because I have some business to attend to."
"I am sorry."
The young man was so deeply touched that he could scarcely murmur his thanks, and he left the room almost at a snail's pace. As soon as he was in the street Pepe complimented him eagerly, and assured him that his firmness must lead to the best results. But he received these congratulations with marked coldness, and preserved a stubborn silence till he reached home, where his friend and guide left him, his head full of gloomy presentiments and the blackness of night.
ON the day after her visit to Raimundo, Clementina felt even more ashamed and crestfallen at having paid it than at the moment when she came down those stairs. Proud natures feel as much remorse for an action which, in their opinion, has humiliated them, as the virtuous do when they have failed in humility. In her inmost soul she confessed that she had taken a false step. The youth's serenity and courtesy, while they raised him in her eyes, irritated her vanity. What comments must he and his sister have been making since her absurd and uninvited call! She coloured to think of them. Not to see or to be seen by Alcázar from his observatory, she ceased to go out on foot. The young man kept his word; she saw no sign of him.
But, why she knew not, his visage constantly rose before her eyes; he was perpetually in her thoughts. Was it aversion that she felt? Or resentment? Clementina could not honestly say that it was. There was nothing in his face or behaviour to make him odious to her. Was it, on the contrary, that his person had impressed her too favourably? Not at all. She met every day other men of more attractive manners and of more amusing conversation. So that it surprised as much as it provoked her to find herself thinking about him. She never ceased protesting to herself against this tendency, and reproaching herself for indulging it.
One afternoon, some days after the scene just narrated, she decided on taking a walk. Not to do so seemed to her cowardly; she was doing this boy too much honour. As she passed the house where he lived she glanced up at his window and saw him sitting there, as usual, with a book in his hand. She immediately looked down, and crossed the road with stately gravity; but after going a few steps, she felt a vague sense of dissatisfaction with herself. In fact, not to bow to the young man, not even to return his bow, was unmannerly, after his frank explanation and the politeness with which he had shown her his fine collection of butterflies.
Next day she again went out on foot, and repaired her injustice of the day before by looking steadily up at the window. Raimundo made her so respectful a bow, with so candid a smile, that the beauty felt flattered, and could not deny that the young fellow had singularly soft eyes, which made him very attractive, and that his conversation, if not remarkably elegant, showed a solid understanding and cultivated mind. She ought to have seen all this at first, no doubt, but for some unknown reason she had not. From this day forward she went out walking as before. As she passed the house in the Calle de Serrano she never failed to send a friendly nod to the upper window, or he to reply with eager courtesy; and as the days went on these greetings became more and more expressive. Without exchanging a word they were on quite intimate terms.
Clementina made an attempt to analyse her feelings towards young Alcázar. She was not in the habit of introspection. She vaguely thought that it was an act of charity to show him some kindness. "Poor boy," she said to herself, "how fond he was of his mother! What happiness to have had so good and loving a son!"
One afternoon when these greetings had been going on for more than a month, Pepe Castro asked her:
"I say, is it long since that red-haired boy left off following you about?"
Clementina was conscious of an unwonted shock, and coloured a little without knowing why.
"Yes; I have not seen him for at least a month."
Why did she tell an untruth? Castro was so far from imagining that there could be any acquaintance between this unknown devotee and his mistress that he did not notice her blush, and changed the subject with complete indifference. But to the lady herself, this strange shock and rising flush were a vague revelation of what was taking place within her. The first definite result of this revelation was that on quitting her lover's house, instead of thinking of him, she reflected that Alcázar kept his promise not to follow her with singular fidelity; the second was, that as she stopped to look into a jeweller's window and saw a butterfly brooch of diamonds, she said to herself that some of those she had seen in her friend's collection were far more beautiful and brilliant. The third effect came over her suddenly: on going into a book-seller's to buy some French novels, it struck her, as she saw the rows of books, that Pepe had certainly not read and would probably never read, one of them. Hitherto she had admired his ignorance, now it seemed ridiculous.
Time went on and Señora de Osorio, tired of her fashionable existence, and having tasted every emotion which comes in the way of a beautiful and wealthy woman, began to find a quite peculiar pleasure in the innocent greetings she exchanged almost every day with the youth at the corner window. One afternoon, having dismissed her carriage to take a turn in the Retiro Gardens, she met Alcázar and his sister in one of the avenues.
