And maybe the fool wasn’t stubborn! El Capita was a man of evil intent with a magnificent history. Some time ago he lived with a widow who had two daughters in school. When the elder daughter graduated, the man fell in love with her, and married her; though he continued his relations with her mother. El Capita was an artful chap. His wife found out about the affair, and was indignant. She ran away with her husband’s clerk out of revenge; but El Capita did not worry about the matter. Along came the second daughter, and El Capita, who was very astute, began to make advances to her, which she, more accommodating than her elder sister, willingly accepted.
El Capita was very content with his store; doubtless he had an affection for all those panniers and headstalls—mute witnesses of his drunken parties and tempestuous love affairs, and he got it into his head that he was not going to move. But the man reckoned without his hostess; and in this case, his hostess was Fuensanta, who when she said that she was going to do a thing, did it regardless of all obstacles.
Fuensanta very quietly transferred the inherited silversmith’s shop; then she sold the house in the Calle de Librerías, and with the money from the transfer and the sale, bought the house in the Calle de la Zapatería; and El Capita had to get out in a hurry, willy nilly, with all his pack-saddles and panniers.
Fuensanta and El Pende converted the whole lower floor into a warehouse. They furnished the barracks and the prison with goods at wholesale; but as they did not wish to kill their retail trade, they rented a store in the Calle de la Espartería near the Arco Alto and the Calle de Gitanos. This place, which was known in ancient times by the name of El Gollizno on account of its extreme narrowness, is one of the busiest corners in Cordova. Certainly there . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Good lord! Another digression?” exclaimed Quentin. “Haven’t you finished yet?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us the rest,” said the old woman. “What happened to that El Pende fellow?”
“Nothing: they elected him to the council, then they made him lieutenant-mayor, and now he is a wealthy merchant, a banker; and we who were rich once, haven’t a penny now. Eh? Well, that is the story. Come—pass me some more wine.”
Don Gil seized the bottle with one hand, brought it to his mouth, and began to drink.
“Enough, man, enough,” said Señora Patrocinio.
The archæologist paid no attention to her, and never stopped until he had emptied the bottle. Then he gazed about the room, shut his eyes, leaned his head upon the table, and an instant later, commenced to snore noisily.
“The compadre is rather intoxicated,” said Quentin as he looked at Don Gil.
“Come, you’re feeling pretty good yourself,” replied the old woman.
“I? I was never so calm in my life. It takes a lot to get us people from England drunk.”
“Ah! Are you English?”
“No; I come from here.”
“And are you a friend of the Quentin of whom there has been so much talk tonight?”
“Ha ... ha ... ha!”
“What are you laughing at?”
“Why, that Quentin ... is me!”
“You?” and she used the familiar tu.
“Ha ... ha! Now the old dame is beginning to ‘thee and thou’ me!”
“Is it you, Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“I am a relative of yours.”
“Really? I’m very glad to hear it.”
“I can’t explain anything to you now, because you are drunk. Come some other day and we’ll talk it over. I’ll help you.”
“Very good; I shall take advantage of your protection.... Ha, ha!”
“You shall see. You won’t have to work.”
“Work! Ha ... ha ... ha! That is an idea that never occurred to me, good dame. Far from me is that vulgar thought.... Ah!... Ha ... ha ... ha!”
Señora Patrocinio seized Quentin by the arm and led him to the street.
“Now, go home,” she said to him; “some other day I shall tell you something that may interest you. Should you need money, come here before you go anywhere else.”
This said, she pushed Quentin into the middle of the street. The coolness of the night air cleared his head. Day had not yet dawned; the sky was clean and cloudless; the moon was low in the heavens—just touching the horizon.
QUENTIN did not abandon the idea of becoming intimate with Rafaela.
He now knew the close relationship that united them. They were of the same family. Things would have to turn out badly indeed not to be advantageous to him.
One morning Quentin again went to his cousin’s house. He found the gate open, and went as far as the interior of the garden without ringing. He found Juan, the gardener, busily occupied in trying to turn the key which let the water out of the pool; an undertaking in which he was not successful.
“What are you trying to do?” Quentin asked him.
“To turn this key; but it’s so dirty....”
“Let me have it,” said Quentin; and taking a large crowbar, he turned the key with scarcely an effort. A jet of water ran into a small trough, from which it flowed through the various ditches that irrigated the different parts of the garden.
“Where are the young ladies?” asked Quentin.
“At mass: they’ll be back in a little while.”
“What’s doing here? How is everything getting on?”
“Badly. Worse every day,” answered the gardener. “How different this house used to look! Money used to flow here like wheat. They said that every time the clock struck, the Marquis made an ounce of gold. And such luxury! If you had walked through these patios thirty years ago, you’d have thought you were in heaven!”
“What was here?”
“You would have met the armed house-guards, all gaudily attired—with short coats, stiff-brimmed hats, and guns.”
“What did they do?”
“They accompanied the Marquis on his trips. Have you seen the coach? What a beauty it is! It will hold twenty-four persons. It’s dirty and broken now, and isn’t a bit showy; but you should have seen it in those days. It used to take eight horses and postillions a la Federica to haul it. And what a to-do when they gave the order to start! The guards, mounted on horseback, waited for the coach in that little plazoleta in front. Then the cavalcade started off. And what horses! He always had two or three of those animals that cost thousands of dollars.”
