“The devil! What a lugubrious sign!” exclaimed Quentin after reading it.
“Do you see this hut?” asked Don Gil. “Well, every intrigue that God ever turned loose, goes on here. But let us go in.”
They entered, and a cracked voice shouted:
“Who is it?”
“I, Señora Patrocinio, Don Gil Sabadía, who comes with a friend. Bring a light, for we’re going to stay a while.”
“One moment.”
The old woman descended with a lamp in her hand, and led the two men into a small parlour where there was a strong odour of lavender. She placed the lamp on the table and said:
“Some small olives, and a little wine.”
The old woman opened a cupboard, took out a dish of olives, another of biscuits, and two bottles of wine.
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Nothing more, Señora Patrocinio.”
The old woman withdrew and shut the door.
“How do you like the place, eh?” asked Don Gil.
“Magnificent! Now for the history of my friend Quentin.”
“Before the history, let’s drink. Your health, comrade.”
“Yours.”
“May all our troubles vanish into thin air.”
“True,” exclaimed Quentin. “Let us leave to the gods the care of placating the winds, and let us enjoy life as long as fortune, age, and the black spindle of the Three Sisters will permit us.”
“Are you a reader of Horace?” asked Don Gil.
“Yes.”
“One more reason for my liking you. Another glass, eh?”
“Let us proceed. Go on with the story, comrade.”
“Here goes.”
Don Gil cleared his throat, and commenced his story as follows....
TOWARD the first part of last century, upon one of the folds of Sierra Morena, stood a tavern called El Ventorro de la Sangre (Bloody Tavern). It was half way between Pozo Blanco and Cordova, in a fertile little pasture near an olive orchard.
Its name arose from a bloody encounter between the dragoons and guerillas in that spot at the time of the French intervention.
The tavern was situated on a small clearing that was always kept green. It was surrounded by tall prickly-pears, a ravine, and an olive orchard in which one could see ruins—vestiges of a fortress and a watch-tower. This land belonged to a village perched upon the most rugged and broken part of the mountain.... Its name does not at present concern the story.
The tavern was neither very large, nor very spacious; it had neither the characteristics of a hostelry, nor even of a store. Its front, which was six metres long, whitewashed, and pierced by a door and three windows, faced a bad horse-shoe road strewn with loose stones; its humble roof leaned toward the ground, and joined that of a shed which contained the stables, the manger, and the straw-loft.
One passed through the entrance of the little tavern from whose lintel hung a bunch of sarment—which indicated, for your enlightenment, that in the house thus decorated wine was sold—and entered a miserable vestibule, which also served as a kitchen, a larder, and, at times, a dormitory.
During the years 1838 and ’39, the proprietor of El Ventorro de la Sangre was a man named El Cartagenero, who, so evil tongues asserted, had been a licentiate—though not of philosophy—in a university with mayors for professors, and sticks for beadles. No one knew the truth—a clear indication that the tavern was not run badly; the man paid well, behaved himself as a man should, and was capable, if the occasion arose, of lending a hand to any of the neighbouring farmers.
El Cartagenero demonstrated in his delightful and entertaining conversation, that he had travelled extensively, both by land and by sea; he knew the business of innkeeping—which has its secrets as well as anything else in the world; robbed very little; was hard-working, sensible, upright, and if need be, firm, generous, and brave.
El Cartagenero was to all appearances a fugitive; and that very condition of his made him most reserved and taciturn, in no way a prier, and very little given to mixing himself in other people’s affairs.
When he had run the little tavern for six years, El Cartagenero rented an oil-press; he then installed a tile-kiln, and by his activity and perseverance, was getting along splendidly, when one day, unfortunately for him, while he was loading a cart with bricks, he fell in such a way that he struck his head on the iron-shod wheel, and was instantly killed.
From that very day, the tavern began to run down; La Cartagenera did not care to continue the renting of the press, because, as she said, she could not attend to it; she abandoned the kiln for the same reason, and neglected the tavern for no pretext at all, though, if there was no pretext or motive, there was an explanation; and this was La Cartagenera’s vice of drinking brandy, and the laziness and idleness of her daughters—two very sly and very slothful un-belled cows.
The elder of El Cartagenero’s daughters made her arrangements with a swaggering rascal from Cordova; and the other, not to be outdone by her sister, took for her good man, one of those country loafers—and what with the sweetheart of the former, and the friend of the other, and the brandy of the mother, the house began to run down hill.
The muleteers soon guessed what was up; they no longer found good wine there as before; nor a diligent person to prepare their meals and feed their animals; so now because the hosier had left the place swearing mad, again because the pedlar had quarrelled with them, all of their customers began to leave; and for a whole year no one dismounted at the tavern; and the mother and her daughters, with the two corresponding swains, passed the time insulting and growling at each other, stretched out in the sun in the summer, toasting sarment at the fire-place in the winter, and in all the seasons hurling bitter complaints against an adverse destiny.
After a year of this régime, there was nothing left in the house to eat, nor to drink, nor to sell—for they had sold everything including the doors—the family determined to get rid of the tavern. The girls’ two friends came to Cordova and opened up negotiations with all their acquaintances, and were about despairing of making a sale, when a farmer from these parts by the name of El Mojoso, presented himself at the tavern. He was a clever, sensible chap, and the owner of a drove of five very astute little donkeys.
El Mojoso entered into negotiations with the widow, and for less than nothing, became possessed of the establishment. El Mojoso was very sagacious, and immediately comprehended the situation at the tavern; so he began to think about conducive methods of restoring the credit of the house. The first thing that occurred to him after he had been installed a few days, was to change its name, and he had a painter friend of his paint in huge letters upon the whitewashed wall above the door, this sign:
THE CROSS-ROADS STORE
El Mojoso had a wife and three children: one, employed as a miner in Pueblo Nuevo del Terrible; and two girls, with whom and his wife he established himself in the store.
His wife, whom they called La Temeraria, was a tall, strong, industrious, and determined matron. The daughters were splendid girls, but too refined to live in that deserted spot.