She bowed expressively; Raimundo saluted her with his usual respectful eagerness; but Clementina observed that the girl bowed with marked coolness. This occupied her thoughts and made her cross for the rest of the day, since she was forced to confess more than ever that this was at the bottom of her malaise and melancholy. By degrees, and owing chiefly to her fractious and capricious nature, this love-affair, which might have died still-born, occupied her mind and became the germ of a wish. Now in this lady, a wish was always a violent desire, above all if there were any obstacle in her way.
On a certain morning, after greeting Raimundo with the gesture peculiar to Spanish ladies, of opening and shutting her hand several times and going on her way, an involuntary impulse prompted her to look back once more at the corner window.
Raimundo was following her movements with a pair of opera glasses. She blushed scarlet and hurried on, ashamed at the discovery. What had made her guilty of such folly? What would the young naturalist think of her? At the very least he would fancy that she was in love with him. But in spite of the ferment in her brain, while she walked on as fast as she could to turn down the next street and escape from his gaze, she was less vexed with herself than she had been on other occasions. She was ashamed, no doubt, but when she presently slackened her pace, a pleasant emotion came over her, a light flutter at her heart such as she had not felt for a long time.
"I am going back to my girlhood," said she to herself, and she smiled. And it amused her to study her own feelings. She was happy in this return to the guileless agitations of her early youth.
She was so absorbed in her meditations, that on reaching the Fountain of Cybele, instead of going down the Calle de Alcalà, to go to Pepe Castro, with whom she had an appointment, she turned about, as though she had merely come for a walk. When she perceived it she stood still, hesitating; finally she confessed to herself that she had no great wish to keep the engagement.
"I will go to see mamma," thought she. "It is days since I spent an hour with her, poor thing."
And she went on towards the Avenue de Luchana. She was in the happiest mood. An organ was grinding out the drinking-song from Lucrezia Borgia, and she stopped to listen to it; she who was bored at the Opera by the most famous contralto! But music is the language of heaven, and can only be understood when heaven has found a way into our heart.
Coming towards her, down the Avenue de Recoletos, was Pinedo, the remarkable personage who lived with one foot in the aristocratic world and the other in the half-official world to which he really belonged. By his side was a pretty young girl, no doubt his daughter, who was unknown to Clementina: for Pinedo kept her out of the society he frequented, and hid her as carefully as Triboulet hid his. The Señora de Osorio had always treated Pinedo with some haughtiness, which, as we know, was not unusual with her. But at this moment her happy frame of mind made her expansive, and as Pinedo was passing her with his usual ceremonious bow, the lady stopped him, and addressed him, smiling:
"You, my friend, are a practical man; you too, I see, take advantage of these morning hours to breathe the fresh air and take a bath of sunshine."
Pinedo, against both his nature and habit, was somewhat out of countenance, perhaps because he had no wish to introduce his daughter to this very smart lady. However, he replied at once, with a gallant bow:
"And to take my chance of such unpleasing meetings as this one."
Clementina smiled graciously.
"You ought not to pay compliments even indirectly, with such a pretty young lady by your side? Is she your daughter?"
"Yes, Señora—Señora de Osorio," he added, turning to the girl, who coloured with pleasure at hearing herself called pretty by this lady whom she knew well by sight and by name. She was herself pale and slender, with an olive complexion, small well-cut features, and soft merry eyes.
"I had heard that you had a very sweet daughter, but I see that reputation has not done her justice."
She blushed deeper than ever, and faintly murmured her thanks.
"Come, Clementina, do not go on or she will begin to believe you. This lady, Pilar," he continued to his daughter, "takes as much delight in telling pleasant fibs as others do in telling unpleasant truths."
"She is, I see, most amiable," said Pilar.
"Do not believe him. Any one can see how pretty you are."
"Oh, Señora——"
"And tell me, tyrant father, why do you not give her a little more amusement? Do you think that you have any right to be seen at every theatre, ball and evening party, while you keep this sweet child under lock and key? or do you fancy we care more about seeing you than her?"