“It must have cost him a lot to maintain a stable like that.”
“Just think of it!”
“When did these grandeurs come to an end?”
“Not very long ago, believe me. When the Queen came to Cordova, she rode from the Cueva del Cojo to the city in our coach.”
“How is it that the family could fall so far?”
“It has been everybody’s fault. God never granted much sense to the members of this household; but the administrator and the Count, who is the young ladies’ father, were the ones who brought on most of the ruin. The latter, besides being a libertine and a spendthrift, is a fool. People are always deceiving him; and what he doesn’t lose through foolishness, he does through distrust. Once he bought twenty thousand gallons of oil in Malaga at seventy reales, brought them here, and sold them in a few days, at forty.”
“That certainly was an idiotic thing to do.”
“Well, he’s done lots more like it.”
“What has become of him now? Where does he live?”
“He goes about the city with toreadors and horse-dealers. He has separated from his wife.”
“Did he marry again?”
“Yes; the second time, he married the daughter of an olive merchant: a beautiful, but ordinary woman who is giving the town a lot to talk about. Since he is a fool, and she a sinner, after two or three years of married life, they separated—throwing things at each other’s heads. Now he is living with a gipsy girl named La Mora, who relieves him of what pennies he has left. The girl’s brothers and cousins go into retirement with him in taverns, and make him sign papers by threatening him with violence: why, they haven’t left him a penny! And now that he has no money, they no longer love him. La Mora throws him out of his house, and I believe he crawls back to her on his knees.”
“Meanwhile, what about his wife?”
“She gets worse and worse. She has been going about here with a lieutenant ... she’s a wild hussy.”
The gardener took his spade and made a pile of earth in a ditch to keep the water away from a certain spot. While Juan worked, Quentin turned his ambitious projects over and over in his mind.
“What a superb stroke!” he was thinking. “To marry the girl, and save the property! That surely would be killing two birds with one stone. To have money, and at the same time, pass for a romantic chap! That would be admirable.”
“Here come the young ladies,” said Juan suddenly, looking down the corridor.
Sure enough; Rafaela and Remedios, accompanied by the tall, dried-up servant, appeared in the garden. The two girls were prettier than ever in their mantillas and black dresses.
“See how pretty they are!” exclaimed Juan to Quentin, arms akimbo. “Those children are two slices out of heaven.”
Rafaela laughed the laugh of a young woman utterly lacking in coquetry; Remedios looked at Quentin with her great, black eyes, waiting, perhaps, for a confirmation of the gardener’s compliment.
Rafaela removed her mantilla, folded it, stuck two large pins in it, and gave it to the maid; then she smoothed her hair with her long, delicate-fingered white hand.
“I have a favour to ask of you,” she said to Quentin.
“Of me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Command me: I shall consider myself most happy to be your slave.”
Rafaela laughed musically and said:
“Goodness me! How quickly you take your ground!”
“I am not exaggerating; I am saying what I feel.”
“Then be careful, for you seem to me to be a trifle restless for a slave, and I may have to put you in irons.”
“It won’t be necessary for you to do that. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Well, a very simple thing. My father, who is not all a gentleman should be, took a little silver jewelcase out of my room the other day. It is a souvenir of mother. I think he must have sold it, and I wish you would take the trouble of looking for it. You’ll find it in some pawn-shop on the plaza. There is a coronet upon the cover of the case, and in the silk lining are the initials, R. S. If you find the little box, please buy it, and I shall pay you whatever it amounts to.”
“No, not that.”
“Oh, I don’t want it under any other condition.”
Apropós of the little box, Rafaela spoke sadly of her mother.
Remedios, who had taken off her mantilla, took a hoop from a corner and began to play with it.
“Remedios!” said Rafaela. “You have your new dress on. Change it, and study your lessons immediately.”
“No, not today,” replied the child.
“Why not? And she says it so calmly! Big girls don’t play with hoops. If I don’t watch this child, she plays all sorts of games, just like a little street urchin. Do you think that is right, girlie?”
Remedios looked at her sister impudently, and only whistled as an answer.
“Don’t whistle, please.”
“I’ll shut you up in the dark room. We’ve had two days this week without our lessons. If you don’t learn any more than that, you’ll be a little donkey.... Just about as clever as Pajarito.”
“No!” exclaimed the little girl, stamping her foot.
“Yes, yes,” said Rafaela, smiling.
“No.”—And throwing her arms about her sister’s neck, Remedios climbed into her lap.
“I believe you have lost your moral strength,” Quentin said to her.
“Yes; I think so too,” added Rafaela.
Safe in her sister’s lap, Remedios began to chatter, while Rafaela patted her like a baby. She told several stories in which Pajarito, Juan and the genet appeared.
“What a little story-teller you are!” said Rafaela, laughing.
When she grew tired of this, Remedios jumped from her sister’s lap, and began to run about the garden. Presently she appeared riding astride of the donkey.
“The child is wild today,” said Rafaela, gazing severely at Remedios.
The little girl noticed that her sister was annoyed, and jumping from the donkey at the risk of falling, she went up to her.
“Juan said that we can pick oranges now.”
“Girlie, will you kindly be less of a busybody, and a little more quiet?”
“Well, that’s what he said!” exclaimed Remedios, making an expressive gesture, and rolling her great, black eyes.
Quentin began to laugh. Rafaela joined him.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Remedios of her sister.