El Mojoso himself was a tough sort of a chap, crazy about bulls, slangy, and somewhat of a boaster. As a man who had spent his childhood in the Matadero district, which is the finest school of bull-fighting in the world, he knew how to differentiate the several tricks of the bull-ring.
At first, El Mojoso did not abandon his drove; the returns from the inn were very small, and it did not seem expedient to him to quit his carrying business. But instead of walking the streets of Cordova, he devoted himself to going to and from the mountain villages carrying wheat to the mill, farming utensils to the farms, and doing a lot of errands and favours that were gaining him many friends in the neighbourhood.
When he had no errands or favours to do, he carried stones to his house on his donkeys and piled them under the shed. After a year of this work, when he had gathered together the wherewithal, he got a mason from Cordova, and under his direction, La Temeraria and he and his daughters, and a youth whom they had hired as a servant, lengthened the house, raised it a story, tiled the roof, and whitewashed it.
El Mojoso had to sell his donkeys to pay the costs—only keeping one. The muleteers were already resuming their old custom of stopping at the store.
During the first months, the wine was pure, and there was a pardillo and a claret such as had not been known in those parts for many years. Little by little the store commenced to grow in fame; lively and genial folk met there; the wine grew worse, according to the opinion of the intelligent, but good wine was not lacking if the customer who asked for it had the means of paying without protest or objection three or four times its worth. During the slaughter season there was pork chine when they wanted it, and at other times of the year, pork sausage, blood pudding and other such delicacies.
El Mojoso learned his new business very quickly. Without doubt, he was a thief a nativitate. He watered the wine and perjured himself by swearing that it was the only pure wine that was sold in the entire mountain district; he put pepper in the brandy; he cheated in grain and hay; tangled up the accounts, and—always came out ahead.
Nearly every day he went to the city with his donkey under the pretext of shopping; but the truth is that his trips were to carry instructions and orders from a few timid men who went about the mountain, blunderbuss in hand, to some poor chaps in prison.
La Temeraria knew how to help her husband. She was a quiet, hard-working woman as long as no one interfered with her; but if any one dared to fail her, she was a she-wolf, more vengeful than God. She had enough spirit to look upon robbing as a pardonable and permissible thing, and even to the extent of not considering it extraordinary for a man to bring down a militia-man and leave him on the ground chewing mud.
In fine, the husband and wife were the most artful ... innkeepers in these parts. At the Cross-roads Store, the traveller could spend the night in peace, whether he was an orderly person or had some little account to settle with the police; or whether he was a merchant or a horseman, he could be sure of being undisturbed. One day . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“But tell me, my friend,” Don Gil asked Quentin; “how does the beginning of the story strike you?”
“Very well.”
“Did you like the exposition?”
“I should say so! You are a master.”
“Thanks!” exclaimed Don Gil, satisfied. “To your health, comrade.”
“To yours.”
“Now you’ll hear the good part.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
One rainy day in the month of February, just at dusk, there was gathered in the kitchen of the Cross-roads Store, a group of muleteers from the near-by village. Some of them, imbued with a love of heat, were seated upon two long benches on either side of the hearth; others were seated upon chairs and stools of wicker and lambskin, further away from the fire.
By the light of the blackened lamp and the flame of the candle, the whole circumference of the kitchen, which was a large one, could be seen: its enormous mantel, its rafters twisted and blackened with smoke, the big stones in the floor, and the walls adorned with a collection of pot-covers, saucepans, wooden spoons, and coloured jars hung upon nails.
The muleteers were engaged in an animated conversation while they waited for the supper which La Temeraria was at that moment preparing in two frying-pans full of pork chine and potatoes; El Mojoso was filling the measure with barley which he took from a bin; then, pouring the grain into a leather sieve, he handed it to a youth who was going to and from the kitchen and the stable.
Night had already fallen, and it was raining torrents, when repeated knocks sounded upon the door.
“Who is it?” shouted El Mojoso in a loud voice. “Come in, whoever it is.”
This said, the host took a lantern, lit it with a brand from the fire, crossed the kitchen, and stood in the vestibule with the light held high to see who was coming in. The vestibule was as narrow as a corridor; it had board walls, and upon them, hanging from wooden pot-hooks, could be seen several kinds of pack-saddles, panniers, headstalls, and other harness of leather, cloth, and esparto-grass. Upon the slanting stone floor, several muleteers who had made their beds there were sleeping peacefully.
The knock on the door was repeated.
“Come in!” said El Mojoso.
The wooden half-door opened with a screech, and a man appeared on the threshold, wrapped in a Jerez shawl which was drenched with water.
“Is there lodging here?” the man asked.
“There’s good will,” answered the innkeeper. “Did you come on horseback?”
“Yes.”
“Come in. I’ll take your horse to the stable. Walk right in there.”
The man went to the kitchen.
“The peace of God be with you, gentlemen!” he said.
“May He keep you,” they all answered.
The recent arrival went in, took off his long, tasseled shawl, and sat down upon a grass-bottomed chair near the fire.
The innkeeper’s daughter, more out of curiosity than anything else, threw an armful of dry rose-wood upon the fire, which began to burn brilliantly, producing a large flame, and filling the kitchen with the odour of its incense.
By the light of the flames they could see that the recent arrival was a tall and strong young man of about twenty years, upon whose upper lip the down had not yet begun to appear. He looked like a gentleman of noble blood; he wore a short coat, knee breeches fastened with silver buttons, buckled leggings, a blue sash, a coloured silk handkerchief about his neck, and a small, creased calañés. The hostess noticed that his shirt studs were made of diamonds.
“You have bad weather for travelling,” she said.
“Bad it is,” replied the youth dryly, without removing his eyes from the fire.
The muleteers examined the young man in silence. El Mojoso came back from the stable where he had taken the horse, brought in a half-filled sack on his back, and emptied it into the bin, weighed the barley in the measure, and asked the horseman:
“What shall I give the animal?”
“Give him a good feed.”
“Shall I give him two quarts?”
“Yes.”
El Mojoso went out with the measure in one hand and the lantern in the other.