Poor Pinedo felt a pang which he tried to hide; Clementina had laid a frivolous finger on the tenderest spot in his heart. His salary, as we know, allowed him to live but very modestly; if he went into a class of society which was somewhat above him, it was solely to secure his tenure of an office which was the sole means of sustenance for himself and his child. She knew nothing of this. Pinedo hoped to be able to marry her to some respectable and hardworking man; she was never to see the world in which she could not live, and which he himself despised with all his heart, although from sheer force of habit perhaps he could not have lived contentedly in any other.
"She is still very young; she has time before her," he said, with a forced smile.
"Pooh, nonsense! I tell you, you are very selfish. How long is it since you were at the Valpardos?" she went on to change the subject.
"I was there on Monday; the Condesa asked much after you, and lamented that you had quite deserted her."
"Poor Anita! It is very true."
Pinedo and Clementina then plunged into an animated and endless discussion of the Valpardos and their parties. Pilar listened at first with attention; but as the greater number of the persons named were not known to her, she presently amused herself with looking about her, more especially at the few passers-by who were to be seen there at that early hour.
"Papa," said she, taking advantage of a pause, "here comes that young friend of yours who maintains his mother and sisters."
Clementina and Pinedo looked round both at once, and saw Rafael Alcantara approaching—the scapegrace youth whom we met in the Savage Club.
"Who maintains his mother and sisters?" echoed Clementina, much surprised.
"Yes, a very good young man, and a friend of papa's, called Rafael Alcantara."
The lady looked inquiringly at Pinedo, who gave her an expressive glance. Not knowing what it could mean, but supposing that her friend for some reason did not wish her to speak of Alcantara as he deserved, she held her tongue. The young man as he passed them greeted them half respectfully, half familiarly. Pinedo immediately held out his hand to take leave.
"This is Saturday you remember," said the lady. "Are you coming to dinner?"
"With much pleasure. My regards to Osorio."
"And bring this dear little girl with you."
"We will see, we will see," replied the official again, much embarrassed. "If I cannot manage it to-day, some other time."
"You must manage it, tyrant father. Au revoir then, my dear."
She took the girl by the chin, and kissed her on both cheeks, saying as she did so: "I have long wished to make your acquaintance. I sadly want some nice pretty girls in my drawing-room."
And as she walked on, in better spirits than ever, she said to herself: "What on earth can Pinedo be driving at by making a saint of that good-for-nothing Alcantara?"
With a light step, a colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkling as they had done in her girlhood, she soon reached the gate of the large garden in which her father's house stood. The porter hastened to open it and rang the house-bell. She went in, and, contrary to her usual custom, she smiled at the two servants in livery, who awaited her at the top of the stairs. She went by them in silence, and straight on to her stepmother's rooms, like one who has long been familiar with the place.
The Duquesa at that moment was in council with the medical director of an asylum for aged women which she had founded some time since in concert with some other ladies. When the curtain was lifted and her stepdaughter appeared she smiled affectionately.
"It is you, Clementina! Come in, my child, come in."
Clementina's heart swelled as she saw her mother's pale, thin face. She hastened to her and kissed her effusively.
"Are you pretty well, mamma? How did you sleep?"
"Very well. But I look ill, don't I?"
"Oh, no," her daughter hastily assured her.
"Yes, yes. I saw it in the glass. But I feel well, only so miserably weak; and, as I have completely lost my appetite, I cannot get any stronger.—Then, as I understand, Yradier," she went on to the doctor, who was standing in front of her, "you undertake to look after the servants and the sick women, so that there may be no lack of due consideration for the poor old things?"
The doctor was a pleasant-looking young man with an intelligent countenance.
"Señora Duquesa," said he with decision, "I will do everything in my power to prevent the pensioners having any complaints to make; but at the same time, I must warn you that some may still reach your ears. You cannot imagine the vexatiousness and spite of which some women are capable. Without any cause whatever, simply to insult me and my colleagues, they are capable of heaping insolence on us. And the more attention we show them, the more airs they give themselves. I taste their broth and their chocolate every day, and I have never found it bad, as that old woman declared it to be. The hours are fixed and I have never known the meals to be late. If you will make inquiries you will convince yourself that the persons who have ground for complaint are the poor servants, whom the old women treat shamefully."
The doctor had become quite excited and spoke these words in a tone of conviction.
The lady smiled gently.
"I believe you, I believe you, Yradier. Old women are very apt to be troublesome."