“I’m not laughing, child.”
“Yes, you are. Let’s get out of here.”
“But, why?”
“Yes; come on.”
“It’s just a little notion the girl has taken,” murmured Quentin.
“What business is it of yours?”
“My dear child, if you grow up like this, no one will be able to resist you.”
Remedios remained frowning by Rafaela’s side; then she saw Juan’s little dog, took it in her arms, and running to the pool, threw it into the water.
“What a creature!” said Rafaela, vexed.
They went to the pool; the dog swam to the edge and began to flounder about without being able to get out. Quentin knelt upon the ground, and stretching out his arm, lifted the little animal from the water.
“He’s shivering,” said Rafaela. “Do you see what you have done?” she added, turning to her sister—“He may die.”
Remedios, who had watched the rescue impassively, went to a corner and sat upon the ground with her face to the wall.
“Remedios!” called Rafaela.
The child made no reply.
“Come, Remedios,” said Quentin, going over to her.
“Go away!”
“Come, you’re exhausting my patience.”
“I won’t.”
Rafaela tried to seize the girl, but she began to run, shouting:
“If you follow me, I’ll throw myself into the pool.”
And she was making for it when Quentin seized her firmly about the waist, and heedless of her shrieks and kicks, handed her over to Rafaela.
“No, no; you must go into the dark room. What a child!”
“No, I won’t do any more, I won’t do any more,” sobbed Remedios, hiding her head on her sister’s shoulder, overcome with shame, and weeping like a Magdalene.
“When the tears are over, she’ll be a little lamb. Will you undertake my mission?” Rafaela asked Quentin.
“If the little box is in Cordova, you may be sure that I shall find it.”
“Good! Adiós. We are going in to get over this,” said Rafaela, smiling ironically.
Rafaela and Remedios went up to their rooms, and Quentin went out into the street.
“IN those days,” asserted Don Gil Sabadía in a notable article in El Diario de Cordova, “La Corredera was a large, rectangular plaza surrounded by houses with heavy balconies and porticos supported by thick columns. At that time the plaza had no dirty and ugly brick market-place; nor were the houses as neglected as they are today; nor did so much hedge-mustard grow on the balconies. With a daily open-air market, a plaza used on great occasions for bull-fights and jousts, La Corredera constituted a commercial, industrial, and artistic centre for Cordova. In that spot were celebrated regal fiestas of great renown in our locality; there autos da fé were consummated; there Señor Pedro Romero and Pepe Hillo fought bulls when Charles IV visited the city; there the Tablet of the Constitution was set up in 1823 with great enthusiasm, only to be torn down and dragged about that same year; there the bodies of a few splendid youths were exposed, killed in the hills with their guns in their hands; there also the last executioners of Cordova, the two Juans—Juan García and Juan Montano—both masters of the art of hanging their fellow men, had splendid opportunities to perform the extremely important duties that had been conferred upon them. Lastly, from there, from La Corredera, sprang the rogues of Cordova, relatives of the rascals of Zocodover and Azoguejo, fathers of the scoundrels of Perchel, and of the lancers of Murcía, and remote ancestors of the Madrid golfos.”
And Don Gil, after enumerating the beauties of La Corredera, terminated his article with the following lament: “One more reason we have for thanking our much-boasted-of progress!”
Quentin had been told that nearly all of the pawn shops in Cordova were situated in La Corredera, and the morning after his conversation with Rafaela, he appeared there, resolved to leave no stone unturned until he had discovered the little box which he had been entrusted to find.
He entered La Corredera through the Arco Alto. From this spot, the plaza presented a pleasing and picturesque spectacle. It was like a harbour filled with yellow and white sails shaking in the breeze, shining with light, and filling the whole extent of the plaza. Under the dark and sombre porticos, in the tiny shops and booths, there were little piles of black objects.
Quentin walked through the centre of the plaza. He saw permanent booths, like large huts, where they sold grains and vegetables; and some that were portable, like great umbrellas with long sticks, which belonged to green-grocers and fruit-sellers. Other booths were a bit more simple, being merely wide, awningless tables upon which walnuts and hazelnuts were heaped. Others, simpler still, were upon the ground, “upon the stone counters,” as the itinerant pedlars called them.
Quentin left the centre of the plaza and entered the arcade, resolved to leave no second-hand store or pawn-broker’s establishment unvisited. Each space beneath the arcade was occupied by a booth, and each column had a little stand at its base. On the inside of the covered walk were the gateways of inns with their classic patios, and their splendid old names; such as the Posada de la Puya, or the Posada del Toro.... The sandal stores displayed coils of plaited grass as signs; the drink establishments, shelves full of coloured bottles; the saddleries, headstalls, cinchas, and cruppers; the tripe shops, bladders, and sieves made of the skins of Lucena donkeys. Here a cane weaver was making baskets; there, a pawnbroker was piling up several greasy books; and near him, an old fright of a woman was taking a piece of hakefish from a frying-pan and placing it upon a tin plate.
Even the sidewalks were occupied; a vendor of Andújar ware was pacing up and down before his dishes: large water-jars, and small, green jugs which were arranged in squares upon the stones. An old countrywoman was selling rolls of tinder for smokers; a man with a cap was exhibiting cigar cases and shell combs upon a folding table.