“This chap,” he murmured into his cloak, “is a rich youngster who has been in some escapade in Cordova. His horse is out there with an embossed saddle. The boy will pay well.”
El Mojoso was a man who knew his profession. Convinced of the character of the young man, he returned to the kitchen with a broader smile than usual, and said:
“What would your worship like for supper?”
“Anything.”
“And would you like a bed?”
“Have you one?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Good: Then I shall sleep in a bed.”
“Very well; they’ll get it ready for you directly.”
The hostess took one of the large frying-pans from the fire and emptied its contents into a dish which she placed upon a low table.
The muleteers prepared themselves for the meal. La Temeraria took one of the blackened lamps from the grime of the mantel-piece, lit it, and seeing that it did not give a very good light, took a hairpin from her hair, stuck it into the wick to trim and ventilate it, and this done, fastened it with a wooden peg to a beam that stuck out of the wall.
“Bring wine, Mojoso,” she then said to her husband.
The innkeeper passed behind a counter which he had at the right of the kitchen door, and filled two bottles from a wine-skin; then, from another skin, using great care lest he spill the wine, he filled a small Andújar jar. One of the large bottles he placed upon the table about which the muleteers had seated themselves as they chatted and waited for their supper to be prepared.
La Temeraria placed a tripod over the fire, and presently the older daughter of the house entered with a large lamp.
“The room is ready, father,” she murmured.
Turning to the youth, the innkeeper said:
“You may go up now, if you wish.”
The young man arose and followed the landlord, who lighted his way. They went into the vestibule, and, one behind the other, climbed up a steep stairway to a granary. The wind blew strongly through the cracks in the roof; by the flickering lamp-light they could see piles of walnuts and acorns upon the floor, and large gourds hanging in rows. El Mojoso pushed open a white door of freshly-painted wood, entered a room with an alcove attached, placed the lamp upon the table, and after trimming it by all the rules of the art, said:
“Supper will be served to you directly. If you need anything, call;” and he shut the door as he went out.
The youth listened to the innkeeper’s footsteps in the attic, and when he found himself alone, drew two pistols from his sash, entered the alcove, and hid them on the bed under the pillow; he inspected the door, and found that it was solid with a strong lock; next he opened the window, and a gust of cold air made the flame of the lamp flicker violently. He looked out.
“This doubtless looks out upon the other side of the road,” he said to himself.
He closed the outside shutter and paced back and forth, waiting for his supper. The room was narrow and low and whitewashed, with blue rafters in the ceiling, and an alcove at one end occupied by a bed covered with a red quilt. Pushed against the wall was a mahogany bureau with a Carmen Virgin in a glass case; opposite the bureau was a straw couch with a mahogany frame. There was a round table in the middle of the room upon whose coarse top were two plates, a glass, and the lamp. Upon the walls were several rough engravings and a gun.
The young man showed signs of impatience, listening attentively to the slightest distant noises. Tired of pacing to and fro, he sat upon the couch and thoughtfully contemplated the rafters in the ceiling.
A half hour had elapsed since El Mojoso’s departure, when there came a shy knock at the door. The youth was so preoccupied that he heard nothing until the third or fourth knock, and a voice saying:
“May I come in?”
“Come!”
The door opened and a girl entered—the landlord’s second daughter—with a dish in one hand, and an Andújar jar in the other.
The youth was astounded at seeing such a pretty maid, and completely upset by the sight.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Your supper.”
“Ah! You are the landlord’s daughter?”
“Sí, Señor,” she replied with a smile.
The girl set the dish upon the table, and he sat down without taking his eyes off her. She made a tremendous impression upon him. The child was truly charming; she had black, almond-shaped eyes, a pale complexion, and in her hair, which was cleverly done up and as black and lustrous as the elytra of some insects, was a red flower.
“What is your name, my dear, if I may ask?” said he.
“Fuensanta,” she replied . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Ah! Her name was Fuensanta!” exclaimed Quentin involuntarily.
“Yes. It’s a very common name in these parts. Why does it surprise you?”
“Nothing, nothing: proceed....”
“Well, I shall.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The youth sighed, and as his admiration had doubtless not taken away his appetite, he attacked the slices prepared by La Temeraria with his fork, and after several drinks from the jar, he succeeded in emptying it, and doing away with the portions of the savoury country food.
The little girl returned directly to his room to bring the traveller his dessert, and they talked.
He asked her if she had a sweetheart, and she said she hadn’t; he asked her if she would like to have him, and she answered that gentlemen could not very well love poor girls who lived in taverns, and then they talked for a long time.
The next day, the young horseman left the tavern to proceed on his journey, and El Mojoso went down to Cordova to his business . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“And who was that young man?” asked Quentin.
“Wait, comrade. Everything in its time. How do you like the way I tell it, eh?”
“You certainly are a past master.”
“Well, now comes the best part of it. You’ll see....”
SEVERAL days afterward, just at dawn, El Mojoso was returning from Cordova to his tavern, when, at a turn in the road, he came upon a small cavalcade made up of six men—five of whom were soldiers, and the other, an elegantly dressed young man.
El Mojoso, who had little liking for evil encounters, pricked up his beast in order to get into the paths ahead of the group, but the chief, who wore the insignia of a sergeant, when he noticed the innkeeper’s intention, shouted to him:
“Hey, my good man, wait a moment!”
El Mojoso stopped his donkey.
“What do you want?” he asked ill-humouredly.
“We’ve got something to say to you.”
“Well, I can’t lose anything by listening to it.”
“You are the owner of the Cross-roads Store, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir: what else do you want?”
“Why, just don’t go so fast, friend, we feel like going along with you.”
“Are you going to Pozo Blanco?”
“No, sir.”
“To Obejo, perhaps?”
“No. We’re going to the Store.”
“To the Store!” exclaimed El Mojoso, overcome with astonishment. “Whom are you looking for in my house?”
“We’re looking for the Marquesito.”
“The Marquesito? What Marquesito?”
“Don’t you know him?”
“Upon my word I do not! I hope to die if I’m not telling you the truth.”
“Well, it seems that your daughter knows him very well,” replied the soldier meaningly.
El Mojoso’s face darkened, not that it had ever been exactly light, and looking back at the sergeant, he murmured in a dull voice:
“You’ve either said too much or too little.”
“I’ve said all that was necessary,” answered the soldier gruffly.
El Mojoso fell silent and urged on his donkey, while the soldiers and the unknown young gentleman followed him.
The sun came out from behind the mountain; in the distance they could see a series of low-lying hills and the Cross-roads Store in its little green clearing near the ravine.
When they reached the Store, El Mojoso dismounted from his donkey and began to pound furiously upon the door. He beat frantically with hands and feet.
“Open! Open!” he shouted impatiently.
“Who is it?” came from within.
“Me,” and El Mojoso ripped out a string of angry oaths.
A lock screeched, the door opened, and La Temeraria appeared half-dressed on the threshold.
“Why didn’t you open sooner?” El Mojoso vociferated.
“What’s the matter?” she asked as she drew a short skirt over head and fastened it rapidly about her waist.
“A whole lot’s the matter. Are there any travellers in the house?”
“The young man who was here a few days ago passed the night here.”
The unknown gentleman and the chief of the soldiers exchanged a look of understanding. El Mojoso entered his house, and La Temeraria followed behind him.
“Go and see if there is a horse in the stable,” said the sergeant to one of his men, “and if there is, bring it here.”
The soldier dismounted, went into the stable, and returned after a little, leading a horse by the bridle.
La Temeraria, who had heard the noise, intercepted the soldier.
“Where are you taking that horse?” she asked.
“The sergeant ordered me to bring him out.”
“What for?”
“So the man who is here can’t escape.”
“What has the young man done?” asked La Temeraria, looking contemptuously at the soldier.
“He killed a man in Cordova about a month ago.”
At this moment, the innkeeper, who had been inside the house, returned shouting to the vestibule.
“Where is Fuensanta?” he asked his wife.
“She must be in her room.”
“She isn’t there.”
“Not there?”
“No. I just looked.”
El Mojoso and La Temeraria looked at each other furiously and understandingly.
Meanwhile the sergeant, followed by one of his soldiers, went up the stairs to the garret. When the fugitive heard the noise their boots and spurs made, he must have realized his danger, for they heard the thud of a body as he threw himself against the door, then the turning of a key in the lock, and then a murmur of voices.
The sergeant drew his sword, went up to the door behind which he had heard the voices, and knocked with the hilt of his weapon.
“Open in the name of the law!” he shouted in a thundrous voice.
“Wait a moment, I’m dressing,” came the answer from within.
After a minute had elapsed, the sergeant exclaimed impatiently:
“Come, come! Open the door!”
“Wait just a second.”
“I won’t wait a minute longer. Open: I promise not to hurt you.”
“Words are air, and the wind carries them all away,” replied the fugitive ironically.
“Will you open, or will you not?”
“I will not; and he who contradicts me is in danger of his life. You’ll have to kill me here.”
At the risk of breaking his neck, the sergeant ran down the stairs three steps at a time, and addressing his soldiers, said:
“Boys, come upstairs with your guns. We’ve got to break down the door. One of you stay here on guard, and if any one tries to escape, fire on him.”
Two of the men dismounted rapidly, crossed the vestibule, and, preceded by the sergeant, rushed headlong upstairs, reached the garret, and began to beat upon the door with the butts of their heavy guns.
“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant again and again.
No one answered.
“Quick now! Throw down the door.”
The door was new and did not yield to the first blows, but little by little the panels gave way, and at last, a formidable blow with the butt broke the lock....
The soldiers entered:—stretched upon the floor lay a half-dressed woman. The window was open.
“The scoundrel escaped through that,” said one of the men.
“My God! We can’t let him escape,” shouted the sergeant, and sticking his head through the window, he saw a man running across a field half hidden among the olive trees. Without making sure whether it was the man they were after or not, he drew a pistol from his belt and fired.
“No—he’s gone. We’ve got to catch him.”
They all left the room; there came a devilish noise of boots and spurs on the stairs, and they crossed the vestibule.
“To your horses,” said the sergeant.
The order was obeyed instantly.
“You, Aragonés, and you, Segura, get behind that hay-stack,” and the chief indicated a great pile of black straw. “You two, ride around that field, and this gentleman and I will go and look for the Marquesito face to face.”
The two pairs of troopers took their appointed places, and the sergeant and the unknown gentleman advanced through the middle of the olive orchard.
Aragonés and Segura were the first to see the fugitive, who was running along hiding behind the olive trees, with a gun in his hand. The two soldiers cocked their guns and advanced cautiously; but the youth saw them, stopped and waited for them, kneeling upon one knee. The soldiers attempted to make a detour in order to get near their game, but as they described an arc, the youth kept the trunk of an olive tree between him and them. Seeing that he was making sport of them, the soldiers advanced resolutely. The Marquesito aimed his gun and fired, and one of the horses, that of Aragonés, fell wounded in the shoulder, throwing his rider. Segura, the other soldier, made his horse rear, in order to guard against a shot, but the Marquesito fired a pistol with such good aim, that the man fell to the ground with blood pouring from his mouth.
Then the youth, realizing that the other pursuers would immediately come to the spot where they had heard the shots, ran until he came to a century-old olive tree with a great, deformed trunk whose gnarled roots resembled a tangled mass of snakes. He took advantage of the respite to load his gun and pistol. Then he waited. Presently a shot was fired behind him, and he felt a bullet enter his leg. He turned rapidly and saw the sergeant and the gentleman approaching on horseback.
“My death will cost you dear,” murmured the Marquesito angrily.
“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant, and approached the fugitive at a trot.
The Marquesito waited, and when the sergeant was twenty paces from him, he fired his gun and pierced him with a bullet.
“Hey, boys!” shouted the sergeant. “Here he is. Kill him!” Then he put his hand to his breast, began to bleed at the mouth, and fell from his horse murmuring, “Jesus! He’s killed me!”
One of the sergeant’s feet caught in the stirrup, and the horse, becoming frightened, dragged his rider’s body for some distance over the ground.
“Now it’s your turn, coward!” shouted the Marquesito, addressing the gentleman.
But that person had turned on his croup and couldn’t get away fast enough.
The youth began to think that he was safe: the blood was flowing copiously from his wound, so he took the handkerchief from about his neck and bound his leg firmly with it. Next, he reloaded his weapons, and limping slowly, sheltering himself behind the olive trees and glancing from side to side, he advanced.
When he had reached a little plaza formed by a space that was bare of trees, he saw one of the soldiers in ambush. Perhaps it was the last one.
When they saw each other, pursuer and pursued immediately took refuge behind the trees. The soldier fired; a ball whistled by the Marquesito’s head; then he rested his gun against a tree trunk, fired, and the soldier’s helmet fell to the ground.
They both concealed themselves while they reloaded their weapons, and for more than a quarter of an hour, they kept shooting at each other, neither of them making up his mind to come out into the open.
The Marquesito was beginning to feel faint from the loss of blood; so he decided to risk all for all.
“Let’s see if we can’t finish this business,” he murmured between his clenched teeth; and he advanced, limping resolutely toward the soldier. After a few steps he discharged his gun point blank, and immediately after, his pistol.
When he saw that his enemy had not fallen, that he was still standing, he tried to escape, but his strength failed him. Then the soldier took aim and fired. The Marquesito fell headlong ... he was dead. The ball had struck him in the back of the neck and had come out through one of his eyes, shattering his skull.
“He was a brave chap,” murmured the soldier as he gazed at the corpse; then he kneeled by his side and searched his clothes. He wrapped his watch and chain, his shirt studs, and his money, in a handkerchief, tied it in a knot, and made his way back to the tavern.
As he drew near, he heard a voice wailing in despair:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother! Oh, my dearest mother!”
In the clearing before the house was Fuensanta, half-undressed, livid, with her face black and blue from the beating her father had given her. The girl was moaning upon the ground, terror-stricken. La Temeraria, with her arms lifted tragically, was shouting:
“She has dishonoured us! She has dishonoured us!”
The innkeeper’s other daughter stood in the doorway, watching her sister as she dragged herself along the ground, exhausted by her beating.
“Don’t beat the girl like that,” said the soldier.
“Don’t beat her!” shouted El Mojoso. “No, I won’t beat her any more,” and seizing his daughter by the arm he pushed her brutally from him, shouting:
“Go ... and never come back!”
The bewildered girl hid her face in her hands, and then the poor little thing began to walk away, weeping, and not knowing what she was doing, nor where she was going.
Months later, a woman from an Obejo mill came to El Mojoso and announced that Fuensanta had given birth to a son, and that she desired to be forgiven and to return home; but the innkeeper said that he would kill her if she ever came near him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“The scoundrel! The bandit!” exclaimed Quentin, striking the table a blow with his fist.
“Who is a scoundrel?” asked Señor Sabadía in surprise.
“That Mojoso fellow, the dirty thief ... his daughter dishonoured him because she loved a man, yet he did not dishonour himself, though he robbed every one that came along.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes, it’s different,” cried Quentin furiously. “To the hidalgos of Spain it is a different matter; to all those commonplace and thoughtless men, a woman’s honour is beneath contempt. Imbeciles!”
“I see that you are enraged,” said Don Gil with a smile. “Does the story interest you?”
“Very much.”
“Shall I proceed?”
“Please do.”
“Then kindly call Señora Patrocinio and ask her to bring more bottles of wine, for my throat is very dry.”
“But you are a regular cask, my dear Don Gil.”
“Yes I’m the Cask of the Danaides. Call her, please.”
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Patrocinio!” called Quentin.
“Isn’t she coming?”
“No. She is probably busy with her witchcraft. Perhaps this very minute she is burning in her magic fire the sycamore torn from the sepulchre.”
“Or the funereal cypress, and the feathers and eggs of a red owl soaked in toad’s blood,” added Don Gil.
“Or the poisonous herbs which grew in such abundance in Iolchos, and in far-off Iberia,” continued Quentin.
“Or the bones torn from the mouth of a hungry bitch,” added the archæologist.
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Canidia!” shouted Quentin.
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Canidia!” echoed Señor Sabadía.
“What do you want?” asked the old woman as she suddenly entered the room.
“Ah! She was here!” exclaimed Quentin.
“She was here!” echoed Señor Sabadía. “We want some more bottles.”
“What kind do you want?”
“I believe, venerable dame,” Quentin ejaculated, “that it is all the same to my friend here, whether it be wine from the vines of Falernus, Phormio, or Cécube, as long as it is wine. Is that not true, Don Gil?”
“Of course. I see that you are a sagacious young man. Bring them, old woman,” said the archæologist, turning to Señora Patrocinio, “bring fearlessly forth that excellent wine that you have guarded so jealously these four years in the Sabine pitchers.”
The old woman brought the bottles, Quentin filled Don Gil’s glass and then his own, they emptied them both, and Señor Sabadía went on with his story in these words:
YEARS ago in the Calle de Librerías, in a little corner near the Cuesta de Luján, there stood a silversmith’s shop, with an awning stretched over the doorway, a very narrow show-case in which a number of rosaries, rings, medals, and crosses were displayed, and a miserable half-obliterated sign with these words: “Salvador’s Shop.” From one end of this sign, symbolically, hung a pair of pasteboard scales.
Salvador, the proprietor of this silversmith’s shop, was a wealthy bachelor who had lived with a sister for many years before her death.
At the time of my story, Don Andrés, as the silversmith was called, was a man of some sixty years, small, clean-shaven, with white hair, rosy cheeks, clear eyes, and smiling lips. He resembled a silver medal.
With all his sweet, beatific countenance, Don Andrés was at heart, an egoist. Possessing little intelligence and less courage, life made a coward of him. He had an idea that things advanced too rapidly, and was, therefore, an enemy to all innovations. Any change whatever, even if it were beneficial, disturbed him profoundly.
“We have lived like this so far,” he would say, “and I can see no necessity for any change.”
Don Andrés Salvador was equally conservative in his business: all he had was an ability for work that required patience. Rosaries, crosses, rings, and medals left his house by the gross, but everything manufactured in his shop was always the same; unchanged, and unimproved—wrought with the same old-fashioned and decadent taste.
Besides being a conservative, Don Andrés was distrust personified; he did not want any one to see him at work. At that time, repoussé work was still something mysterious and secret, and the silversmith, to prevent any one from surprising his secrets, shut himself up in his own room when he was about to make something of importance, and there worked unseen.
One morning when Don Andrés was standing in the doorway of his shop, he saw a girl running toward him along the Calle de la Feria, pursued by an old woman.
His instinct as a law-abiding citizen made him go out and stop the girl.
“Let me go, Señor,” she cried.
“No. Is that your mother following you?”
“No, she isn’t my mother,” and the child began to cry disconsolately. In a broken voice she told him how she had been ill for some time in a hut on the Calle de la Feria, and how, when she had become well, the mistress of the house had tried to force her to remain as her ward, and how she had escaped.
By this time the old woman had come up behind the girl, and as a group of children began to form around the shop door, the silversmith led the two women inside.
He asked the old woman if what the girl had said was true, and the Celestina in her confusion said that it was, but defended herself by declaring that she had kept the girl because she had not paid for what she had spent on medicines during her illness, and for dresses, stockings, and underclothes with which to clothe her.
The silversmith realized that it was a matter of an infamous exploitation, and whether he was indignant at this, or whether he was touched by the girl’s appearance, the fact is, he said with more vehemence than he was accustomed to use:
“I see, Señora Consolación, that you are trying to exploit this child in an evil way. Leave her alone, for she will return your clothes, and go back to your house; for if you don’t, I shall warn the authorities, and you will rest your old bones in jail.”
The old woman, who knew the influence and prestige the silversmith enjoyed in the district, began once more to complain of the great prejudice they had against her, but Don Andrés cut her argument short by saying:
“Either you get out, or I will call the alguacil.”
The Celestina said not another word, but tied her handkerchief about her neck as if she wished to strangle herself with it, and moved off down the street, spouting curses as she went.
The girl and the silversmith were left alone in the shop. He followed the old woman with his eyes as she went screaming along the Calle de la Feria among the noisy people who came running to their doorways as she passed. When she was out of sight, he said to the girl:
“You can go now. She’s gone.”
When she heard this, the girl began to sob again.
“For God’s sake, don’t send me away, Señor! For God’s sake!”
“I’m not going to send you away. You may stay a while if you wish.”
“No. Let me stay here always. You are good. I’ll be your servant, and you won’t have to give me a thing for it.”
“No, no—I cannot,” replied the silversmith.
Then the child knelt on the floor, and with her arms thrown wide apart, said:
“Señor! Señor! Let me stay!”
“No, no. Get up! Don’t be silly.”
“Then if I kill myself,” she cried as she regained her feet, “it will be your fault.”
“Not mine.”
“Yes, yours,” and the girl, changing her tone, added, “But you don’t want me to go. You won’t throw me out; you’ll let me live here; I’ll serve you, and take care of you; I’ll be your servant, and you needn’t give me a thing for it; and I will thank you and pray for you.”
“But, what will people say?” murmured Don Andrés, who foresaw a complication in his life.
“I swear to you by the Carmen Virgin,” she exclaimed, “that I won’t give them a chance to talk, for nobody shall see me. You’ll let me live here, won’t you?”
“How can I help it! You stick a dagger into one’s heart. We’ll give it a try. But let me warn you about one thing: the first time I notice a failing—even if it is only a man hanging around the house—I’ll throw you out immediately.”
“No one will hang around.”
“Then I shall give you some old clothes this very minute, and you may send those to Señora Consolación’s house. Then go to work in the kitchen immediately.”
And so it was done; and Fuensanta, for the girl was Fuensanta, the daughter of El Mojoso, entered the house of the silversmith as a servant, and became, as she had promised, circumspect, submissive, silent and industrious.
Little by little the silversmith grew fond of her; Don Andrés’ sister had been a basilisk, a violent and ill-tempered old maid for whose fits of bad temper he had always suffered. Fuensanta paid the old man delicate attentions to which he was unaccustomed, and he looked forward to an old age in an atmosphere of affection and respect.
“See here,” Don Andrés once said to her, “you must not be separated from your son. Bring the boy here.”
Fuensanta went to Obejo, and returned the following day with the boy. He was three years old, and a regular savage. Fuensanta, who realized that such a wild creature would not please such an orderly and meticulous person as the silversmith, always kept him segregated on the roof, where the little lad passed the long hours in play.
After she had been in Don Andrés Salvador’s house for three years, Fuensanta got married.
Among the agents and pedlars who were supplied in the shop, there was a young man, Rafael by name, whom they nicknamed El Pende.
This Rafael was at that time a gracious, pleasant chap of some twenty-odd years; he had the reputation of being lazy—firstly because he came from the Santa Marina district, and secondly because he was the son of Matapalos, one of the biggest loafers in Cordova.
Matapalos, a distinguished member of the Pende dynasty, was a carpenter, and such a poor one, so they said, that the only things he could make were wedges, and even these never came out straight.
El Pende junior, in spite of his reputation as a loafer, used to work. He took up the business of peddling from town to town; selling necklaces and rosaries throughout the entire highlands, and buying old gold and lace wherever he went.
He was a gaudy and elegant lad, who spent nearly everything he earned on jewels and good clothes.
“I’d rather wear jewels than eat,” he said.
Rafael, or El Pende, as you will, began promptly to pay court to the girl. She duly checked his advances, but he grew stronger under punishment, and she, seeing that the man persisted, told him the story of her misfortune.
El Pende made light of it all. He was very much enamoured, or perhaps he saw something in the woman that others had missed for, though she had no money, nor any possibility of inheriting any, he did not give up trying until he succeeded in persuading her to marry him.
“Now I’ve got to persuade the master,” said Fuensanta, after coming to an understanding with her sweetheart. “Because, if he opposes us—I won’t marry you.”
Slowly, insinuatingly, Fuensanta prepared the ground day by day. Allowing herself to stumble, she suggested the idea of marriage to the silversmith, until Don Andrés himself advised his servant to marry, and pointed out to her the advantages she would have should she join herself to Rafael.
They were married, and lived in an attic next the roof. The silversmith gladly granted them the attic, for they scared away thieves, and he liked to have a young man around to look after the house.
Fuensanta continued to serve him as before. El Pende made his trips; he had made advantageous terms with the silversmith in his commissions, and he and the old man understood each other admirably.
Fuensanta began to behold a useful collaborator in her husband. He was intelligent and sagacious; he had a latent ambition which was awakened with real violence at his marriage.
The child was an obstacle to the peace of the household. Quentin was stupid, brutal, proud, and meddlesome.
After two years of matrimony, Fuensanta gave birth to a son whom they called Rafael, after his father. Quentin had no use for the boy, a fact that caused El Pende to hate his stepson.
Quentin did not go to school, so he knew nothing. He played about the streets in rags with rowdies and toughs. One day, when El Pende saw him with some gipsies, he seized him, carried him home, and said to his mother:
“We’ve got to do something about this child.”
“Yes, we must do something,” she agreed.
“Why don’t you ask the master if he knows of a cheap school?”
Fuensanta spoke to the silversmith, who listened to her attentively.
“Do you know what we’ll do?” said Don Andrés.
“What?”
“We’ll find out who his father’s family are. How long ago was he killed?”
“Seven years.”
“Good. Then I’ll find out.”
On that same street, on the corner of the Calle de la Espartería, in a house upon whose chamfer was an iron cross, there lived a retired captain of militia, Don Matías Echavarría. The silversmith called on him, related what had happened in the Cross-roads Store, and asked the captain if he remembered the affair, and if he knew the name of the protagonist.
“Yes,” said Don Matías, “the boy who ran away and was killed on the Pozo Blanco road, was the son of the Marquis of Tavera. When the thing happened, they hushed it up, saying that he had met his death by a fall from his horse, and no one ever knew anything about it.”
When the silversmith returned to his house, he said nothing to Fuensanta, but, shut up in his room, he wrote a letter to the old Marquis, giving him a detailed account of the facts, and telling him that a grandson of his was living in his modest home.
He had to wait for the answer. At the end of two weeks, Don Andrés received a message from the Marquis telling him to send Fuensanta to his house to talk with him, and to bring the boy with her.
Fuensanta made Quentin as presentable as possible, and went with him to the Marquis’ palace. The old man received her very pleasantly, bade her tell him her story, caressed the child, and murmured from time to time:
“He’s just like him, just like him....” Then he added, turning to the mother, “Are you in needy circumstances?”
“Sí, Señor Marqués.”
“Very well; take one hundred dollars for the present. We shall see what we can do for the boy.”
Fuensanta told her husband what had happened in the Marquis’ house, and El Pende immediately took possession of the hundred dollars.
The economical chap already had a like amount, and he believed that the moment had arrived to realize his plans of establishing himself. Consequently, a little later, he rented a store in the Calle de la Zapatería.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“What’s the matter with you, Don Gil?” asked Quentin, as he saw the narrator looking about for something.
“Why, you’re not pouring wine for me.”
“There’s none left.”
“Then call Señora Patrocinio.”
“What will you have, Don Gil? Falernus? Or shall we devote ourselves this time to the vines of Calais?”
“No, no; Montilla.”
“Can’t we make a change?”
“Mix one wine with another? Never! It’s very dangerous. But are you, or are you not going to call that old woman? If you do not, I will not go on with my story.”
“Do go on with it, Don Gil,” said Señora Patrocinio, opening the door and placing two bottles upon the table. “I was almost asleep out here, and was amusing myself by listening to what you were saying.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Don Gil, “I must be a great historian if even Sister Patrocinio listens to my tale. Allow me to wet my throat. Now for it, ladies and gentlemen, now for it!”
SEÑORA PATROCINIO seated herself at the table. She was a thin, lean old woman, with a yellow complexion, a hooked nose which was on friendly terms with her chin, grey hair, and a wrinkled skin.
Don Gil took a drink, and continued as follows:
The store was located in a large, antique house, painted blue. On the ground floor were four grated windows, a door, and two little shops. One of these was a mat store, and the other was the one El Pende had rented.
It was a tiny apartment, scarcely three metres square, with a few living-rooms beyond a dark back room.
El Pende put neither signs nor decorations on his shop; he placed a counter painted with red ochre in the middle of the floor, set up a few pine shelves, and commenced business.
All kinds of things to eat and to drink and to burn were sold at the store; a heterogeneous assortment was heaped upon the shelves; there were soaps, silks, taffy of all kinds, and dyes from the most distinguished factory in the whole world, which is that of the Calle de Mucho Trigo; there were hemp-seeds roasted in honey, candied pine-nuts, almond paste, and those thin little wafers that you must have seen, that look like priests’ hats.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Come, don’t get tiresome,” said Señora Patrocinio.
“If you interrupt me, Sister Patrocinio, I shall refuse to go on,” answered the narrator.
“You are losing the thread of your story. Come to the point, Don Gil, come to the point.”
“Very well, then—I refuse to continue.”
“Go on, man, go on; you’re crankier than a wheat-sifter,” said the old woman.
“Where was I?” murmured Don Gil. “I believe I’ve forgotten.”
“You were telling us what the store contained,” suggested Quentin.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Of drinkables (the archæologist continued), there were all sorts of brandies and refreshing beverages; rossolis, which they call ressolis here; Cazalla, and wild cherry brandy in green jars which some call parrots, and others greenfinches.
The little store in the Calle de la Zapatería soon had customers. Country folk used to go there to take a little nip in the morning; a few servant girls and a great many children used to stop there to buy sweets.
El Pende stayed behind the counter where he received his friends, who sometimes spent a little money. The most assiduous in his attendance at these gatherings, was a ruined hidalgo by the name of Palomares, whom El Pende had known since childhood, and who, having nothing to do, used to take refuge in the shop. In order not to be in the way, and at the same time to make himself useful, he used to wait on customers himself.
This hidalgo, Diego Palomares, was an adventurer, a son of Lucena. He had departed from his home town for the first time when he was eighteen years old, to attend the Seville Fair. He lost all his money and his desire to return to his native city, by gambling, and acquired, in exchange, a desire to see the world; so he went to Cadiz and embarked for America. There he had his ups and downs successively: he was a merchant, a super-cargo on a ship, and after many years of hard and fatiguing work, he returned to Cordova, thirty-six years old, penniless, and prematurely aged.
When Diego Palomares saw that his friend was getting on well with the store, he joined him.
While El Pende sat at the counter tending the store, Fuensanta continued to help the silversmith.
Six months after the first gift, the old Marquis sent for Fuensanta and gave her another hundred dollars.
From the wife’s hands they passed into those of her husband, who used them all in the store.
El Pende asked the landlord to give him another room, and to remove one of the grated windows, that he might enlarge his store. His request was granted, and in place of the grating, they installed a show-window.
Then El Pende had a sign painted, and hanging from the board, a gilt, many-pointed star.
How many arguments he and Palomares had as to whether the star was right or not!
I remember that one day, when I was on my way to the Casino, they called me in to elucidate the question for them; and you ought to have heard me give them a talk about office-signs of all kinds! It is a matter to which few people pay any attention.
“Come, there you go again, wandering away from your subject,” said the old woman.
“Be quiet,” Don Gil ejaculated. “This matter of signs is very interesting; don’t you think so?” he asked Quentin.
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Oh, don’t you? Well, for example, some night you may see a closed store with a sign which reads ‘Perez,’ with two red hands hanging from the board. What kind of business do those red hands indicate?”
“A glove store, perhaps?” asked Quentin.
“That’s right. How clever the lad is! What does a basin indicate?”
“That’s well known—a barber shop.”
“And a rooster on top of a ball?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Why, a poultry shop. And a red or blue ball in a show-case?”
“A drug store.”
“Very good. And a little tiny mattress?”
“A mattress-maker’s store.”
“And one or two black hands holding a bunch of keys?”
“I think I have seen that in front of locksmiths’ shops.”
“That’s right. And a large book?”
“A bindery.”
“But what a clever chap he is! And large eyeglasses—very large?”
“An optician’s.”
“And the bust of a woman leaning from a balcony as though taking the air?”
“A ladies’ hair-dressing salon: but they don’t have as many here as they do in Madrid. And a horse-shoe?”
“You’re the one that ought to be horse-shoed,” ejaculated Señora Patrocinio. “Are you going on with the story or not, Don Gil?”
“But you two are confusing me! You make me lose the thread. Where was I?”
“You were telling us,” said Señora Patrocinio, “about how they fixed up the store with the Marquis’ money.”
“Ah! That’s so.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
They widened the store; left off several articles that were not very productive, and devoted themselves exclusively to selling comestibles. They bought casks of Montillo wine, Montero oil, sugar, coffee, and hired some chocolate makers to make chocolate.
Palomares, whom El Pende had engaged as a clerk when he saw the prosperity of the establishment, spent the day wrapping up cakes of chocolate, toasting coffee, and mixing peanuts and chicory.
Palomares had a great talent for labelling his mixtures. When he had faked up something, he called it “Extra-Superior”; if the fake was so complete that one could not tell what kind of a product it was, then he called it “Superior” or “Fine.”
Besides these hyperbolical names, there were other more modest ones, such as “First Class,” “Second Class,” and “Third Class.” These divisions were hard to define; yet Palomares asserted, not that they were good, but that one could easily distinguish a difference between them.
According to him, it was clear that the “Second Class” was worse than the “First Class,” and that the “Third Class” was worse than the “Second Class”; but this was not saying that the “First Class” and the “Second Class” were good, or even passably so.
In spite of the chemistry that El Pende and his assistant employed, the store grew in reputation. The show-window was full of sausages wrapped in tinfoil, prunes, and tins of preserves. On the shelves were loaves of sugar, bottles of sherry, and jugs of gin. Upon the floor in sacks, were rice, kidney-beans, and casks of sardines.
Money began to flow into the store in such a quiet and unobtrusive manner that no one was aware of it. The old silversmith grumbled at the thought that some fine day they would leave him; but Fuensanta deceived him by telling him that the store was not getting along very well, and that they would get rid of it if they had a chance.
El Pende, who lacked the patience of his wife, wished to emancipate himself completely from the old man, so he rented the first floor of the house in which the store was located, giving the back room to Palomares.
Then Fuensanta hired a servant girl, and every minute she had free, she went to keep the old silversmith company. This procedure was very much praised by the old wives of the community, and Fuensanta enjoyed much popularity. At the same time, El Pende succeeded in making people forget his family nickname, and everybody called him Rafael, or Señor Rafael, and some even called him Don Rafael.
The family was progressing economically, and acquiring more respectability, when the lad Quentin began to make trouble. He ran away from home; he stole; once he came near poisoning the whole family; he did terrible things.
Then the old Marquis, to whose knowledge his grandson’s escapades had come, had him brought before him and sent him away to school in England.
Quentin left, and the family continued their progress. Fuensanta had her fourth child, a daughter; and during the confinement, Don Andrés Salvador, the silversmith, died from heart failure.
When they opened the old man’s will, they found that his fortune, almost in its entirety, with the exception of a few bequests to two distant relatives, was left to Fuensanta. The fortune, including the money and the house, amounted to somewhere near thirty thousand dollars.
Then Fuensanta and El Pende tried to rent the whole lower floor of the house on the Calle de la Zapatería, with the idea of converting it into a large warehouse. The landlord was willing, but the man who rented the mat store said that he would not move, that he had a ten-year contract with the landlord, and that he did not intend to leave. They offered to pay him an indemnity, but he persisted in his recalcitrant attitude.