"Ah! Señora, that depends."
"We are, for the most part. But it is in itself an infirmity, and should excite compassion in those who suffer from it. I need not say so to you, for you have a charitable soul. But I beg of you to entreat those who are less forgiving, in my name, to be gentle and patient with the poor old women."
"I will, Señora, I will," replied Yradier, won by the lady's sweetness. "We shall see you on Thursday then?"
"I do not know whether my strength will allow of it."
"Oh, yes, I will answer for it." And feeling that he was not wanted, the young man then took his leave, pressing the lady's hand with affection and respect which spoke in his eyes, while he bowed ceremoniously to Clementina.
As soon as he was gone, she, who had been gazing with pain at her stepmother's worn features, and had been deeply moved by the goodness which was revealed in every word she uttered, rose from her seat and, kneeling down by Doña Carmen, took her thin white hands and kissed them in a transport of feeling. The beauty, who to all the rest of the world was so haughty, had a peculiar joy, not unlike the rapture of a mystic, in humbling herself before her stepmother. Doña Carmen's voice acted like a spell, stirring the dim sparks of virtue and tenderness which still lived in her heart, and fanning them for a moment to reviving heat. Then the elder lady gently removed her daughter's hat, and, laying it on a chair, bent down to kiss her fondly on the forehead.
"It is four days since you last came to see me, bad girl"
"Yesterday I could not, mamma. I spent the whole day over my accounts, doing sums. Oh, those hateful sums?"
"But why do you do them? Is not your husband there?"
"It is for fear of my husband that I do them. Do not you know that he has become as stingy and miserly as his brother-in-law?"
Doña Carmen knew that Osorio's affairs were not prospering, and that he had lately lost heavily on the Bourse; but she dared not tell his wife so.
"Poor, dear child! To have to think of such things when you were born to shine as a star in society."
"This alone was wanting to make him absolutely detestable. If one could but live one's life over again!"
The tender look had gone out of her eyes, they were gloomy and fierce; a deep frown puckered her statuesque brow, and in a husky tone she poured out all her grievances and related the daily vexations which her husband heaped upon her. To no one in the world but her stepmother would she have confided them; and she could speak of them without a tear, while Doña Carmen's weary eyes shed many as she listened.
"My darling child! And I would have given my life to see you happy! How blind we were, your father and I, to entrust you to such a man!"
"My father, indeed! A man who has never found out that he has a saint in his own house whom he ought to worship on his bended knees. When I think——"
"Hush, hush! He is your father," exclaimed Doña Carmen, laying a hand on her lips. "I am quite happy. If your father has his faults, I have mine; so I have no merit in forgiving him his if he on his part forgives me. Do not let us discuss your father. Talk about yourself. You cannot think how these money difficulties worry me; I am not accustomed to them. I would set them right on the spot if I could; but, as you know, very little money passes through my hands. I have to account to Antonio for all I draw, and he is not easily hoodwinked. I might, to be sure, put aside a few gold pieces for you; but my savings would not help you far. However, I hope your difficulties will soon be over."
The good woman paused, gazing sadly into vacancy; then, kissing her daughter, who was still on her knees before her, she spoke into her ear in a low voice, and went on:
"Listen, child. I cannot live much longer, and I shall leave all I have to you. Half of your father's fortune is mine, as I understand from the family lawyer."
Clementina felt a thrill, a shock, which a psychologist would find it hard to define—a mixture of sorrow and surprise, with an undercurrent of satisfaction. However, sorrow predominated; she kissed her stepmother again and again.
"What are you saying? Die! No, you are not to die! I want you much, much more than your money. But for you I should have been a very wicked woman—and I shall be, I fear, the day you cease to live. The only moments when I feel any goodness in me are those I spend with you. I fancy, mamma, that you infect me with some of your exquisite virtue."
"There, there—flatter me no more," said Doña Carmen, again stopping her mouth. "You think yourself worse than you are. You have a good heart. What sometimes makes you seem bad is your pride. Is not that the truth?"