At each column there was a grinder with his machine, or a hatter with his caps in a large basket, or a fritter-maker with his caldron, or a cobbler with his bench and cut leather and a basin to dampen it in. There were notes of gaiety which were struck by stockings and handkerchiefs of vivid colours; and sinister notes: rows of different sized knives tied to a wall, on whose blades were engraved mottoes as suggestive as the following:
(If this viper should sting thee, there is no cure for it in the drugstore.)
Or as that other legend, laconic in its fidelity, written below a heart graven in the steel:
Although he visited every pawn shop and second-hand dealer in the plaza, Quentin failed to find the jewel-case. Somewhat dazed by the sun and the noise, he stopped and leaned against a column for a moment. It was a babel of shouts and voices and songs—of a thousand sounds. The hardware dealers struck horse-shoes with their hammers in a queer sort of rhythm; the knife-grinders whistled on their flutes; the vendor of medicinal herbs emitted a melancholy cry; the pine-nut seller shouted like a madman: “Boys and girls, weep for pine-nuts!”
There were cries that were languid and sad; others that were rapid and despairing. Some vendors devoted themselves to humour; like the seller of rolled wafers who began his advertisement by saying: “Here’s where you get your wafers ... they came from El Puerto—all the way for you!” and then mixed up a lot of sayings and refrains. Other merchants added a scientific touch; like the seller of tortoises, who dragged the little animals along the ground tied to a string, and shouted in a voice made husky by brandy: “Come and buy my little sea-roosters!”
All this rabble of vendors, of farmers, of women, of naked children, and of beggars; talked, shouted, laughed, gesticulated; it flowed from the Arco Alto to the Calle de la Espartería, where the orchardists from El Ruedo waited to bargain with the farmers; it entered the Plaza de las Cañas, and while the multitude moved about, the winter sun, yellow, brilliant as gold, fell upon and reverberated from the white awnings.
Quentin went through the Arco Bajo to a plazoleta where a group of old men were sunning themselves, with their cloaks tied to their bodies and their stiff, broad-brimmed hats pulled down over their eyes. The majority of them were so preoccupied in their noble task of doing nothing, that Quentin dared not bother them with questions, so he made his way toward a lupine-seller who was seated beneath a small awning which sheltered him from the sun.
The man had fastened a frame to the wall which served him as an awning. As the red disk of the sun descended in the heavens, the man changed the angle of the frame, always keeping himself in the shade.
This wise fellow, who was reading a paper at the moment through a pair of glasses, wore a high-crowned, sugar-loaf hat; he had the small, gentle eyes of a drunkard, a long, twisted, red nose, and a white, pointed beard. When Quentin accosted him, he lifted his eyes with indifference, looked over his glasses, and said:
“Sweetmeats? Lupine?”
“No; I would like you to tell me if there is a pawn shop around here besides those in La Corredera.”
“Sí, Señor; there is one in the Plaza de la Almagra.”
“Where is that?”
“Near here. Would you like me to go with you?”
“No, thanks. They might steal your wares.”
“Pish! What would they want them for?” And the ingenious chap with the sugar-loaf hat came out from behind his awning, tipped his hat toward one ear, caressed his goatee, and flourishing a white stick, abandoned his basket of lupine to fate, and accompanied Quentin until he left him in front of a second-hand store.
“Thank you very much, caballero,” said Quentin.
The wise man smiled, shifted his high-crowned hat from his left ear to his right, swung his stick, and, after bowing ceremoniously, departed.
Quentin entered the shop and explained to the clerk what he was looking for. The man, after listening to him, said:
“I’ve got that jewel-case.”
“Will you show it to me?”
“I don’t know why I shouldn’t.”
The man opened a writing-desk, and from the bottom of one of the drawers took out a small, blackened box. It had a coronet upon the cover, but the lining had been torn out, so they could not see the initials that Rafaela had mentioned to Quentin. Nevertheless, it was probably the right box. Quentin wished to make sure.
“Do you mind telling me,” he asked, “where this box came from?”
“Are you so interested in it?” questioned the pawnbroker rather sarcastically.
“Yes; but it is because I wish to make sure that it is the one I am looking for.”
“Well, I don’t mind saying where it came from, for I am sure that the man who sold it to me owned it.”
“Is it from the house of a marquis?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Of one who lives on the Calle del Sol?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“Seventy dollars.”
“The devil! That’s a good deal.”
“It’s worth it. A man who knew about such things would give me a hundred dollars for it; perhaps more....”
“Very well. If I cannot come and get it today, I shall be here tomorrow.”
“Very well.”
Quentin went home deep in thought. Where was he going to get those seventy dollars? He entered the store and went to see Palomares.
“Could you let me have seventy dollars today?” he inquired.
“Seventy dollars! Where am I going to get it?”
“Don’t you know any one who lends money?”
“You’ve got to have a guarantee if you want any one to lend you money; and what guarantee are you going to give?”
“The fact is, I’ve got to have the money today.”
“Look here; come to the store on the Calle de la Espartería this evening, and we’ll see what we can do.”
At six o’clock, Quentin went to the store. He had never been there before. It was small, but overstocked with goods, and, at that hour, crowded with purchasers.
“Is Don Rafael in?” Quentin asked a clerk.
“There, in the back room.”
Quentin went in, and found himself in a small room with various shelves full from top to bottom of tins of all kinds and colours, bottles, flasks, and jars. One breathed there a mixed odour of cinnamon, petroleum, coffee, and cod-fish. In that little shop of nutritious produce, three persons were engaged in conversation with Don Rafael. Quentin greeted them and sat down.
One of the three persons was a prebendary by the name of Espego, whom they called Espejito on account of his small stature. Espejito had a sly look, and was pacing about the back room with his hands behind his back.
The second member of the coterie was a lean man with very thin legs, which were wide apart like those of a compass; he had a face like a tunny-fish, with a fixed, penetrating, and suspicious glance. He was called Camacha, and was a solicitor. He wore a short moustache, side-whiskers that reached to the bottom of his ears, a broad-brimmed hat tipped to one side, and very tight trousers.
The third member was leaning back in a chair; he was a sexagenarian with a roman profile; his face was full of fleshy wrinkles; his nose, crooked and aquiline, hung over his upper lip like a vulture over its prey; his eyes were staring and sunken; his mouth contemptuous and bitter, and his skin, lemon-coloured. He wore a black handkerchief tied about his head; over it, a broad-brimmed hat, also black; and over his shoulders, a roomy, dark-brown cloak with large folds.
This gentleman, the owner of a number of farms about Cordova, was called Don Matías Armenta.
The four men talked slowly and disjointedly.
“I believe there are guarantees,” murmured one of them from time to time.
“That’s what I think.”
“The condition of the house....”
“Is not satisfactory, that’s certain; but to respond....”
“That’s what I think.”
“We’ll speak of that some other day.”
“I’m in the way here,” thought Quentin, and he went into the store and sat down upon a bench, waiting for Palomares to appear.
Palomares went into the back room, and at the end of a short time, came out and said to Quentin:
“Well, my lad, it can’t be done.”
Quentin went into the street cursing his stepfather and the old cronies who were with him for a trio of usurers of the worst kind. He was walking along the streets wondering how he was to get the money, when he remembered the offer Señora Patrocinio had made to him the night he and Don Gil Sabadía were in her house.
“Let’s go there,” he said to himself. “We’ll see if she makes good her offer.”
He made his way to Los Tejares where Señora Patrocinio lived. The door of the house was open. Quentin knocked, and, as no one answered, he walked in.
“Señora Patrocinio!” he cried.
“Who is it?” came from above.
“A man who comes to ask for something.”
“Well, we give nothing here.”
“I am Quentin.”
“Ah! It’s you? Come in and wait for me.”
“What beautiful confidence!” said Quentin, seating himself in the vestibule, which was nearly in darkness.
Just then he heard footsteps upon the stairs, and a woman veiled in a black mantilla descended with Señora Patrocinio.
The veiled lady looked at Quentin as she passed; he returned the look with curiosity, and would have gone to the door to see her better, had not Señora Patrocinio seized him by the arm.
“Come,” said the old woman, “what’s the matter?”
“Señora Patrocinio,” Quentin stammered, “send me away and take me for an idiot if my request seems stupid to you. I have come to ask for money.”
“Have you been gambling?”
“No.”
“How much do you need?”
“Seventy dollars.”
“Come, that’s not much. Follow me.”
Quentin and the old woman climbed to the second floor and entered a room which contained a large bed. Señora Patrocinio took a key from her pocket, and opened a cabinet. She clawed inside of it with her deformed hands until she brought forth a bulging purse. She opened it, removed from it a roll of coins wrapped in paper, broke it over the bed, and scattered several gold-pieces upon the coverlet. The old woman counted out twenty twenty-peseta pieces and offered them to Quentin.
“Take them,” she said.
“But you’re giving me too much, Señora Patrocinio.”
“Bah! They won’t weigh you down.”
“Thanks very much!”
“You must not thank me. I only want one thing, and that is that you come to see me now and then. Some day I’ll explain our relationship and what I expect of you.”
“Very well.”
Quentin took the money and left the house joyfully. It was night, and he thought that the pawn shop on the Plaza de la Almagra might be closed, but he went by to make sure, and found it still open. He took the jewelcase and went home.
“The truth is, I’m a lucky man,” he murmured gleefully.
Quentin slept peacefully, rocked by sweet expectations. The next afternoon he went to the Calle del Sol.
He found the gate open, and passed on into the garden. The gardener was not there. He went upstairs and rang the bell. The tall, dried-up servant who came to the door, said:
“The young ladies are in the kitchen.”
“Well, let’s go there.”
They went through a series of corridors and entered the kitchen. It was an enormous place, with a high skylight through which at that moment there filtered a ray of sunlight that fell upon the blond, somewhat mussed-up hair of Rafaela.
Rafaela and Remedios turned at the sound of footsteps.
“Oh, is it you? You have found us in a pretty mess,” said Rafaela, showing him her hands covered with flour.
“What are you making?” asked Quentin.
“Some fried-cakes.”
“It smells deliciously in here.”
“Have you a sweet tooth?” asked Rafaela.
“Somewhat.”
“This is the one with a sweet tooth,” said Rafaela, indicating Remedios. “Let’s get out of here, she’ll have indigestion if we don’t.”
Rafaela washed her hands and arms, dried them carefully, and led the way from the kitchen into the drawing-room.
“I’ve got the little box here,” announced Quentin.
“Oh, really? Give it to me. Thank you! Thank you very much indeed! How much did it cost you?”