"Yes, mamma, quite true. You do not know what pride is, or the miseries it brings to those who feel it as I do. To be constantly thinking of things which hurt me—to see enemies on all sides—to feel a look as though it were the point of a dagger in my heart—to catch a word, and turn it over and over in my brain till it almost makes me sick—to live with my heart sore, my mind full of alarms—oh! how often have I envied those who are as good and as humble as you. How happy should I be if I had not a gloomy and suspicious temper and the pride which devours my soul! And who knows," she went on after a pause, "that I might not have been happier in some other sphere of life? If I had been poor, and had married some hard-working and intelligent young fellow, my lot might have been better. Obliged to help my husband, to take care of a business, or attend to the details of the house, like other women who labour and struggle, I might, perhaps, not have come to this. I ought to have had a loving and patient husband—a man of talent, who could guide me. As it is, mamma, accustomed as I am to luxury and the fashionable world, I would gladly give it all up this very day and go to live in some pleasant spot in the country, far from Madrid. I only want a little love, and to keep you with me to teach me to feel and be good."
Clementina's present mood was idyllic; she had been pleasantly impressed by the simple home in the Calle de Serrano. In every woman, however hardened, however immersed in love adventures, there remains an eclogue in some corner of her brain which now and again comes to the surface. Good Doña Carmen listened to her and encouraged her by her smiles, and the younger lady's confidences lasted long. She recalled her early life, when she came to tell her stepmother of the declarations made to her at the ball of the night before, and to read her the billets-doux of her adorers. These reminiscences of the past made her happy. She was even tempted to talk about Pepe Castro and Raimundo, and confess the childish feelings which stirred her soul; but a feeling of respect withheld her. Doña Carmen's leniency was indeed so excessive as to verge on folly; it is very possible that, even if her stepdaughter had confessed her worst sins, she would hardly have been scandalised.
They breakfasted together, the Duke having gone to breakfast with a Minister. Afterwards, having relieved and refreshed their spirits with this long chat, they went together in the carriage to San Pascual's, where they prayed a while; and then they drove to the Avenue of the Retiro. They went home before dark, as the evening air was bad for Doña Carmen, and Clementina must be home in good time.
It was Saturday, the day on which the Osorios kept open house for dinner and cards. Before going up to dress, Clementina looked round the dining-room, studied the arrangement of the table, and ordered some little alterations in the dishes of fruit which decked it. She sent for the packet of menus—written on parchment paper with the Duke's monogram stamped in gold—begged her husband's secretary to write the name of a guest on each, and herself laid them in order on the table napkins: herself and her husband opposite each other in the middle; to the right and left of Osorio, two ladies in the seats of honour; to her own right and left, two gentlemen; and then the rest of the party in order of dignity, age, or her own preference for her guests. Then she spoke a few words with the butler, and after giving him her instructions, she went away. At the door she turned to look once more at the table, and added:
"Remove those strong-smelling flowers from the Marquesa de Alcudia's place and give her camellias, or something else which has no scent."
The pious Marquesa could not endure strong perfumes, being liable to headache. Clementina, who hated her, showed more consideration for her than for any of her friends; her ancient title, severe judgment, and even her bigotry, made her respected, and her presence in a drawing-room lent it prestige.
Clementina went to her room, followed by Estefania, the coachman's sworn foe. She put on a magnificent dress of creamy-white, cut low. She usually wore a sort of demi-toilette for these Saturday receptions, with sleeves to the elbow. But this evening she was moved to display her much-praised person in honour of a foreign diplomate who was to dine in the house for the first time. While the maid was dressing her hair, her mind wandered vaguely over the events of the day. She had not kept her appointment with Pepe; he would certainly arrive in a rage. She pouted her under lip disdainfully, and her eyes had a spiteful glitter, as if to say: "And what do I care?" Then she remembered Raimundo's greeting and that ill-starred look backwards, with a feeling of shame to which her cheeks bore witness by a deepening colour. She called herself a fool—heedless, mad. Happily for her, the young man seemed to be simple and unpretending; otherwise he would at once have built wild castles in the air. She thought of him a good deal, and with some tenderness. He was, in fact, attractive and good-looking and had a way of speaking, at once gentle and firm, which impressed her greatly; then his passionate devotion to his mother's memory, his retired life, his strange mania for butterflies, all helped to make him interesting.