“Nothing.... A mere trifle.”
“No, no, that’s not possible. Please tell me how much you paid for it.”
“Won’t you accept this small favour from me?”
“No; for I realize that it must have cost you a lot.”
“Bah!”
“I’ll find out, and then we’ll talk about it further.”
Remedios, approaching Quentin mysteriously, said to him:
“Is it true that there is a store in your house?”
“Yes.”
“Are there sweets in it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you bring me some?”
“What do you want me to bring you?”
“Bring me some white taffy, some hard candy, a ladyfinger, and a sugar-plum.”
“But, child, you want a whole candy shop!” said Rafaela.
“Then just some taffy and cake, eh?”
“Very well.”
“But lots of it.”
“Yes.”
“Fine: now sing for us!”
“Gracious, what a bold little girl!” exclaimed Rafaela.
They opened the drawing-room windows, and Quentin sat at the piano and played the opening chords of the baritone aria from Rigoletto. Then, in a hearty voice, he began:
He suddenly recalled his school, his friends; then he felt sentimental, and put a real sadness in his tones. When he sang, Solo, difforme, povero, he felt almost like weeping.
After Rigoletto came the song from Un ballo:
Quentin exhausted his repertoire; he sang all the songs from the Italian operas that he knew; and then, exaggerating his English accent, he sang Rule Britannia! and God Save the Queen!
The two sisters and the old servant sewed as they listened to Quentin, who kept up a steady stream of conversation like a stage comedian. They laughed at his stories and clownish tricks.
He had an inexhaustible supply, and related many anecdotes and adventures that were mostly invented by himself....
The afternoon passed very quickly. From the balcony they could see the dark mountain outlined strongly against the blue of the sky. The sun, very low in the horizon, was leaving long shadows of chimneys and towers on the grey roofs, and reddening the belfries with an ideal light that grew paler with each passing moment.
They could scarcely see within the room; the old servant brought in a lamp and placed it upon the table. Quentin took leave of the two sisters.
On his way out, he paused before the window overlooking the garden. The atmosphere was unusually clear; the sky was deepening to an intense blue. Distant objects; the white gardens upon the hillside, the hermitages among the cypress trees, the great round-topped pine trees upon the summit, ... all could be seen in detail.
It grew darker; in the black, rectangular patch of the pool, a star commenced to twinkle, then another, until a multitude of luminous points trembled in its deep, quiet waters.
“AREN’T you going to Los Pedroches?” Remedios asked Quentin one day. The two sisters and the old woman were sewing in the drawing-room.
“What’s doing there?” he asked.
“The Candelaria Picnic,” answered Rafaela.
“Are you going?”
“Yes, I believe so. We are going with our cousins.”
Quentin fell silent for a moment.
“Aren’t you going?” Remedios asked again.
“I? No. I don’t know any one.”
“Don’t you know us?” she asked.
“Yes; but I’d bother you....”
“Why?” asked Rafaela pleasantly.
“And if I did not bother you, I should be certain to annoy your cousins; perhaps they wouldn’t like me to bow to you.”
Rafaela became silent; implying, though perhaps unwittingly, that what Quentin had said might be true. So, somewhat embarrassed, he said:
“What do they do there?”
“Not much nowadays,” answered the old woman. “There are a few dances and supper parties ... but the best thing about it used to be the return home: it was the custom for every lad to bring a lass back to town on his horse’s croup.”
“Has that custom died out?” asked Quentin.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t they still follow it?”
“On account of the fights they had coming back,” answered the old woman. “Boys, and men too, took to scaring the horses, and some of the riders fell off and began to fight furiously with both fists and guns.”
“You seem to know all about it,” said Rafaela to the old woman. “Have you ever been in Los Pedroches?”
“Yes; with a sweetheart of mine who carried me behind him on his horse.”
“My! What a rascal!... What a rascal!” exclaimed Rafaela.
“When we reached Malmuerta,” the old servant continued, “they frightened our horse, so my sweetheart, who had a short fowling-piece on his saddle, made as if to shoot it, and the people couldn’t get away fast enough....”
Quentin decided to go to the picnic.
“I’m going to Los Pedroches, mother,” he said to Fuensanta.
“That’s good, my son,” she replied, “go out and have a good time.”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t any money.”
“I’ll give you what you need; and I’ll find you some riding clothes, too.”
Quentin hired a big horse with a cowboy saddle; then, following his mother’s instructions, he put on a short jacket covered with ribbons and braid, fringed leggings, a tasseled shawl across the saddle bow, and a broad-brimmed hat.
He mounted at the door of his house. He was a good horseman, and as he jumped into the saddle, he made his horse rear. He brought him down at once, waved to his mother who was on the balcony, and rode off at a smart pace.
He went out through the Puerta de Osario to the Campo de la Merced, under the Arco de la Malmuerta and turned his horse’s head toward the Carrera de la Fuensantilla. There he noticed the unusual exodus of people making their way in groups toward Los Pedroches.
It was a splendid February afternoon. The sun poured down like a golden rain upon the green countryside, and smiled in the fields of new wheat which were dotted with red flowers and yellow buds. Here and there a dark hut or a stack of straw surmounted by a cross arose in the broad expanse of cultivated lands.
Quentin rode swiftly along the highway, which was bordered at intervals by large, grey century-plants, from among whose pulpous branches rose flocks of chirping birds.
He reached the picnic-grounds: a meadow near the Los Pedroches ravine. The people were scattered over the meadow in groups. The bright and showy dresses of the girls shone in the sun afar off against the green background of the field. As Quentin drew near the fiesta-grounds, some groups were eating supper, and others were playing the guitar and dancing.
In some places, where the dancers were doubtless experts, curious onlookers crowded about them. An old man with side-whiskers was playing the guitar with great skill, and a dancer in a narrow-waisted suit was pursuing his graceful partner with his arms held high in the air; and one could hear the clacking of castanets, and the encouraging applause of the onlookers.
It was a peaceful happiness, dignified and serene. Girls in showy dresses, Manilla shawls, and with flowers in their hair, were strolling about, accompanied by sour-visaged dueñas and proud youths.
A little apart from the centre of the picnic, the more wealthy families were lunching peacefully; while little boys and girls were screeching as they swung in the swings hung from the trees.
There were vendors of oranges and apples and walnuts and chestnuts; and taffy women with their little booths of sweets and brandy.
Quentin went around the grounds looking all about him, searching for his cousins; and at last, in a little unpopulated grove, he caught sight of them among a group of several boys and girls.
Remedios recognized Quentin when he was still some distance away, and waving her hand at him, she rose to meet him. Quentin rode up to her.
“Where are you going?” the girl inquired.
“For a little ride.”
“Do you want a cake?”
“If you will give....”
“Come on.”
Quentin dismounted, walked up to the group, gave his hand to Rafaela, and greeted the others with a bow. Undoubtedly Rafaela had informed her friends who the horseman was, for Quentin noticed that several of the girls looked at him curiously.
He took the cake that Remedios gave him, and a glass of wine.
“Won’t you sit down?” Rafaela asked him.
“Thank you, no. I’m going for a ride along the mountain.”
As he drew near Rafaela, Quentin noticed the look of hatred that one of the young men present cast at him.
“He’s a rival,” he thought.
From that instant, the two boys were consumed with hatred for each other. The young man was tall, blond, with a certain rusticity about him in spite of his elegant clothes. Quentin heard them call him Juan de Dios. The youth spoke in a rather uncultured manner, converting his s’s into z’s, his r’s into l’s, and vice versa. He gazed fixedly at Rafaela, and from time to time said to her:
“Why don’t you drink a little something?”
Rafaela thanked him with a smile. Among the girls were Rafaela’s two cousins; the elder, María de los Angeles, had a nose like a parrot, green pop-eyes, and a salient under lip; Transito, the younger, was better looking, but her expression, which was half haughty and half indifferent, did not captivate one’s sympathies. Like her sister, she had green eyes, and thin lips with a strange curve to them that gave her a cruel expression.
Transito questioned Quentin in a bantering and sarcastic tone; he replied to her pleasantly, with feigned modesty, and in purposely broken Spanish. Presently he announced his intention of going.
“What, are you going?” asked Rafaela.
“Yes.”
“Are you afraid of us?” said Transito.
“Afraid of being enchanted,” replied Quentin gallantly, as he bowed and went in search of his horse.
“Wait! Take me on the croup,” Remedios shouted.
“No, no; you’ll fall,” said Rafaela.
“No, I won’t,” replied the child.
“The horse is gentle,” Quentin put in.
“Very well then; you may take her for a while.”
Quentin mounted rapidly, and Remedios climbed upon the step of the carriage that stood near. Quentin rode up to her and stuck out his left foot for her to use as a support. The little girl stepped upon it, and seizing Quentin about the waist, leaped to the horse’s croup and threw her arms about the rider.
“See how well I do it,” said she to her sister, who was fearfully watching these manœuvres.
“I see well enough.”
“Where shall we go?” Quentin asked the girl.
“Right through the picnic-grounds.”
They rode among the groups; the arrogance of the rider and the grace of Remedios with her red flower in her hair, attracted the attention of the crowd.
“There’s a pair for you!” said some as they watched them ride by; and she smiled with her shining eyes.
Following Remedios’ orders, Quentin rode back and forth among the places which she pointed out to him.
“Now let’s go to the mountain.”
Quentin rode up hill for half an hour.
The afternoon was drawing to a close; the shadows of the trees were lengthening on the grass; white clouds, solid as blocks of marble, with their under sides ablaze, floated slowly over the mountain; the air smelt of rosemary and thyme. Cordova appeared upon the plain enveloped in a cloud of golden dust; beyond her undulated low hills of vivid green, stretching in echelon one behind the other, until they were lost in the distance in a golden haze of vibrating light. Over the roofs of the city rose church towers, slate-covered cupolas, black, sharp-pointed cypresses. From between the walls of a garden, with a very tall and twisted trunk, a gigantic palm tree raised its head—like a spider stuck to the sky....
Quentin turned back with the idea of leaving Remedios with her sister.
“Well, well!” Rafaela exclaimed. “You certainly can’t complain. We’ve been waiting for you to go home with us. Come, get down.”
“No; he’s going to take me home—aren’t you, Quentin?”
“Whatever you wish.”
“Well, let’s be going.”
“We’re off!”
“Look out for jokers,” warned Rafaela’s cousin Transito.
They took the road cityward, riding among the groups who were returning from the fiesta.
They could see Cordova in the twilight with the last rays of the sun quivering upon its towers. In some houses the windows were commencing to light up; in the dark blue sky, the stars were beginning to appear.
Neither Quentin nor the girl spoke; they rode along in silence, swaying with the motion of the horse. They reached the Carrera de la Fuensantilla, and from there followed Las Ollerías. At the first gate they came to, El Colodro, Quentin thought he saw a group that might have stationed itself there with the intention of frightening the horses of the passers-by; so he went on through the Arco de la Malmuerta to the Campo de la Merced.
Here there was a group of little boys and young men, one of whom had a whip.
“Be careful, child; hold on to me tightly,” said Quentin.
She squeezed the rider’s waist with her arms.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
The group of young people came toward Quentin, one of them brandishing the whip. Before they had time to frighten his horse, Quentin drove in his spurs and slackened his reins. The animal gave a jump, knocked down several of the jokers, and broke into a gallop, spreading consternation among the youngsters. When they had passed the Campo de la Merced, Quentin reined in his horse and began to walk again.
“How did you like that, little girl?” asked Quentin.
“Fine! Fine!” exclaimed Remedios, brimming over with delight. “They wanted to shoot us.”
“And they fell down.”
The girl laughed delightedly. Quentin guided his horse to the Puerta del Osario, and once through it, threaded his way along lonely alleyways. The horse went at a walk, his iron shoes resounding loudly on the pavement.
“Would you like me to treat you?” asked Quentin.
“Yes.”
They were passing a tavern called El Postiguillo; so Quentin stopped his horse, clapped his hands loudly twice, and the innkeeper appeared in the doorway.
“What does the little girl want?” said the man.
“Whatever you have,” answered Remedios.
“A few cakes, and two small glasses of Montilla?”
“Would you like that?” asked Quentin.
“Very much.”
They ate the cakes, drank the wine and went on their way. Just as they reached the Calle del Sol, a carriage stopped at the door, from which Rafaela, her cousins, and the blond young man descended. The latter, who helped the girls down, called to Remedios: “I’ll be with you in a moment!” But the girl pretended not to hear him, and called Juan. Quentin took the child by the waist and lifted her into the arms of the gardener; then he bowed, and turned his horse up the street.
When he reached his house, he found that his family had not yet returned from the picnic. He saw Palomares in the street and joined him; gave his horse to a boy to take to the livery stable, and, in the company of the clerk, entered a café. He told him how he had passed the afternoon, and then began to speak casually of his grandfather’s family.
“It looks as if they were about ruined, eh?”
“Yes; completely.”
“Still they must have some cash haven’t they?”
“Oof! The old man was very rich; more through his wife than himself. He is a fine man but very extravagant. When the rebel leader Gomez took possession of Cordova the old Marquis, who was then a Carlist, took him in and gave him thousands of dollars. He has always spent his money lavishly.”
“What about the son?”
“The son is nothing like his father. He is a disagreeable profligate.”
“And the son’s wife?”
“La Aceitunera? She’s a sinner of the first water.”
“Pretty, eh?”
“Rather! A fine lass with unbounded wit. When she left her husband, she went to live with Periquito Gálvez; but now they say she is trotting about with a lieutenant. Just pull Juan the gardener’s tongue a bit, and he’ll tell you some curious things.”
“Didn’t the family ever have any relative clever enough to save it from ruin?”
“Yes; the Marquis has a brother called El Pollo Real; but he is a selfish sort who doesn’t want to mix in anything for fear they will ask him for money. Have you never seen him?”
“No.”
“Well, El Pollo Real has been a Tenorio. Now he is a half paralytic. They say that he is devoting himself to writing the history of his love affairs, and has hired a painter to paint pictures of all his mistresses. He’s been at it for years. The first artist he had was a friend of mine from Seville, and he used to tell me that El Pollo Real would give him a miniature or a photograph for him to enlarge, and then he would explain what the subjects looked like: whether blondes or brunettes, tall or short, marchionesses or gipsies.”
“Do you know Rafaela?”
“Do I know her! Rather! Poor little girl!”
“Why ‘poor little girl’?” exclaimed Quentin, feeling cold from head to foot.
“The girl has had hard luck.”
“Why, what happened to her?”
“Oh, affairs of a wealthy family, which are always miserable. After she was thirteen or fourteen years old, Rafaela was engaged to the son of a Cordovese count. It seemed as if the two children loved each other, and they made a fine couple. They were always seen together; going for walks, and in the theatre; when it began to be rumoured that the Marquis’ family was on its way to ruin. Then her sweetheart went away to Madrid. Month after month went by, and the lad did not return; finally some one brought the news that he had married a young millionairess in Madrid. Rafaela was ill for several months, and since that time she has never been as well or as gay as she used to be.”
Quentin listened to this story profoundly mortified. He no longer cared to ask questions; he arose, left the café, and took leave of Palomares.
He was unable to sleep that night.
“Why this anger and mortification?” he asked himself. “What difference does it make whether Rafaela has had a sweetheart or not? Aren’t you going to work out your problem, Quentin? Aren’t you going to follow out your plan in life? Aren’t you a good Bœotian? Aren’t you a swine in the herd of Epicurus?”
In spite of Quentin’s efforts to convince himself that he ought not to be irritated, it was impossible to do so. Merely to think that a man, probably a young whipper-snapper, had scorned Rafaela, offended him in the most mortifying manner.