How many times Clementina had thought over all this during the last few months it would be hard to say, but very often, beyond a doubt. Her spirit, lulled by a slumberous sweetness, was sentimentally inclined. That home on the third floor, that sunny study, that quiet and simple life. Who knows! Happiness may dwell where we least expect to find it. A heap of frippery, a handful of gems, a dish or two more on the table cannot give it. But an odious reflection, which for some little time had embittered all her dreams, flashed through her mind. She was growing old—yes, old. She allowed herself no illusions. Estefania found it more difficult every week to hide the silver threads among her golden hair. Though she firmly resisted every temptation to apply any chemical preparation to her beautiful tresses, she was beginning to think that there would be no help for it. The candid, eager, happy love, of which her adventure with young Alcázar had given her visions, was not for her. Nothing was left for her, nor had been for some time, but the vapid, vulgar inanities of aristocratic fops, all equally commonplace in their tastes, their speech, and their unfathomable vanity. What connection could there be between her and this boy but that of mother and son? She sometimes wondered whether Raimundo's feelings towards her were quite what he had described them in that first interview; but at this moment she was sure that he had spoken the simple truth, that love was impossible between a lad of twenty and a woman of seven-and-thirty—for she was seven-and-thirty though she was wont to take off two years—at any rate such love as she at this moment longed for.
These reflections furrowed her brow, and with an effort she determined to think of something else. Looking at her maid in the glass, she noticed that the girl was deadly pale. She turned round to make sure, and said:
"Are you ill, child? You are very white."
"Yes, Señora," said the girl in some confusion.
"Do you feel the old sickness again?"
"I think so."
"Well, go and lie down, and send up Concha. It is very odd. I will send for the doctor to-morrow, to see if he can do anything for you."
"No, no, Señora," the girl hastened to exclaim. "It is nothing, it will go off."
A few minutes later the lady made her appearance in the drawing-room, brilliantly beautiful. Osorio was there already, walking up and down the room with his friend and almost daily visitor at dinner, Bonifacio. He was a man of about sixty, solemn and starch, with a bald head, a yellow face and black teeth. He had been Governor in various provinces, and now held the post of chief of a Department of State. He talked little, and never contradicted—the first and indispensable virtue of a man who would fain dine well and spend nothing, and his dress-coat was perennially adorned with the red cross of the order of Calatrava to which he belonged. In his own house, the most conspicuous object was a portrait of himself with a very tall plume in his cap and an amazingly long white cloak over his shoulders.
In one corner sat Pascuala, a widow with no perceptible income, whom Clementina regarded partly as a friend, and partly as a companion to be made use of, and with her, Pepa Frias, who had just arrived. As Clementina passed the two men to shake hands with Pepa, her eyes met her husband's in a flash like gloomy and ominous lightning. Osorio's face, always dark and bilious, was really impressive by its ferocity. It was only for an instant. The ladies exchanged a few words, and the men joined them, the banker beginning to jest with his wife about her dress in a tone of affectionate banter.
"That is the way my wife wastes my money. My dear, though you may not care to hear it, I may tell you that you grow stout at an alarming rate."
"Do not say so, Osorio, Clementina has the loveliest skin of any woman in Madrid," said Pascuala.
"I should think so. The enamelling she went through in Paris last spring cost me a pretty penny."
Clementina fell in with the jest, but she had great difficulty in acting her part. Through the convulsive smiles which now and then lighted up her face, and her brief enigmatical phrases, it was easy to see her uneasiness, and even a spice of hatred.
The door-bell rang frequently, and in a few minutes the drawing-room held fifteen or twenty guests. The Marquesa de Alcudia brought none of her daughters; they were rarely seen at the Osorios'. Then came the Marquesa de Ujo, a woman who had been pretty, but was now much faded; as languid as a South American, though she was a native of Pamplona, somewhat romantic, by way of being incomprise, with literary tastes. She had with her a daughter, taller than herself, and who must have been fifteen at least, though her mother made her wear petticoats above her ankles that she might not make her seem old. The poor girl endured the mortification with a fairly good grace, though she blushed when any one happened to look at her feet.
Next came General Patiño, Conde de Morillejo; he never missed a Saturday. Then the Baron and Baroness de Rag appeared; it was their first dinner there, and Clementina devoted herself to them, heaping them with attentions. The Baron was plenipotentiary of some great foreign Power. The Minister of Arts and Agriculture, Jimenez Arbos, Pinedo, Pepe Castro, and the Cotorrasos husband and wife—all came in together.
At the last moment, when it wanted but a few minutes of seven, Lola Madariaga and her husband arrived. This lady, though much younger than Clementina, was her most intimate friend, and the confidant of all her secrets. She dined with her three or four times a week, and hardly a day passed without their driving out together. She could not be called pretty, but her face was so animated, her eyes sparkled so sweetly, and her lips parted in such a bewitching smile to show her little white teeth, that she had always many admirers. As a girl she had been an accomplished flirt, turning all the men's heads, loving to have them at her feet, prodigal of those insinuating smiles alike to the son of a duke or a humble employé, to the old man with a bald head and a bottle nose, or the slender youth of twenty, to the rich or the poor, the noble or the plebeian. Her coquetry equalised ranks and fortunes, uniting all men in a holy brotherhood to bask in the bright light of her fine black eyes, and adore the delicious dimples which a smile brought into her cheek, with all the other gifts and graces which a merciful Providence had bestowed on her. Since her marriage she still showed the same inexhaustible benevolence towards the human race, but in a less wholesale fashion—that is to say, towards one, or at most two, at a time. Her husband was a Mexican, very rich, with traces of Indian blood in his features.
They had been in the room only a minute or two when they were followed by Fuentes, a very lively little man, ugly and lean, and a good deal marked by the small-pox. No one knew what he lived on; he was supposed to have some small investments. He was to be seen in every drawing-room of any pretensions, and had a seat at the best tables. His titles to such preference lay in his being regarded as a brilliant and witty talker, intelligent and agreeable. For more than twenty years he had shone at the dinners and balls of Madrid, playing the part of first funny man. Some of his jests had become proverbial; they were repeated not only in drawing-rooms but in the cafés, and from thence were exported to the provinces. Unlike most men of his stamp, he was never ill-natured. His banter was not intended to wound, but only to amuse the company, and excite admiration for his easy, quick, and subtle wit. The utmost license he allowed himself was to seize on the ridiculous side of some absent friend as the subject for an epigram, but never, or almost never, at the cost of his credit. These qualities made him the idol of his circle. No one thought a party complete unless Fuentes at least put in an appearance in the course of the evening.
"Ah, Fuentes! Here is Fuentes!" cried one and another, as he appeared, and a number of hands were extended to greet him. Shaking the first he happened to grasp, he turned to the mistress of the house, saying in a dry voice which in itself had a comic effect:
"Pardon me, Clementina, if I am a little late. On my way I was caught by Perales. You know Perales; I need say no more. Then, when I escaped from his clutches, at the corner by the War Office, I fell into those of Count de Sotolargo, and he, you know, is saddled with fifty per cent. handicap."
"Why?" asked Lola Madariaga.
"He stammers, Señora."
All laughed, some loudly, others more discreetly. That the sally was not impromptu was evident a mile off; but it produced the desired effect, partly because it really was droll, and partly because it was a point of honour with every one to laugh whenever Fuentes opened his lips.
A moment later a servant in livery opened the door, and announced that dinner was served.
Osorio hastened to offer his arm to the Baroness de Rag, and led the way to the dining-room. The Baron closed the procession, leading Clementina. The servants all stood in a row, armed with napkins and headed by the butler. Osorio marshalled each guest to his place, and they soon were all seated.
The table was elegantly and attractively laid. The light from two large hanging lamps shone on bright-hued flowers and fruit, on a snowy cloth, sparkling glass, and shining porcelain. This light, however, being somewhat crude, did not do justice to the ladies; it gave everything the sharpness of an image in a camera. To moderate the glare and produce a more diffused light, Clementina had two large candelabra, with coloured shades, placed at each end of the table. All the ladies were in low dresses—some, like Pepa Frias, disgracefully décolletées. The gentlemen were in evening dress with white ties.
At first the conversation was only between neighbours. The Baroness de Rag, a Belgian, with brown hair and light blue eyes, and rather stout, was asking Osorio the Spanish names for the various objects on the table. She had not been long in Spain, and was most anxious to learn the language. Clementina and the Baron were talking French. Pepa Frias, who was between Pepe Castro and Jimenez Arbos, said to Castro, in an undertone: