MAXIMINA

BY

DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS

AUTHOR OF

"The Marquis of Peñalta"

(Marta y María).

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

Copyright, 1888,

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

[Chapter: I., ] [II., ] [III., ] [IV., ] [V., ] [VI., ] [VII., ] [VIII., ] [IX., ] [X., ] [XI., ] [XII., ] [XIII., ] [XIV., ] [XV., ] [XVI., ] [XVII., ] [XVIII., ] [XIX., ] [XX., ] [XXI., ] [XXII., ] [XXIII., ] [XXIV., ] [XXV., ] [XXVI., ] [XXVII., ] [XXVIII., ] [XXIX., ] [XXX., ] [XXXI.]

I.

Miguel reached Pasajes late Friday afternoon. On alighting from the train he found Ursula's boat moored to the shore.

"Good afternoon, Don Miguel," said the boat-woman, showing genuine joy in her face, where the fires of alcohol were flaming more than ever brilliantly; "I was beginning to think that I should not see you again."

"Indeed!"

"How should I know?... Men are so queer about getting married!.... But, señorito, you can't imagine how glad everybody in the village was to hear about it!.... Only a few jealous women would not believe it.... How I will make 'em fume to-night! I'm going all around telling everybody that I myself brought you over to Don Valentín's."

"Don't think of making any one fume," replied the young man, laughing; "but bend to your oars a little more."

"Are you in a hurry to see Maximina?"

"Of course I am."

It was the twilight hour: the shadows clustering in the recesses of the bay had already crept far up on the mountains. On the few vessels at anchor the hands were busy loading and unloading their cargoes, and their shouts and the creaking of windlasses were the only sounds that disturbed the peacefulness of the place.

Directly in front a few lights began to appear in the houses. Miguel did not take his eyes from one that gleamed faintly in the dwelling of the ex-captain of the Rápido. He felt a pleasant and delicious desire which from time to time made his lips tremble and his heart beat more rapidly. But no one as yet was in sight on the wooden balcony where so many times he had reclined, watching the arrival and departure of the ships. His eager face betrayed the thoughts that possessed him. Ursula smiled as her sharp eyes watched him covertly.

He leaped on shore, dismissed the boat-woman, mounted the uneven stone stairway, and made his way through the single, crooked street of the village. As he reached the little square, he saw on the balcony of his sweetheart's house a figure which quickly disappeared. The young man smiled with joy, and with a rapid step made his way through the doorway. Without looking in at the tobacconist's shop he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Who is it?" cried a sweet, mellow voice within, which echoed in his heart like heavenly music.

"It is Miguel."

The latch was raised; he pushed the door open and saw Maximina herself, with a candle in her hand, on the first landing of the stairway.

She wore a dress of black and white plaid, and her hair was in a braid as usual. She was a little paler than ordinary, and around her soft blue eyes delicate circles were traced, showing the effect of her recent anxieties. She smiled and blushed at sight of Miguel, who in two bounds cleared the distance between them, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted a reasonable score of kisses on her face in spite of the girl's protestations and endeavors to tear herself away.

"I am looking at you!" said a voice from overhead.

It was Doña Rosalía. In spite of the jocose tone in which she spoke, Maximina was so startled that she let the candle fall, and they were left in perfect darkness, until Doña Rosalía, choking with laughter, came with a lamp; but her niece had disappeared.

"Did you ever see a girl like her? She is going to be married to-morrow, and yet she is as bashful as though she had known you only since yesterday.... Most likely she has locked herself up in her room.... It will make you some trouble to get her out now!"

Miguel went up to her room and called gently at the door.

There was no answer.

"Maximina," he said, with difficulty restraining his laughter.

"I don't want to! I don't want to!" replied the girl, with amusing desperation.

"But what is it that you do not want to do?"

"I don't want to come out!"

"Ah! you don't want to come out?... Then see here; the curé is not going to marry us with so much wood separating us!..." A few minutes of silence followed. Miguel put his mouth down to the key-hole, and said, lowering his voice:—

"Why won't you open the door, tonta[1]?... Does it make you feel bashful?"

"Yes," whispered the girl, on the other side.

"Don't be alarmed! Your aunt isn't here."

After some time, and by dint of many persuasive words, she made up her mind to open the door. Even then she was blushing to her ears. Miguel captured her hands, and said, with a gentle reproach in his voice:—

"Come now, little rogue, why didn't you wait for me on the balcony?... Why, I looked for you there until I almost put my eyes out! But not a sign of Maximina!"

"Yes, yes!"

"What does 'yes, yes' mean? Did you wait for me?"

"I have been on the balcony ever since dinner! I saw you get into the boat; I saw you talking and laughing with Ursula; and I saw you jump on shore, and then from the other balcony I saw you when you reached the square...."

"That last I know you did.... But we shall see; when are you going to dismount from your high horse? Are you going to treat me this way after we are married?"

"Oh, no!"

They went down into the parlor, where they found Don Valentín, Adolfo, and the girls, who warmly welcomed the young man. The welcome extended him by the ex-captain was not unlike that of an uncommunicative whale; but there was something about him that made it evident that he was satisfied.

Doña Rosalía at that instant came in; and when she saw Maximina, she could not refrain from laughing, whereupon the maiden dashed out of the room with all haste, and flew up the stairs like a hurricane: but Miguel succeeded in overtaking her before she reached her chamber. While he was exhausting all his powers of persuasion to induce her to return with him to the sitting-room, Doña Rosalía, vexed at her running away, called from below:—

"Leave her, Don Miguel; leave that foolish little goose! I don't see how any one can fall in love with her! ough! what a simpleton!"

Of course Maximina, at this new indignity, began to cry; but Miguel was there to comfort her, and no one in the world could do so with greater success.

After a little, the lovers came down again, and quite a little tertulia or reception, composed of neighbors who dropped in to congratulate them, was held in the parlor. Doña Rosalía did not appear for some time. She was unquestionably annoyed with her niece because of her terrible crime of being bashful.

The nucleus of the tertulia was formed by a dozen young girls eager to see Miguel's gifts; and he, by refusing to accede to this desire, which he could scarcely understand, gave them an hour of real torture. At last Doña Rosalía called him aside and assured him that it would be the proper thing for him to exhibit them.

The young man was persuaded to do this, and he dragged into the middle of the room his trunk and a grip-sack in which he had brought some jewels. He pulled out the two solitary dresses which he had brought for his bride: the one she was to wear during the ceremony; the other was her travelling-dress. Both aroused great admiration by their softness and elegance; the same with the set of diamonds and pearls. The village maidens could not handle and praise these trinkets enough, and they showed by the extravagance of their exclamations that they regarded the possession of such things as the greatest joy in the world.

Maximina, standing behind, with her eyes wide open, looked on with more astonishment than curiosity; her young friends from time to time cast on her vivacious and questioning glances, to which she answered with a slight and unnatural smile, without losing the frightened expression from her face; this was even increased when she saw lifted out of the trunk her wedding-dress made of white silk trimmed with orange flowers. A deep color spread over her face, and neither the flush nor her trepidation departed from her during the evening.

They spent the time in gayly singing and dancing to the music of the guitar. Don Valentín—oh, unheard of gallantry!—danced a zorcio with a handsome maiden, who, by her persuasive eloquence succeeded in warming up his heels; but he had to give it up suddenly in disgust, owing to an excruciating attack of the gout which paralyzed his right foot. His sweet spouse consoled him by saying:—

"Fine employment that is for you!... Simply to show off!"

Miguel danced the giraldilla, constantly taking Maximina for his partner. When they became tired, they would go and sit down together in some corner of the room and exchange few words, but numberless glances. The brigadier's son, seeing that his lady-love was suffocating, took a fan and began to fan her; but Maximina, noticing that they were watched and that some smiled, stopped him, gently saying:—

"I don't need to be fanned, thank you very much. You are much more heated than I...."

"Why do you address me so formally?[2] Is that the way we ought to do?"

"Well, then, thou art more heated than I.... Fan thyself."

At ten o'clock all departed, taking leave of the lovers, with smiles more or less malicious.

"Good night, Maximina; sleep well."—"Your last night of maidenhood, dear! Beware! Your last night!" said one ancient matron, the mother of at least eleven sons.

Maximina smiled, abashed.

"Adiós! adiós!... How it will pain us to have you leave us!"

And a few of the young maidens kissed her again and again, with great manifestations of love.

"Girl, don't you forget that this is your last night of maidenhood! Ponder on it! It is a solemn thing!" said the matron once more.

Again Maximina smiled.

Then the old woman frowned, and whispered to the one who was standing next her:—

"That child imagines that she is going on a pilgrimage! Ay Diós! It is evident that she has not a grain of feeling. Marriage is a very serious affair ... very serious." And until she reached her own house she did not cease discoursing long and learnedly on the seriousness of this tie.

Our lovers were left with Doña Rosalía and Don Valentín; the children had already gone to bed,—the youngest, Adolfo, whom his mother had been obliged to take to his room by main force and the promise to wake him on the next day in time to be present at the ceremony. Don Valentín likewise bade them good night and went to his room. Miguel and Maximina sat down on two low chairs, and began to whisper, while Doña Rosalía, still in bad humor, decided to knit until it should seem good to her to put an end to the session, which should be within a very few minutes.

Miguel noticed that Maximina was absent-minded and somewhat nervous.

"What is the matter?... I can see by thy face that something troubles thee.... Art thou not content to be my wife?"

"Oh, yes! There is nothing the matter."

"Then, why this absent-mindedness?"

She hung her head and did not answer. Miguel insisted upon knowing:—

"Come, tell me, what are you thinking about?"

"I want to ask a favor of you, ..." she whispered timidly.

"Only one? I would like you to ask me five hundred, and that I might grant them!"

"If I might ... if you would let me be married in one of my own dresses...."

The young man remained for a moment lost in amazement: then he asked sadly:—

"Don't you wish to be married in the dress that I brought you?"

"It would be very mortifying to me!"

"Besides, it is the fashion to be married in a white dress; especially for maidens like you!"

"Here it is not the fashion.... I should be mortified to death!"

Miguel tried to persuade her, but in vain. After exhausting his arguments, which were not very varied, he was anxious to come to a settlement of the difficulty. But Doña Rosalía had noticed something, and lifting her head, she asked:—

"What does this mean? You were not quarrelling, I hope?"

"Nothing, Doña Rosalía; Maximina does not wish to be married in the white dress,—because it would mortify her."

These words instantly put the tobacconist's wife into a storm of fury:—

"And you take any notice of this blockhead's notions? How does she know what she wants, or what she does not want? Did you ever see the like?... Such a splendid dress as you have brought her too!... It must have cost a fortune!... And what does she want done with this dress?..."

The brigadier's son, understanding what was passing through his sweetheart's mind, slyly took her hand, and gave it a hearty pressure. Maximina, who was confused and pained, recovered her courage.

"There is no reason to be disturbed, Doña Rosalía, for the matter is not worth it. If Maximina does not wish to be married in white, it is simply because it is not the fashion here. The fault was on my side in having brought the dress without consulting her first. As to what is to be done with it, Maximina has given me an idea; she desires that it be presented to the Virgin of the Church of St. Peter."

The girl, who had said nothing of the sort, pressed his hand to show her gratitude. Doña Rosalía was ambitious of having her niece's dress make a sensation in the village; consequently she still insisted that such a thing should not be done. Nevertheless, Miguel stood firm, taking his maiden's part, and arguing that she was right. Finally Doña Rosalía, unable to hide her indignation, swept out of the room, leaving them alone.

Miguel shrugged his shoulders, and said to the girl, who was greatly disturbed:—

"Don't be worried, dearie. You are in all good rights my wife, and you are under no obligation to obey any one else."

Maximina gave him a tender look of gratitude. And feeling that it was not proper for them to be absolutely alone, she arose, intimating that she wished to go to bed.

It was necessary for them to be up bright and early the next morning. The hour for the ceremony was fixed at half-past five. Miguel also arose, although unwillingly, and his betrothed went to get him a candle from the kitchen. As she was on the point of handing it to him, he said in a jesting tone:—

"Art thou quite sure that we are to be married to-morrow?"

Maximina looked at him with wide-open eyes.

"You had better beware! for there is even now time for me to change my mind. Who knows but what I may make my escape this night, and when morning comes half the people may be absent from the wedding?"

Maximina forced herself to smile. Miguel, who noticed how seriously she took his words, came to her relief, saying:—

"What an innocent little puss you are! Could it be possible that I would throw away my happiness! When a man is lucky enough to find it in this world, he must cling fast hold of it. Within a few hours nothing can separate us. Adiós—my wife!"

The young man uttered these words as he started up stairs. From the top of the stairway he smiled down on the girl, who had stopped motionless at the parlor door, still evidently a little disturbed by the jest that he had made.

"Till to-morrow! isn't it so?"

Maximina nodded her head.

That night was not one of sleeplessness for Miguel, as the night before a man's marriage, they say, is apt to be. Not a single sad foreboding passed through his mind; no fear, no impetuous eagerness; his determination was so firm and rational, it was so vigorously supported by his intellect and his heart, that there was no room for that unhealthy agitation and dread which attack us at the moment of adopting some weighty resolution. So far as Maximina was concerned, he was sure of being happy. So far as he himself was concerned, he would do his best to be happy. Once and forever dispossessed of the vainglorious desire of "making a brilliant marriage," he was convinced that no woman was better suited to him than this one. Never once did the fever of a hot and violent passion cause him any discomfort. The love that he felt was intense but calm; neither wholly spiritual, nor wholly material, but a union of both. As soon as he reached his room, he spent a few moments thinking about his betrothed, and then finding himself overpowered by drowsiness, he blew out his light and fell into deep sleep.

Before it was five o'clock, the chamber-maid's voice woke him. It was still pitch dark, and would be so for some time. He lighted the candle, and dressed himself carefully. He was quick about it, though his hands trembled a little. As the solemn moment approached, he could not entirely conquer his nervous and impressionable nature.

When he went down into the parlor, quite an assembly was already gathered; not only those who had been there the evening before, but others besides. All were dressed in their most brilliant attire. Doña Rosalía, who was to be the madrina, wore a dress of black merino, and was adorned with a few jewels of small value. Don Valentín, the padrino, had pulled out from the bottom of the trunk the dress-coat in which he had been painted when he became a ship's mate; it was a coat of ample circumference, with a narrow collar and very short sleeves: the ex-captain of the Rápido wore it with the same grace and dexterity as he did his best shirt. In the starched and crimped bosom shone two large amethysts which he had bought in 1842 in Manilla; over his vest and around his neck hung his watch-chain; the watch was gold and had a seal adorned with opals. But it was in his feet that Don Valentín took the greatest pride: his wife had always boasted (because he was wholly incapable of boasting about anything) that there were no others in the village so short and well-turned; wherefore, the old sailor, in honor of this solemn occasion, felt called upon to give such a shine to his boots that they equalled "the moons of Venice"; but solely for the purpose of affording the companion of his life a new and pure delight.

The company missed several damsels, but the report went round that they were engaged in helping dress the bride. It was not long before she made her appearance, in a modest but elegant dark blue woollen dress trimmed with black velvet; she also wore the bridegroom's costly jewels, and a bunch of orange flowers in her bosom.

When she entered the parlor, all the women kissed her, with the exception of her aunt, who, at the sight of the dress she wore, felt the terrible wound that she had received the evening before, open again. Maximina glanced at her timidly three or four times, and went of her own accord to kiss her. But she did not once look in the direction of Miguel, who, on the other hand, devoured her with his eyes, thoroughly understanding the feeling of bashfulness that possessed her in spite of her feigned calmness.

The artistic young girls who had adorned her were far from satisfied with their work. They evidently felt tortured by those keen though insidious doubts that always attack the poet or painter during the last moments of creation. After they were all seated in their places, one would jump up and trip over deftly to set the diamond pin farther back, and another would approach her and give the sprig of orange blossoms "the least bit of a twist"; another would find it necessary slightly to rearrange the hair; and still another would smooth out a wrinkle in the dress, and another adjust it about the neck. In fact, there was a constant coming and going. Maximina allowed them to do as they pleased, and for all their efforts she thanked them with a smile.

"See here, Don Miguel, you have not been to confession yet, have you?" inquired Doña Rosalía.

"No; that is a fact: no one reminded me of it," replied the young man, suddenly rising. "And Maximina?"

"I have already been."

"Then let us be about it, gentlemen!"

As he went out, he again gave Maximina a keen glance, which the girl pretended not to notice.

As yet not even the first gleams of daylight tinged the eastern sky; it is true it had grown cloudy during the night, and the rain was still falling. With umbrella spread, and muffled in their great-coats, Miguel and Don Valentín made their way along the deserted street.

Never had starry and diaphanous night in August seemed more beautiful to our hero: this early morning chill, damp and melancholy, remained graven on his heart as the loveliest of his life. The church offered a still more gloomy and lugubrious spectacle.

They sent word to the curé, and it was not long before he came. He was an elderly gentleman, and, considering the importance of the wedding, answered with resignation the call at such an unusual hour. He led the young man gently by the hand to a dark corner of the temple, and there listened to his confession.

Miguel was still on his knees before the priest when he heard the noise of the wedding procession as it entered the church with considerable tumult, and his heart melted within him, not with sorrow at having offended God, we must confess to his shame, but with sweet and delicious longing.

After granting him absolution, the curé returned to the sacristy to robe himself, and Miguel joined his friends, without being able to catch sight of his bride. Only when the sacristan came to tell them to come to the grand altar, did he see her, accompanied by her aunt. The friends went forward, pushing their way, and met, without knowing how it was accomplished, at each other's side, near the altar and in front of the curé.

Contrary to all expectations, Maximina appeared quite calm during the ceremony, and replied to the priest's questions in a ringing voice, which pleased the good man so much that he exclaimed:—

"That is the way to answer! That is something like!... Not like those prudish girls who are crazy to get married, and yet no one can get a word out of them!"

It was not a pleasant morning to be out, but the parishioners of Saint Peter's were used to such things, and they smiled with satisfaction. The worthy father gave them his blessing, with his hands raised above them solemnly and majestically, imitating, so far as was possible, the attitude of Moses when he separated the waters of the Red Sea.

Then began the mass; the newly wedded couple and the relatives fell upon their knees. When a certain point was reached, Doña Rosalía, who understood exactly how to act, arose and threw a chain around Maximina's head, asking Don Valentín to put the other end over Miguel's shoulder. When they were thus joined together, the son of the brigadier began to move away, gently pulling at the chain. Maximina had not yet given him a glance: she paid no attention to the first pull, supposing it to be accidental; but at the second she whispered, with a smile:—

"Be quiet!"

Miguel pulled still harder.

"For Heaven's sake do take that off!"

When the service was over, those who were present, making quite a congregation, gathered around to offer them their congratulations: there were sly hand-shakings, circumspect pushing, convulsed sounds of laughter: every one was afraid of behaving unseemly in the church.

When they came out, the dawn was just breaking; a few early risers gazed curiously out of their windows to see the procession pass. Miguel had remained behind with a group of men, and once more he lost sight of Maximina, who had gone on ahead with her friends.

In Don Valentín's parlor a table was awaiting them most generously supplied with refreshments and wines, and artistically decorated. Miguel took chocolate with the witnesses; the bride had gone to her room, they said, to change her dress. In a short time he started to do the same. On one of the landing-places of the stairway he came upon his bride, with the maid buttoning her boots: both of them were startled; Maximina kept her eyes fastened on the girl's fingers; Miguel hesitated a moment, and then exclaimed, with the idea of saying something:—

"Ah! you are already dressed, then? I am going to do the same."

And as though some enemy were at his heels, he went up stairs three steps at a time.

They rejoined each other shortly after in the parlor. Maximina's gray travelling-dress and her hat, in the latest style, were very becoming to her. As the hour for their departure was now drawing near, the leave-taking began, accompanied by torrents of tears even more tempestuous than usual. On the part of the feminine sex it was a genuine flood; one young lady went so far as to faint away. Only the bride appeared serene and smiling; a fact which made her aunt unspeakably indignant, and caused her to form a very poor idea of her niece, as was shown by what she confessed afterwards to her friends:—

"What a lack of feeling! If only for the sake of appearances!"

One of Maximina's young mates went to her, bathed in tears, and kissed her.

"Aren't you weeping, Maximina?"

"I can't," replied the poor child.

Nevertheless, when her cousins, the daughters of Doña Rosalía, kissed her on the cheeks, crying, "We don't want you to go away, Maximina!" the deep flush that spread over her face and the peculiar smile that curled her lips were indications, for any one who knew her, that she was not far from turning on the flood-gates of her tears.

All, or almost all, escorted the bridal couple down to the boat in which they were to embark; but only Don Valentín and two other friends, who found room in the row-boat, accompanied them to the station.

It must be remarked that a girl belonging to the village went with the pair to Madrid, in the capacity of lady's maid: her name was Juana, and she was a fresh, strong, and rather attractive-looking damsel. Miguel, knowing his bride's character, had not wished that her maid should be an out and out Madrileña.

After they were safely in the station, and the guard's stentorian voice was heard calling the passengers to the train, Don Valentín permitted himself the unwonted luxury of being moved. He embraced his niece tenderly, and kissed her effusively on her hair. Maximina likewise showed more agitation than at any time before; but even then she made an effort to smile.

The engine whistled. The train moved out of the station. They were the only travellers in that compartment, and the young people took seats facing each other at one side: Juana, out of delicacy, sat down at the farthest end.

The husband and wife looked into each other's eyes, and Miguel felt a sweet, gentle thrill of joy, a something unspeakable and heavenly, that caused his heart to beat violently. And after making sure that Juana's attention was called away by the sights from the window, he took his bride's hand and gave it a stealthy kiss, leaning over toward her with his whole body. But the hand—how vexatious!—was gloved. In a moment he hinted to her to take off the glove. Maximina, after letting him implore her by means of expressive pantomime, at last decided, with a laugh, to remove the glove; and the young man imprinted a host of warm kisses on the soft palm, all the while watching the maid out of the corner of his eye.

Then the conversation became general between the three. Juana, who had never been beyond San Sebastian, was astonished at everything she saw, and particularly at the sheep: the hens also seemed to occupy her thoughts deeply. Miguel was assiduous in attentions to his bride. "Maximina, if your hat is in your way, you had better take it off.... Let me have it; we will hang it up there—so now it won't fall.... See here! you had better take off your heavy boots too. I have your thin shoes here in the hand-bag.... I asked your uncle for them.... Don't you want to put them on? I am afraid your feet will get cold.... Just wait a moment; I will wrap them up in my blanket...."

And, kneeling down, he wrapped up her feet with the greatest care. Joy made them so social that in a little while the husband and wife and the maid were chatting and laughing like jolly companions. Maximina made long circumlocutions, so as not to address her husband directly, because she did not want to call him "you," and at the same time she was too timid to say "thou" to him. Miguel was aware of her efforts in this direction, but he did not help her any. At last, however, after a long time and much hesitation, in reply to his question, "Shan't we have some breakfast?" she took the fatal leap, and answered timidly, "Just as thou pleasest."

Miguel hastily raised his head and affected to be amazed. "Holá señorita! what familiarity is this? You said 'thou' to me!"

Maximina blushed to her ears, and, hiding her face in her hands, exclaimed:—

"Oh! please don't speak to me so, for I won't do so again."

"What a silly puss!" said the young man, pulling away her hands gently. "That would be amusing."

Juana burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

II.

After they had breakfasted they found that they had no water. At the first stop, Juana got out, and came back with a tumblerful. There is some slight basis for the belief that during her short absence Miguel kissed his bride elsewhere than on her hand; but we have no absolute proof of it.

At Venta de Baños four travellers entered the same compartment,—three ladies and a gentleman. All were upwards of forty. From what they said it was evident that they were brother and sisters; and they spoke with a decided Galician[3] accent.

Miguel took the seat by his wife's side, and put the maid in front of them, and made up his mind to be very circumspect, so that the strangers might not suspect that they were newly married. Nevertheless, one circumstance could not escape them: the constant exchange of glances and the mysterious conversation kept up by the young people betrayed them beyond peradventure. The ladies laughed at first, then they whispered together, and finally they schemed to get into conversation with their companions; and in this they were speedily successful.

It did not take them long to find out what they wanted to know; whereupon there sprang up, for some reason or other, a lively sympathy for Maximina, and they made it perfectly manifest, and overwhelmed her with attentions. The girl, who was not used to such things, appeared confused and embarrassed, and smiled with that timid, bashful look that was characteristic of her.

This entirely won the hearts of the Galician ladies; they openly took her under their protection. They were all unmarried; the brother also. None of them had been willing to get married, "because of the grief which the mere idea of separation caused the others": they were unanimous in this assertion. As for the rest, how many proposals they had refused!

One of them,—Dolores,—according to the other two, had been engaged six years to a law student in Santiago. When he finished his studies, Dolores for some reason or other had broken their engagement, and the young lawyer had gone home, where, in his indignation, he had immediately married the richest belle of the village.

The second sister, Rita, had had several attachments, but her papa had objected to them. The young man who loved her was a poet; he was poor. Nothing could induce her papa to give up his opposition and accept him for a son-in-law. When least they thought of such a thing, he had in desperation disappeared from Santiago, after taking a tender farewell of Rita,—the lady objected to having the romantic details of this farewell related!—and nothing more was ever heard of him. Some supposed that he had perished in the claws of a tiger while searching for a gold mine in California.

As for the third, Carolina, she was a regular flyaway! Her brother and sisters had never been able to tame her down. When at home they had the greatest reason to think she was in love and that the affair was becoming serious, poum! one fine evening she suddenly jilted her lover and took a new one in his place! Carolina, who was forty-five at the very lowest reckoning, became quite rosy when she heard this report, and exclaimed, with a fascinating smile:—

"Don't you heed what they say, Maximina! How silly that girl is!... To be sure I cannot deny that I like change; but who does not? Men have to be punished from time to time, for they are very bad! very bad! Don't you be vexed, Señor Rivera.... That is the reason why I said to myself, 'I shall not give my heart to any one whatever.'"

"That means," said Rita, "that you have never been really in love!"

"Very likely; as yet I have not been troubled with those anxieties and worriments which lovers, they say, suffer from. No man ever pleased me for more than a fortnight."

"How terrible!" exclaimed Dolores and Rita, laughing.

"Don't say such things, you silly girl!"

"Why shouldn't I say what I feel, Rita?"

"Because it isn't proper. Young ladies ought to be careful what they say!"

"Come now, Carolina," urged Miguel, assuming great seriousness, "in the name of humanity I beg you to soften your hard heart and listen to some happy man!"

"Yes; fine rascals you men are!"

"Child!" cried Dolores.

"Let her alone! let her alone!" interrupted Miguel. "In time she will come to feel how wrong it is! I am in hopes that it will not be long before some one will come and avenge all of us!"

"Nonsense!"

During this banter the brother, who was a fat gentleman, with long white mustaches, snored like a sea-calf.

Maximina listened in amazement to all these things which she could scarcely comprehend, and she glanced at Miguel from time to time, trying to make out whether they were speaking in earnest or in jest. The Señoritas de Cuervo—for such was their name—were on their way to Madrid to spend the season—this was their custom every year: the remainder of the winter they spent at Santiago, and in the spring they went to a very picturesque little village, where they amused themselves in their own way, running like fawns across country, climbing trees to get cherries and figs and apples, drinking water from their hands, making excursions on mule-back to neighboring villages (what fun! what a good time they did have, madre mia!), and taking part in farm work, and drinking milk just brought in by the man from the milking.

"This sister Carolina of ours becomes unendurable as soon as we get there. She sets out early in the morning, and no one knows anything about her till dinner time; and before dinner is fairly over, she is off again, and does not get back till night!"

"How you do talk, Lola! I go out with the other girls to hunt for nests or wash clothes down by the river.... But you spend your mortal hours exchanging small talk with some silly gallant who dances attendance on you...."

"Heavens! what a cruel thing to say. I must hope, Señor Rivera, that you will not put any credence in such nonsense, without any foundation in fact.... Just imagine! all the gallants in that place are farm hands!"

"That makes no difference," replied Miguel. "Farm hands also have hearts and can love beautiful objects. I have no doubt that you have many a suitor among them."

"As to that," replied Lola, with a blush, "if I must tell the truth—yes, sir, they are very fond of me. Every year, as soon as it is known that we have come, the young men make their arrangement to give me a serenade, and they even cut down a little tree so as to get in front of my window."

"The serenade was not for you alone," interrupted Carolina, warmly.... "It is for all of us."

"But the tree was mine," replied Lola, with some show of ill-temper.

"The tree! very good; but not the serenade," replied the other, somewhat piqued.

Lola gave her a sharp look, and went on: "Judge for yourself, Señor Rivera, whether it does not show that they are in love with me: when the engineers came to build a bridge, I said that I did not like the place where they had made their arrangements to put it, but I wanted it farther back, ... and as soon as the young men of the village heard what I had said, they made a formal visit to the engineers and told them that the bridge must be put where the señorita wanted it, and that no other site for it must be thought of, because they would put a stop to it; and as the engineers were not willing to change their plans, the result was, the bridge was not built till four years ago."

"All this," said Miguel, "is not so much to your honor as to that of those intelligent young men!"

"They are such nice boys!"

"Nothing so sanctifies the soul as love and admiration," exclaimed Rivera, sententiously.

Lola said, "Ah!" and blushed.

These three ladies were dressed in an improbable, and, if we may be allowed the expression, an anachronistic style: their dresses were beautiful, picturesque, and even rather fantastic, such as suited only maidens of fifteen. Carolina wore her hair in two braids with silk ribbons in the ends, and constricted her flabby and wrinkled neck with a blue velvet band from which hung a little emerald crucifix: the others, in their attempt to be a little more fashionable, had their hair done up, but they wore just as many ribbons and other ornaments.

The evening was already at hand.

The Cuervo family proposed to have dinner, and hospitably invited their new-made friends to partake of the luncheon that they had brought with them; Rivera and his bride accepted, and likewise offered to share their provisions, and with all good-fellowship and friendliness they all set to work to make way with them, having first spread napkins over their knees.

The brother, who had waked up just in time, fed like an elephant; during dinner time he made few remarks, but they were to the point: one of them was this:—

"I am a regular eagle as far as tomatoes are concerned!"

Miguel sat in silent wonder for some time, but at last he began to appreciate the depth hidden in this hyperbolical sentence.

A close intimacy had sprang up among them all. Dolores, not satisfied with calling Miguel by his Christian name, instead of his title, proposed that she and Maximina should go to the extent of addressing each other with "thou":—

"I cannot feel that a person is my friend unless I can 'thee and thou' her.... Besides, it is customary among girls."

The bride smiled timidly at this strange proposition, and the Galician ladies, without further excuse began to make use of the second personal pronoun. But Maximina, though warmly urged, could not bring herself to such a degree of intimacy, and before she knew it, she dropped into the ordinary form,[4] whereupon the Cuervo ladies showed that they felt affronted; the poor child found herself obliged to make use of numberless round-about expressions to avoid addressing them directly.

Miguel, in order to take a humorous revenge upon them for the annoyance that they caused his wife, began in turn to speak to them with great familiarity; and, though this for a moment surprised them, they took it in perfectly good part. Not satisfied with this, he soon took occasion to shake the white-mustachioed gentleman rudely by the arm, saying:—

"See here, old boy, don't sleep so much! Wouldn't you like a little gin?"

Don Nazario—for that was his name—opened his eyes in sudden terror, drained the cup that was offered him, and immediately fell into another doze.

It was really time for them all to do the same. So Miguel drew the shade of the lamp, and so "that the light might not trouble their eyes," he also doubled around it a folded newspaper. Thus the car was made dark; only the pale starlight gleamed in through the windows.

It was a clear, cold January night, such as are peculiar to the plains of Castille. Each passenger got into the most comfortable position possible, snuggling down into the corners. Rivera said to his wife:—

"Lean your head on my shoulder. I cannot sleep in the train."

The girl did as she was bidden, in spite of herself; she was afraid of incommoding him.

All was quiet. Miguel managed to get hold of one of her hands, and gently caressed it. After a while, leaning his head over and touching his lips to his wife's brow, he whispered very softly:—

"Maximina, I adore you," and then he repeated the words with even more emotion, "Te adóro, te adóro!"

The girl did not reply; but feigned to be asleep. Miguel asked with persuasive voice:—

"Do you love me? Do you?"

The same immobility.

"Tell me! do you love me?"

Then Maximina, without opening her eyes, made a slight sign of assent, and added:—

"I am very sleepy."

Miguel, perceiving the trembling of her hands, smiled, and said:—

"Then go to sleep, darling."

And now nothing was to be heard in the compartment, except Don Nazario's snoring, in which he was a specialist. He usually began to snore in a deliberate and solemn manner, in decided, full pulsations; gradually it increased in energy, the periods became shorter and more energetic, and at the same time a sort of guttural note was introduced, which was scarcely perceptible at first; from the nostrils the voice descended into the gullet, rising and falling alternately for a long time. But, when least expected, within that apparently invariable rhythm, would be heard a sharp and shrill whistle, like the bugle blast of an on-coming tempest. And, in fact, the whistle would find an answer in a deep and ominous rumble, and then another still louder, and then another; ... then the whistling would be repeated in a more terrific fashion, and that would be drowned in a confused murmur of discordant notes fit to inspire the soul with terror. And this conflict of sounds would go on increasing and increasing, until at last, some way or other, it would be suddenly changed into an asthmatic and blatant cough. Then Don Nazario would heave a deep sigh, rest a few short moments, and continue his reverberant oration in measured and dignified tone.

Miguel dozed with his eyes open. His imagination was thronged tumultuously by radiant visions, a thousand foregleams of happiness: life presented itself in sweet and lovely aspect before him, such as it had never hitherto assumed. He had amused himself, he had enjoyed the pleasures of the world; but ever behind them, and sometimes in the midst of them, he perceived the bitter residuum, the wake of weariness and pain which the demon of passion traces across the lives of his worshippers. What a difference now! His heart told him: "Thou hast done well! thou wilt be happy!" And his intellect, weighing carefully and comparing the value of what he had left behind with what he had chosen, likewise gave him its approval.

For a long time he remained awake, feeling the weight of his wife's head resting on his shoulder. From time to time he looked down at her, and though he saw that her eyes were shut, he was inclined to think that she was not asleep.

Finally sleep overcame him. When he opened his eyes, the compartment was already full of the early morning light. He looked at his wife, and saw that she was wide awake.

"Maximina," said he, in a low voice, so as not to disturb the others, "have you been awake long?"

"No; only a little while," said the girl, sitting up.

"And why didn't you sit up?"

"Because I was afraid of disturbing you if I moved."

"But how much I would rather have had you wake me! Don't you know that I have been wanting to talk with you?"

And the young couple began to converse in such low voices that they divined rather than heard each other's words; all the time, the Cuervo sisters, their brother, and Juana were sleeping in various and original positions. What did they talk about? They themselves did not know: words have a conventional value, and all of theirs, without a single exception, expressed the same idea.

Miguel, cautious of speaking about themselves, because he noticed that it embarrassed Maximina, turned the conversation to some pleasing subject and tried to make her laugh, so that her natural bashfulness might wear away. Nevertheless, he took the risk of once asking her, with a keen glance:—

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you sorry that you are mine?"

"Oh, no! If you only knew!..."

"Knew what?"

"Nothing, nothing!"

"Yes; you were going to say something: tell me!"

"It was nonsense."

"Tell me, then! I have the right now to know even the most trifling thing that passes through your mind."

He was obliged to insist long and tenderly before he succeeded in finding out.

"Come now; whisper it in my ear."

And he adroitly led her on. Finally Maximina whispered:—

"I had a very miserable night, Friday."

"Why?"

"After you told me that you still had time to leave me, I could not think of anything else. I imagined that you said it with a peculiar meaning. I kept walking up and down the room all night. Ay madre mia! how it made me feel! I was up before any one else in the house, and I tiptoed in my bare feet to your room: then I laid my ear to the key-hole to see if I could hear you breathing; but nothing! What a feeling of dismay I had! When the maid got up, I asked her with a real sense of dread if you had been called. She told me 'Yes,' and I drew a long breath. But still I was not entirely myself: I was afraid that when the curé asked if you loved me, you would say 'No.' When I heard you say 'Yes,' my heart gave a bound of joy, and I said to myself, 'Now you are mine!'"

"And indeed I am!" exclaimed the young man, kissing her forehead.

The train was now rolling along across the plains near Madrid. The Señoritas de Cuervo awoke; the daylight was not very flattering to their natural beauties, but a series of delicate manipulations which gave convincing proof of their artistic aptitude, quickly worked a change. From a great Russia-leather dressing-case they took out combs, brushes, pomade, hairpins, rice powder, and a rouge pot, and amid a thousand affectionate words and infantile caresses, they proceeded to arrange and retouch each other's toilettes with the most scrupulous care.

"Come, child, stand still!... If you aren't careful, I shall pinch you.... Mercy, what a naughty girl you are!"

"I am nervous, Lola, I am nervous!"

"Everybody knows that you are going to see somebody very soon, and I am not going to tell."

"What a goose you are! Rivera will be sure to believe you!"

Maximina, with her eyes opened wide, looked in amazement at this improvised toilette. The De Cuervos begged her to follow their example, and then she suddenly awoke from her stupor, and thanked them with embarrassment.

Our travellers found la brigadiera Angela[5] and Julia waiting for them at the station. The latter hugged and kissed her sister-in-law again and again; the former offered her hand, and also kissed her on the forehead.

After taking leave of their travelling acquaintances, with a thousand friendly promises, they entered the carriage which la brigadiera had brought. Julia insisted that her mother and the bride should occupy the back seat; she herself could not take her eyes from her new sister, and she held her hands, pressing them affectionately all the time. Maximina endeavored to conquer her timidity and appear affectionate, and by a mighty effort she succeeded.

Miguel's step-mother showed herself affable and courteous, but still it was impossible for her to get entirely rid of that proud and scornful mien that was always peculiar to her. The bride from time to time cast fleeting and timid glances at her.

On reaching the house, Julia ran ahead to show the way to the suite of rooms that were put at their disposal; she herself had arranged them with the greatest care. Not a single detail was lacking: never had forethought been more successful in providing all the necessities of a woman's life, from flowers and sewing-case to glove-buttoner and hairpins. Unfortunately Maximina could not appreciate these refinements of elegance and good taste: everything was for her equally new and lovely.

Miguel met his sister in the corridor.

"Where is Maximina?"

"I left her in her room, taking off her wraps. She is waiting for her maid to bring her shoes."

"Then I'm going to take off my things too, and brush my hair a little," said the young man, rather awkwardly.

Julia stifled a laugh, and ran away.

When Miguel reached his room, he took off his overcoat, and going to his wife, who was still in her gray travelling-suit, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her again and again. Then taking her hand and drawing her to a chair, he seated her on his knees, and began to kiss her passionately.

Maximina grew as red as a cherry, and though she was conscious that all this sort of thing was eminently proper, she managed gently to escape from his arms. Miguel, who himself felt rather confused, allowed her to get up and leave the room: he followed her shortly after.

It was Sunday, and they had to go to mass. As la brigadiera and Julia had already been, Maximina, Miguel, and Juana were the only ones to go, and they chose San Ginez. The maid, who would not have considered it as going to church at all if she did not have a full view of the priest from head to foot, made her way through the crowd and took her place near the altar. The young couple stationed themselves a little farther back. Never before had the incruental sacrifice seemed so beautiful to Miguel, and never had he taken so much joy in it, although his imagination did not wing its flight exactly in the direction of Golgotha, nor were his eyes always turned toward the officiating clergyman. Heaven, which is ever very merciful to the newly wedded, has ere this forgiven him these shortcomings.

After breakfast Miguel proposed a walk through the Retiro[6]; the afternoon, though cold, was calm and clear. La brigadiera did not care to accompany them, but what delight Julita took in helping her sister-in-law dress, and in giving the last touches to her toilette! She selected the dress for her to wear, and helped her put it on; she arranged her hair according to the fashion, fastened on her jewelry, and the flowers in her bosom, and even brushed her boots. She was rosy with delight in performing these offices. As soon as they reached the street, she walked along by her side, intoxicated with pride, in a sweetly patronizing way, as though saying: "Just behold this young creature, even younger than I am! And yet she is a married lady! Treat her with great respect!"

Before reaching the Park, Miguel, accidentally looking back, saw in the dim distance of the Calle de Alcalá, diminished by the density of the ambient air, the delicate profile of Utrilla, that famous cadet of yore, and he said calmly to his wife:—

"Now, Maximina, though we seem to be mere private citizens going out for a walk to sun ourselves in the Retiro, still we have a military escort."

Julita blushed.

"An escort? I see no one," exclaimed Maximina, turning her head.

"It is not so easy; but by and by I will give you the glass, and see if you will be able to make him out."

Julita pressed her hand, and whispered:—

"Don't mind what this foolish fellow says."

They were by this time in the Park, and Utrilla's profile was growing more and more distinct in the clear and delicious atmosphere slightly warmed by the sun.

Maximina walked along, and gazed with a mixture of surprise and awe at the throng of gentlemen and ladies passing her, and impudently staring at her face and dress with that haughty, inquisitorial look which the Madrileños are accustomed to assume as they pass each other. And she even imagined that she heard remarks made about her behind her back:—

"That is a costly dress, yes, indeed! but that child does not have any style about wearing it! She looks like a little saint from the country."

This did not offend her, because she was perfectly convinced of her insignificance by the side of such a gran señor and señora; but it made her a little homesick not to see a single friendly face, and she half clung to her husband's side as if to seek shelter from the vague and unfair hostility which she saw around her.

But as she glanced at him she saw that he too was walking along with a haughty frown, and that his face showed the same scornful indifference and the same bored expression with all the others. And her heart all the more sank within her, because she was not as yet aware that the sentiment in vogue in Madrid is hate, and that even if it is not felt, it is the thing to pretend to show it, at least in public.

But it was not to be expected that our heroine should as yet have become versed in all these refinements of modern civilization.

After they had walked around the Park several times, Miguel said to his sister:—

"See here, Julita, why hasn't Utrilla joined us, now that mamma isn't with us?"

"Because I do not wish it," replied Julita, quick as a flash and with great decision.

"And why don't you wish it?"

"Because I don't!"

Miguel looked at her a moment, with a quizzical expression, and said:—

"Well, then, just as you please."

During their walk Utrilla, with incredible geometrical skill, cut a series of circles, ellipses, parabolas, and other incomprehensible and erratic curves, the focus of which was constantly our friends. When they went home, he took a straight line, so well reckoning the measure of his powers that the outline of his silhouette all the way just came short of being blotted out on the edge of the horizon.

Before going into the house they went to the Swiss restaurant[7] to drink chocolate. While they were there, Rivera saw for a single instant the cadet's face pressed against the window-pane.

"Julita, won't you let me go out and ask that boy to take chocolate with us?"

"I don't wish you to! I don't wish you to!" exclaimed the young lady, in an almost frantic tone.

There was nothing left for it but lo let her have her own way and torture the unhappy son of Mars.

"Maximina, I suppose that you don't know," said the cruel little Madrileña, as they were going into the house, "what we call such lads as the one who followed us to the door!"

"No; what?"

"Encerradores."[8]

And laughing, she ran up stairs.

Dinner passed in social and friendly converse. La brigadiera was beaming that day, as Miguel used to say; she talked a great deal for her, and went so far as to relate in her pleasant Seville accent a number of anecdotes about people of note in Madrid.

But when they came to dessert, Maximina began to feel somewhat uneasy, because it had been agreed among them all that they should stay at home that evening, and go to bed betimes, for they were all tired, especially la brigadiera and Julita, who had arisen so early that morning.

The problem of getting up from the table and retiring appeared terribly formidable to the young girl of Pasajes.

Fortunately, la brigadiera and Julita were both in good humor; dessert was taken leisurely, and no one beside herself noticed it. As the moments passed, her embarrassment increased, and she felt a strange trembling come over her, preventing her, in spite of herself, from taking part in the conversation. And, indeed, just as she feared, the moment came when the conversation began to languish. Miguel, in order to hide the small modicum of embarrassment which he also felt, did his best to set it going again, and his success was remarkable for a quarter of an hour.

But the end inevitably came at last. La brigadiera yawned two or three times; Julita looked at the clock, and saw that it was half-past nine. Maximina fixed her eyes on the table-cloth and played with her napkin-ring, while her husband, overcome by a decided feeling of awkwardness, made his chair squeak.

At last Julita jumped up suddenly, hurried from the dining-room, and immediately returned with a small candlestick in her hand, quickly went to her sister-in-law and kissed her cheek, saying, "Good night."[9] And she ran out of the room again, with a smile on her lips to hide the embarrassment which she felt in common with the others.

"Well, young people," said la brigadiera arising with emphasis, "let us retire; we all feel the need of rest.... Isabel, make a light in the guest chamber."

Maximina, blushing to her ears, and scarcely able to move, owing to her timidity, went to kiss her. Miguel did the same; and though he felt a genuine sense of awkwardness, he cloaked it under the smile of a man of the world.

III.

Miguel, though he had as yet said nothing about it, had made up his mind to live in a separate house, though it should be near his step-mother's. When Julita learned this decision, she felt deeply grieved, and could not help being indignant with her brother. It was not long, though, before she came to see that he was right.

La brigadiera treated Maximina with all the kindness of which she was capable; Julita overwhelmed her with attentions and caresses, but, nevertheless, it was impossible to overcome her diffidence. She did not dare ask for anything which she wanted, and so time and again she went without it. At table, when she wished to be helped to anything, the most that she would do would be to give Miguel a covert hint to have it passed. She never thought of giving any orders to the house-servants; only her maid Juana she ventured to call to her aid in the various requirements of her position.

Miguel began to feel a little annoyed about it, because he could not help imagining that his wife, in spite of her happy face, was not very well contented where she was, and he had even gently chided her for her lack of confidence.

One day not long after their arrival, as he was coming in from out of doors, and was just about going to his rooms, Juana called him aside, with an air of great mystery, and said:—

"Señorito, I want to tell you something that you ought to know.... La señorita has been used to have a lunch when she was at home.... And here she does not like to ask for it.... To-day she sent me out to buy a few biscuits.... See, I have them here."

"Why, my poor little girl!" exclaimed Miguel, in real grief. "But how foolish of her!"

"Don't for Heaven's sake let her know that I told you, for then she would not trust me any longer."

"How careless I have been."

And he went to his wife's room, saying:—

"Maximina, I have come in hungry as a bear; I can't wait till dinner time. Please run down to the dining-room and tell them to bring me up some lunch."

"What would you like?"

"Anything—whatever you had for your lunch." The young girl was embarrassed.

"The fact is ... I ... I have not had any lunch to-day."

"Why not?" exclaimed Miguel, with a great show of surprise. "Why, here it is almost six o'clock.... Didn't they bring you anything? See here, Juana, Juana" (calling in a loud voice), "call Señorita Julia...."

"What are you going to do? for Heaven's sake what are you going to do?" cried the girl, full of terror.

"Nothing; merely to find out why they have not brought you any sweetmeats, or a piece of pie, or whatever you take...."

"But I did not ask for anything!"

"That makes no difference; it is their business always to bring you whatever you are used to having."

"What did you want, Miguel?" asked Julia, coming in.

"I wanted to ask why it was that Maximina hasn't been served with lunch, and here it is almost six o'clock."

Julia, in her turn, was confused.

"Why, it was because ... because Maximina doesn't take lunch."

"What do you mean ... doesn't take lunch?" exclaimed Miguel, in astonishment.

"I asked her about it the very first day, and she told me that she was not in the habit of taking lunch."

Miguel gazed at Maximina, who blushed as though she had been detected in some heinous crime.

"Then I will tell you that she does," he said, raising his voice and turning upon Julia with stern countenance. "I tell you that she always is accustomed to have one, and you have done very wrong, knowing her disposition, not to insist upon it, or at least not to have asked me about it."

"For Heaven's sake, Miguel!" murmured Maximina, in a tone of real anguish.

Julia flushed deeply, and turning on her heels, hastened from the room. Maximina remained like one petrified.

Her husband, with a frowning face, strode up and down the room several times, and then followed his sister and went straight to the dining-room, where he found her very melancholy, taking out some plates. Giving her a caress, and bursting into a laugh, he said:—

"I knew well that Maximina did not ask for lunch. Don't mind what I said to you. I put her in this painful position to see if I could not cure her of her bashfulness."

"Then you had better be careful! your gun went off at the wrong end, for it was I whom you hit!" answered the young girl, really vexed. "And so you are trying to make it up by flattery!"

"Hello! We aren't jealous, are we?"

"You would like to have me be, you silly fellow."

"Well, I confess that I should," said Miguel, taking her in his arms and giving her a little bite on the neck. "It seems to me that jealousy has made its appearance."

"Stop! stop it! you goose!" she replied, trying to escape from him. "Can't you behave, Miguel? Let me alone, Miguel!"

And after a violent struggle she tore herself away from her brother's arms, and ran angrily from the room, while her brother stayed behind, laughing.

In the days that followed it became evident that Maximina had won the good graces of every one in the house. Nor could it have been otherwise, considering her sweet, sensible, and modest nature. Nevertheless, Miguel could not help feeling somewhat annoyed that advantage should be taken of this, and that her wishes were not in the least consulted, but that the programme for the day—walks and drives, theatres, shopping and calls—should be laid out without even asking her if she would not prefer to stay at home.

This largely hastened his departure, and he selected a very large and handsome flat in the neighborhood. It was rather beyond his means, but he counted on making up the extra amount by cutting off superfluities.

Our hero found great amusement in going with his wife to purchase the furniture that was needed. The edge of his enjoyment, however, was dulled by the fact that la brigadiera and Julia were very apt to join them, and then of course their right of choice was abrogated, and even the expression of opinion was denied them. Miguel was not a little disturbed by this, and therefore, whenever it was possible, avoided having his step-mother accompany them; but to his surprise, Maximina did not even then show herself any better satisfied nor disposed to give her views.

It seemed as though she were indifferent to everything, and were unfavorably impressed by a luxury to which she had never been accustomed. From time to time she ventured timidly to say that such and such a wardrobe or sofa was pretty, but "very expensive!"

Miguel several times felt impatient at her indifference, but quick repentance seized him when he saw how much it affected her if he spoke curtly to his wife, and he merely rallied her on her economical tendencies.

What pleased Maximina most in these excursions was to walk with her husband alone through the streets; but still, in spite of all his entreaties, she could not bring herself to take his arm in the daytime.

"It would make me feel embarrassed; everybody is looking at us."

"What they are surprised at is, that I ever fell in love with such an ugly piece of humanity!"

Maximina lifted her big eyes to him with a timid smile, and looked her gratitude.

"I am surprised myself ... when I see so many pretty women all around; I can't imagine how you happened to choose me...."

"Because I am famous for my bad taste."

"That must be it."

Miguel with real feeling secretly gave her hand a hearty squeeze.

When it was evening, the case was very different. Then she consented to lean on his arm, and did not try to hide the immense pleasure that it gave her. But if they came into the glare of a shop window, she would find some excuse to withdraw her arm.

One night when they went out, Miguel, either through thoughtlessness or as a joke, did not offer her his arm. After a while Maximina, as though adopting an energetic resolution after long hesitation, suddenly took his arm. Miguel looked at her and smiled:—

"Holá! who taught you to take what belonged to you?"

The girl hung her head and blushed, but she did not let go.

La brigadiera found her step-son's wife very much to her mind, although she felt sorry that he had stooped so low; thus she expressed herself to Julia and her friends: she said nothing to Miguel, but she did not leave him in doubt as to her favorable opinion.

Nevertheless, he did not become any easier in mind, because he perceived that his step-mother was beginning to exercise over his young wife the same absolute and tyrannical power as over Julia, only, if anything, more openly, owing to the more gentle and timid nature of the former. Nor could he deny that affection in such people as la brigadiera is always in direct proportion to the degree of submission shown by those with whom they come into relationship.

One afternoon when Julia had just left their room, Maximina exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm:—

"How I do like your sister!"

Miguel gave her a keen glance:—

"And mamma?"

" ... I like her too," replied the young wife.

He asked her no more questions, but that very day the son of the brigadier told the landlord that he should not be able to take the third floor of that house, and chose another in the Plaza de Santa Ana. The excuse that he gave his family for this change was, that he could not live so far away from the office of his paper, now that he was going to take a more active part in the editing of it.

And in truth he did not regret it; it was not long before he became convinced of the wisdom of his decision, and congratulated himself upon it. It happened that one day after he had been superintending the arrangement of his new quarters, he met Maximina, and saw that her eyes were red as though she had been weeping. His heart told him that something had gone wrong, and he inquired with solicitude:—

"What is the matter? You have been crying!"

"No," replied the girl, with a smile. "I have just been washing my face."

"Yes; you washed your face, but you had been crying. Tell me! tell me quick, what was it?"

"Nothing."

"Very well, then," replied the young man, with determination; "I will find out."

And he did; Juana told him, though with some confusion of detail, what had taken place.

"Just listen, señorito; apparently la señora told the señorita several days ago that she did not like it for her to be so late about getting dressed, because there might be callers. Ever since, the señorita has got ready in good season, but to-day she somehow forgot about it, and la señora scolded her...."

"What did she say?"

"I don't know. La señorita did not want to tell me ... but she cried hard enough."

Miguel went to his room, flushed with anger.

"Maximina, get ready and pack your trunks.... We are going to leave this house this very moment.... I cannot allow any one to make you cry."

The young woman sat looking at her husband with an expression rather of fright than of gratitude.

"But suppose no one made me cry.... I cried without any reason for it.... I often do so.... You can ask my aunt if that is not so...."

"Nonsense! we are going this very moment."

"Oh, Miguel! for Heaven's sake don't do so."

"Yes; let us go!"

Maximina threw herself into his arms, weeping.

"Don't do this, Miguel! don't do this! Quarrel with your mother for my sake? I would rather die!"

The young man's anger cooled down a little, and at last he agreed to say nothing about his vexation, though it was decided that they should go on the following day and sleep at their new rooms.

This was done; but la brigadiera was not blinded to the facts, and she easily saw through the motives that led Miguel to hasten his departure. It is needless to say that from that time Maximina in her eyes lost a large part of her appreciation.

The carpets were laid in their apartments in the Plaza de la Santa Ana, but as yet there was little furniture; only the dining-room, one dressing-room, and their chamber were in order, and that not entirely; chairs were scattered about over the rest of the house, and this and that wardrobe and mirror were as they had been left.

Nevertheless, Miguel and Maximina found it delightful. At last they were by themselves and were masters of their own movements; they were intoxicated with the delight of their freedom. This feeling of being in his own house was fascinating to Miguel; he looked upon it as something new and extraordinary.

Maximina wanted to make the bed herself, but alas! the mattress was so heavy that she could not turn it. Seeing that she was getting flushed with exertion, Miguel took hold and helped her get it into shape, laughing heartily all the time, though he could not have told why. Now it happened that our young couple had forgotten some of the things that were indispensable for living; among others, the lamps. When darkness came on, Juana had to go out in all haste to buy candles and a few candlesticks, so that they could see to eat their supper.

This first meal all to themselves was delicious. Maximina almost always had a tremendous appetite, which she felt to be a fault, and tried to hide it, so that she was apt to leave the table, still hungry. But now, with only her husband present, and thinking that he would not notice it, she put on her plate as much as she wanted. When they were through, Miguel said:—

"You have done well! you have eaten much more than you did during the days that we were at mamma's."

Maximina flushed as though she had been detected in doing something wrong. Instantly perceiving what was passing through her mind, Miguel came to her aid:—

"Come now; I see that you did not eat there because you were so timid.... You must know that nowadays it is considered fashionable to eat a good deal.... Besides, there is nothing that gives me so much pleasure as to see any one have a good appetite; especially if I am fond of that person! Consequently, if you want to give me a pleasure, you must try to keep it up.... As far as poor stomachs are concerned, mine is sufficient in one house."

That evening they determined to stay at home; they went from the dining-room to the library, which as yet was entirely unfurnished, since Miguel wished to take his own time and consult his own taste in selecting the furniture for it. But in the dressing-room there was no fireplace, while here there was one. Juana kindled the fire and lighted a couple of candles. Miguel soon blew them out, preferring to let the fire alone light them. He wanted to go and get a couple of easy-chairs from the parlor, but Maximina said:—

"Get one for yourself, and not for me.... You will see I am going to sit down on the floor, for I like it better."

No sooner said than done; she sat down gracefully on the carpeted floor.

Her husband looked at her and smiled.

"Well, then; I am not going to get the chairs at all; I don't want to do otherwise than you do."

And he sat down by her side in front of the fireplace, the flames of which lighted up their smiling faces. The husband took his wife's hands, those plump hands, hardened but not injured by work, and passionately kissed them again and again. The wife did not want to be less affectionate than her husband, and after a little hesitation she took one of his and raised it to her lips. This little touch of innocence delighted Miguel, and he laughed.

"What makes you laugh?" asked the girl, looking at him in surprise.

"Nothing ... pleasure!"

"No; you laughed in a naughty way.... What were you laughing at?"

"Nothing, I tell you.... It's all your imagination."

"But I tell you that you were laughing at me! Have I done anything amiss?"

"What could you have done, tonta? I laughed because it is not customary for ladies to kiss the hands of gentlemen!"

"But don't you see.... I am not a lady! and you are my husband!"

"You are right, ..." said he, kissing her; ... "you are right in all that you say. Always do what your heart prompts you to do, as just now, and you need not fear of making any mistake."

The bluish flames danced gayly over the top of the coals, rising and disappearing every instant, as though they were listening to the words spoken by the young couple, and then hurrying off to report them to some gnome of the fire.

From time to time a bit of burning cinder would break off from the glowing mass, fall through the grate, and come rolling down at their feet. Then Maximina would wait till it had cooled a little, pick it up in her fingers, and toss it into the coal-hod. The only sound to be heard was the heavy rumble of carriages driving to the theatre. The conversation between husband and wife kept growing more and more lively and free. Maximina gradually lost her feeling of timidity, through the effect of Miguel's constant endeavors, and she summoned up her courage to ask him about his past life. The young man answered some of her questions frankly; others he did not hesitate to parry. Nevertheless, the young woman gathered that her husband had not been altogether what he should have been, and she was terrified.

"Ay, Miguel! how could you ever have been audacious enough to kiss a married woman? Aren't you afraid that God will punish you?"

The young man's face instantly darkened; a deep, ugly frown furrowed his brow, and for some time he remained lost in thought.

Maximina looked at him, with her eyes opened wide, and could not understand the reason for such a change in his expression.

At last, looking at the fire, he said, in a rather hoarse voice:—

"If such a thing happened in my case, and I knew of it, I am certain what I should do.... The first thing would be to turn my wife out of doors, whether it were night or day, the moment I found it out...."

Poor Maximina was startled at such an outburst, as brutal as it was unexpected, and she exclaimed:—

"You would do well. Heavens! how shameful for a woman to be so brazen!... How much better it would be for her to die!"

The frown vanished from Miguel's brow; he looked tenderly at his wife, and feeling that such a talk was both useless and out of place, he kissed her hand, and said:—

"Why should we need to talk about the evil things that are done in the world? Fortunately, I have found a means of salvation: it is this hand; I will cling hold of it and be sure of being true and pure all my life long."

"You ought to ask forgiveness of God."

"I ask forgiveness of God and you, too?"

"As for me, I freely grant it."

"Then God will, also."

"How can you know that?... Ah, how foolish I am! I had forgotten that you went to confession only a few days ago."

"Yes; that was the way," said Miguel, who had likewise forgotten about it.

Afterwards, they talked about their domestic arrangement, their furniture, and the servants that they needed to hire.

Maximina argued that Juana and a cook would be sufficient. Miguel wanted another girl to do the sewing and laundry work. It was for this reason that he explained to his wife the extent of their resources.

"I have four thousand duros[10] income, but I want to let my sister and mamma have a thousand, so that they may live decently; ... with three thousand duros a year we can get along first-rate."

"Oh! indeed we can.... Why don't you let your mamma and sister have half? Just think; they are used to luxury, and I am not.... I can get along with any kind of clothes."

"It is because I do not wish you to get along with any kind of clothes, but I want you to dress suitably."

"If you only knew how much it would please me to have you give half to your sister."

"It is impossible.... We must remember the possibility of children."

"Still, you would have a good deal left."

"You don't realize how much it costs to live in Madrid, dear."

After a moment of reflection he added:—

"On the whole, we won't do either; we will split the difference. I will allow them thirty thousand reales, and we will content ourselves with fifty thousand. What I am afraid of is, that I shall get a rascally brother-in-law who will run through the property."

Thus chatting, they spent the time till ten o'clock, and then they decided to go to bed. Miguel arose first and helped his wife to her feet; they lighted the candle and went to their room.

Maximina, according to custom, "blessed" the chamber, repeating a number of prayers which she had learned in the convent. Then they tranquilly went to sleep.

Just before dawn Miguel thought that he heard a singular noise at his side, and woke up. Instantly he was aware that his wife was kissing him on the neck, again and again, very gently, evidently with the idea of not disturbing his slumber; then, in an instant, he heard a sob.

"What is it, Maximina?" he asked, quickly turning over.

The girl's only answer was to throw her arms around him, and burst into a passion of tears.

"But what is it? Tell me quick! What is the matter?"

Choking with sobs, she managed to say:—

"Oh! I just had such bad dreams!... I dreamed that you turned me out of the house."

"Poor little darling!" exclaimed Miguel, fondling her tenderly; "your mind was impressed by what I said last evening.... I was a stupid blunderer!"

"I did not—know ... what it was—How I suffered, vírgen mia! I thought I should die! If I had not waked up I should have died!... But you are not stupid.... I am, though!"

"Well, we both are; but calm yourself," he said, kissing her.

In a few moments both were sound asleep again.

IV.

Unusual silence reigned in the editorial rooms. Nothing was heard except the scratching of steel pens on paper. The editors were seated around a great table covered with oil-cloth; two or three, however, were writing at small pine tables, set in the corners of the room.

By and by one who had a beard just beginning to turn gray, raised his head, and said:—

"Tell me, Señor de Rivera, was not the motion determined upon for the eighteenth?"

Miguel, who was writing at one of the special tables, replied without lifting his head:—

"Señor Marroquín, I can't advise you too often to be more discreet. Try to realize that all our heads are in danger, from the humblest, like Señor Merelo y García's, up to the most stately and glorious, like our very worthy chief's."

The editors smiled. One of them inquired:—

"And what has become of Merelo? He has not been here at all yet."

"He can't come till twelve," replied Rivera. "From ten till twelve he is always engaged in plotting against institutions in the Café del Siglo."

"I thought that he was in Levante."

"No; he goes there last from two till three."

The first speaker was the very same Señor Marroquín of perpetual memory, Miguel's professor in the Colegio de la Merced, a born enemy of the Supreme Creator and a man as hirsute as a biped can possibly be. This was how he happened to be here:—

One day when Miguel was just finishing his breakfast, word was brought to him that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the library. This gentleman was Marroquín, who in his appearance resembled a beggar; he was so poor, dirty, and disreputable. When he saw his old pupil, he was deeply moved, strange as it may appear, and then told him with genuine eloquence that he had not a shilling, and that he and his children were starving to death, and at the end he begged him to find a place for him on the staff of La Independencia.

"I am not the owner of the journal, my dear Marroquín. The only thing that I can do for you is to give you a letter to General Count de Ríos."

He gave him the letter, and Marroquín presented himself with it at the general's house; but he had the ill fortune to go at a most inopportune moment when the general was raging up and down through the corridors of his house, like one possessed, and calling up the repertoire of objurgations for which he had been so distinguished when he was a sergeant.

The reason was that one of his little ones had drunk up a bottle of ink, under the impression that it was Valdepeñas. Whether oaths and invectives have any decisive influence upon events or not, we are unable to state; but the general used them with as much faith as though they had been a powerful antidote.

The victim was leaning his poor little head against the partition, shedding a copious flood of tears.

"What have you brought?" roared the count, casting a wrathful look upon Marroquín.

"This letter," replied the poor man, offering it with trembling hand.

"Vomit!" roared the general, with flaming eyes.

"What?" asked the professor, timidly.

"Vomit, child, vomit! or I will shake you out of your skin!" bellowed the illustrious chief of Torrelodones, seizing his son by the neck.... "And what does the letter say?"

"It is from Señor Rivera, asking a position on La Independencia for one who admires you."

"Can't you? Then put your fingers in your mouth!.... Señor Rivera knows perfectly well that there is no position vacant; everything is full, and I am tormented to death with applications.... Let me see you stuff your fingers in, you little rascal, or I will do it myself!"

Marroquín acted prudently, by quietly opening the door and slipping out. Afterward Miguel spoke to the general at a more propitious moment and succeeded in getting Marroquín a place on the staff at a monthly salary of five hundred reales.[11]

Among the other editors of La Independencia was an apostate and liberal priest who had let his beard grow long, and used to tell his friends secrets of the confessional when he had been drinking. He was one of Marroquín's intimates: both had the same grudge against the Divinity, and both were working enthusiastically to free humanity from its yoke. Nevertheless, one day he actually became ready to quarrel with the hirsute professor for turning the Eucharist into ridicule, which confirmed the former in his idea that "the priest was changing his views."

His name was Don Cayetano.

One other of the editors was a light-haired, handsome, and bashful young man, whose seat was in one of the corners of the room, and he lifted his head only when he overheard some brilliant sentence, for such things aroused his frantic admiration. His articles were always a mosaic of sonorous, titillating euphemisms, and adjectives, which formed a large proportion of Gómez de la Floresta's repertory: he played with them like a juggler; if any one desired to make him happy, he could find no easier way than by inventing some metaphor or making use of some harmonious adjective. Rivera, who knew this weakness of his, used to indulge him in it.

"This afternoon, gentlemen, I saw a woman whose glance was as bright as a Damascus blade."

Gómez de la Floresta's face would flush with pleasure, and he would look up with a smile of congratulation:—

"That means that it was a cold and cutting glance!"

"Her skin was smooth and brilliant with marble lines; her hair fell like a golden cataract upon her swan-like neck, which was bound around with a diamond necklace, brilliant as drops of light...."

"Drops of light! How felicitous that is, Rivera! how felicitous!"

"She was a woman capable of making life Oriental for a time."

"That is it! Taking refuge with her in a minaret, breathing the perfumes of Persia, letting her pearly fingers caress our locks, drinking from her mouth the nectar of delight!"

"I am delighted, Señor de Floresta, to see that you are consistent. Let us put a stop to it, nevertheless. You have been having an attack of phrases on the brain, and I fear a fatal termination."

The editor smiled in mortification and went on with his work.

A slender young man, with prominent cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes, and awkward gait, came in, making a great confusion, and humming a few strains of a waltz; he went up to the table where Miguel was writing, and giving him a slap on the shoulder, said, with a jolly tone:—

"Holá, friend Rivera!"

Miguel, without looking up, replied very solemnly:—

"Gently, gently, Señor Merelo! gently, we are not all on a level!"

The editors roared with laughter.

Merelo, a little touched, exclaimed:—

"This Rivera is always making jokes.... Now, señor, ..." he went on to say, flinging his sombrero on the table.... "I have just this moment come from the tariff meeting at the Teatro del Circo...."

"Who spoke?... Who spoke?" was asked from various parts of the room.

"Well, Don Gabriel Rodríguez, Moret y Prendergast, Figuerola, and our chief; but the one who made the best speech was Don Felix Bona."

"Man alive! and what did he say?"

"Well, he began by saying that he ... the most insignificant of all that were there...."

"Señor Merelo! and is it possible that you did not protest against such a statement?" asked Miguel from his table.

Merelo looked at him without seeing the force of his remark; but finally feeling the hidden prick of sarcasm, he made up a disgusted face and went on, affecting to scorn it:—

" ... That he had come there to speak in the name of Commerce at least...."

"But, friend Merelo," interrupted the ex-curate, who greatly delighted in poking fun at the reporter, ... "you surely ought to have protested against his claim to humility."

Merelo could to a certain point put up with Rivera's raillery, since he recognized his superiority, but the priest's went against his nerves. And so, full of wrath, he put his hands together after the manner of priests during mass, and intoned:—

"Dominus vobiscum!"

A general laugh went round among the editors. The curé flushed up to his ears, and, greatly disgusted, tried to shoot the same jest again, only winging it with a sharper point; but the reporter, who was not remarkable for his ingenuity, kept replying:—

"Dominus vobiscum!" And his intonation was so comical and clerical that the newspaper men had to hold their sides with laughter.

The priest finally became so irritated that instead of jests he actually heaped insults on him. One of them was so outrageous and shameful that the latter felt called upon to raise his hand and give the priest a tremendous slap.

A scene of confusion and tumult arose in the office, lasting several moments. A number of men laid hold of Don Cayetano, who, with the exchange scissors in his hand, declared in an angry voice his intention of ripping Merelo open.

The latter, who did not care a rap for such a threat, roared to his companions to let him go: he would not put up with such blackguard language from any one. But his friends knew well that this was sheer rhetoric, and they clung to him all the more watchfully.

At last they succeeded in calming down the angry disputants, and the storm was followed by a calm that lasted for a quarter of an hour, during which all silently gave themselves up to their writing. At last Miguel looked up and asked:—

"See here, Señor Merelo, when do you expect to go to Rome?"

"To Rome?... What for?"

"To obtain pardon for the sin of having laid hands on a sacred person. You can't get absolution here."

A new shout of laughter ran through the office. The priest, in a fury, flung down his pen, took his hat, and left the room.

The editors of La Independencia lost much time in such skirmishes of wit, and our friend Rivera was almost always at the bottom of them.

Beside the men already mentioned, there were three or four of less distinction, and a throng of occasional contributors who came anxiously every night to bring the editor-in-chief their offering of articles, which, for the most part, were rejected.

Among all these, most attention was attracted by a young man, not as yet regularly attached to the staff, hideous, rickety, but well dressed, who was accustomed to write papers on literary criticism, always signed with the pseudonym Rosa de té, or Tea Rose. He was very severe on authors, and always felt it his duty to give them sound advice about the art which they practised. Time and again he assured them that this thing was not human, that was not like life, and the other was not in good form. He had a great deal to say about life, which, in his opinion, no author knew anything about, nor about women either. Only Rosa de té had a correct notion of the world and of woman's heart.

From the very beginning of his criticisms, he endeavored to put the author in the prisoner's box, while he himself mounted the judge's bench, wherefrom he would ask questions, administer blame, lay down the law, and make sarcastic and humorous flings.

"Where did Don Fulano[12] ever know of a young girl exclaiming, 'ah!' when she had the tooth-ache?... It is evident that Don Fulano has not often set foot in the salons of the aristocracy!... Life, Don Fulano, is not as you paint it; it is necessary to have lived within the charmed circle of society if one aspire to give a correct picture of it.... What we fail to find in Don Fulano's work is the plot.... And the plot, Don Fulano, the plot?... What kind of a character is the hero of his work? In one chapter he says that he has a tremendous appetite, and liked nothing better than to eat a box of Nantes sardines, and a few chapters further on he declares that he detests sardines! What kind of logic is that? Characters in art must be clearly defined, logical, not a patchwork. Don Fulano's protagonista here alone in the course of the work, according to our count, makes nineteen resolutions. Does Don Fulano think that nineteen resolutions are sufficient for a hero? Our opinion would be that it was not enough for even a subordinate character.... And so there is no way of preventing the character from being bungling, colorless, lacking in life and energy. Energy in the characters of novels and dramas I cannot weary of recommending to our authors.... Besides, you ought to endeavor, Don Fulano, to be more original. That remark made by Richard to the countess in the sixth chapter, where he says, ... 'Señora, I shall never again set foot in this house,' we have read before in Walter Scott."

This young man had greatly pleased Miguel, who always called him the priest (sacerdote), because he had many times in his articles made use of the expression "the priesthood of criticism."

Rosa de té, so bold and scornful in his treatment of poets and novelists, was a very Job in the patience with which he bore the raillery of Miguel and the other editors.

One day, however, he had the misfortune to write a biting review of a poet who was one of Rivera's friends. Rivera was angry, and called him an ignoramus and a stupid lout to his face, and the poor Rosa could not get up to defend himself. When Mendoza came, Miguel, still vexed, said to him:—

"Now, see here, Perico, why do you allow this stupid baby to write literary reviews, and all the time make the paper ridiculous?"

Mendoza, as usual, made no answer. But Miguel insisted.

"I want you to explain to me why it is...."

"We don't have to pay anything for his articles," replied the other, in a low voice.

"Then they are very dear!"

Although Miguel did not care much for politics, he worked diligently on the paper. The revolutionary atmosphere had sufficiently condensed itself, and no young man could escape its feverish and disturbing influence.

The Conde de Ríos was at last banished to the Balearic Islands. Mendoza suddenly disappeared from Madrid, leaving a letter to his friend Miguel, telling him that he had made his escape because he had been informed that the police were going to arrest him, and asking him to take charge of the paper.

Such a letter as that caused the brigadier's son no little amusement, because he was convinced that the administration had no thought of troubling the poor Brutandor.

Nevertheless, he actually took the chief editorship of La Independencia, the nominal direction of it being, as always in such calamitous times of persecution, under the name of a silent partner.

And, in order satisfactorily to fulfil his trust, he began to attend the so-called círculos políticos, and above all the committee-room of the Congress of Deputies, which was then, is now, and ever will be, probably, the workshop where the happiness of the country is devised. So when he went there for the first time, he could not overcome a feeling of respect and veneration.

At the sight of the stir and agitation which reigned there, our hero could not help comparing that chamber and the corridors around it to a great factory.

A host of laborers, in high hats, were going and coming, entering and bowing, and elbowing each other; their faces bore the imprint of the deep cares that agitated them. Some were sitting in front of desks and feverishly writing letters and more letters; from time to time they would pass their hands over their foreheads and draw a sigh of weariness, and, perhaps, of pain at finding themselves obliged, on the altars of the country's interest, to deny a meeting with some influential elector who did not deserve such treatment.

Others would come out of the chamber of sessions and sit down on a sofa to think over the speech which they had just heard, or would join some group of members warmly discussing some question which, owing to a modesty that did them honor, they had not cared to take part in during the session.

Others would cluster around the entrance and anxiously wait for some minister to pass, so as to recommend to his attention some matter of general interest to his family.

All this reminded Miguel of the bustle, the noise, and the tremendous activity that he had witnessed in an iron foundry at Vizcaya. There as well as here men were moving in opposite directions, each one attending to his task; they were a little less respectably dressed, and their necks and breasts were somewhat more tanned than was the case with the representatives of their country; but this was because there was rather more heat in the foundry than in the salón de conferencias. In place of letters and other documents, the men there were lugging bars of red-hot iron in their hands, and they passed them on from one to the other just as the deputies passed on their papers.

It must not be supposed that it was cool in the salón de conferencias. In each one of its four angles there was a great fireplace where were burning ancient and well-dried logs, which the thoughtful country provides her representatives lest they should freeze. Besides, there are furnaces in the cellar which send up columns of hot air through the open registers; the carpets, the curtains, the ventilators, and the screens also cause the temperature to be neither cold nor hot beyond endurance.

Unquestionably the system of heating is better understood in the salón de conferencias than in the foundry at Vizcaya.

Along its walls are large and comfortable sofas where the deputies and the newspaper men, who help them in the laborious task of saving the country, can rest for a few moments. And if they wish to refresh or restore their failing strength, there is, also, a lunch-room where the nation furnishes its managers, gratis, with water and azucarillos[13] in great abundance, and where, for a moderate price, they can get ham, turkey, pies, sherry, and Manzanilla, and other foods and drinks.

Intelligent and zealous waiters, as soon as they come in, relieve them of their overcoats, which they guard with care, and return after they have lunched, lest in any way they should catch cold.

Miguel was greatly impressed, when he first attended a meeting of the Congress, by the humility and deep respect shown by a waiter taking a fur overcoat from a gentleman with a long white goatee, who allowed him to do so, with a solemn and peevish expression, moving his head from one side to the other as though he could not hold it up with the weight of thoughts that filled it.

Afterwards he chanced to see this same gentleman in the lunch-room, taking a few slices of scalloped tongue; he had the same thoughtful, reserved, imposing air.

He was glad to know that his name was Señor Tarabilla, who had been governor of several of the provinces, superior honorary chief of the civil administration, and the holder of various other distinguished offices in Madrid and elsewhere. He had also been secretary of the committee of acts in the Congress, where once he had draughted a private bill which had never reached discussion.

Our hero enjoyed one of the purest satisfactions of his life in becoming acquainted with a personage of so great importance in politics, and he made up his mind to go on and gradually know them all in the same way. He used to go round from group to group, listening attentively to the discussions that were taking place among the most distinguished leaders of men. It was his duty to acquaint himself with their opinions and plans, so as to conduct his journal dexterously. He was surprised by some of these private debates, but especially at one which he overheard a few days after he entered the salón de conferencias.

In the centre of a large and crowded group there was a lively discussion going on between a minister and one of the leaders of the opposition concerning a certain article in the constitution of 1845, in which punishment by property confiscation is prohibited.

The minister held that this prohibition was not absolute; that in the article were shown the causes for which a citizen could be deprived of his property. The leader of the opposition screamed like one possessed, arguing that such was not the case; that there were no such causes, and no such things. Both grew very red in the face, and almost reached the point of getting actually angry with each other. Finally the minister asked energetically:—

"Now we will see, Señor M——; have you ever read the constitution of 1845?"

"No, sir, I have not read it, nor have I any desire to!" said Señor M——, in fury.... "Have you read it yourself?"

"No; but though I have not read it," replied the minister, putting on a bold face, "I know that in the first section are indicated the causes which permit confiscation.... And if I have not, here is Señor R——, who was a minister at that time, and can tell us."

Señor R—— was an old gentleman, smoothly shaven; and when he heard his name called, and perceived that all eyes were turned upon him, with a smile that was half malicious and half abashed, he said:—

"The truth of the matter is that I myself cannot remember having read it through!"

At first these discussions and his constantly growing acquaintance with the great engine of politics entranced him; but afterwards, when he came to know by sight, and even have the honor of a personal acquaintance with almost all of the grandees of the kingdom, and had learned from their lips not a few of the secrets of governing nations, he had the sentiment to comprehend that he was beginning to weary of it all; most evenings he preferred to take a book of Shakspere, Goethe, Hegel, or Spinoza, and sit down by his wife's side, and read while she sewed or did her embroidery, rather than wander up and down the corridors of Congress, and listen to the dissertations of Señor Tarabilla and other distinguished men.

And I say that it was sentiment that taught him this; because an inner voice whispered to him that this was not the way to attain fortune and celebrity, nay, he should try to imitate step by step the career of Señor Tarabilla; but though that was the better course, he nevertheless determined to follow the worse, because human nature is weak, and often hurled to destruction by its passions. Even on those afternoons when he deigned to go up to the Congress, instead of joining the groups, taking up with the deputies, flattering the ministers, and offering his opinions in regard to whatever question might arise, letting himself be carried away by melancholy (perhaps by the longing for his wife's company, his armchair, or his Shakspere), he would go and sit down alone on some sofa, and there give himself up to his thoughts or his dreams, and try to delude himself into the idea that he was fulfilling his duty.

He would look with distracted eyes at the throng of deputies, journalists and politicians tagging at their heels, and their feverish activity, their agitation, and their eagerness had not the slightest power to inspire the lazy fellow with the noble desire of laboring for his country, and contributing in some way to its happiness.

At times, not having anything to think about, he would amuse himself in seeking for resemblances between the men whom he saw and those whom he had known before. His attention was particularly attracted by a deputy, a custom-house director, who bore the closest resemblance to a certain fisherman of Rodillero, named Talín. He had known Talín under particularly sad circumstances. One of his sons had died of measles, and he had not a shilling in the house with which to bury him; the poor man had to carry him in his arms to the cemetery, and dig the grave himself. A few months afterward Talín was lost in a famous gale which has figured in more than one novel. And how closely this deputy resembled Talín! They were as like as two eggs.

There was another whose face was decorated with big scars and cicatrices, and whose eyebrows and eyelashes had been lost by reason of some secret malady which obliged him to go every year to Archena; this man struck him as particularly like a poor miner whom he had known at Langreo. The latter worked in the galleries of the mines, spending the livelong day in a narrow hole which he himself had laboriously to excavate. One day the gas took fire and burned his face and hands horribly. After that he was obliged to beg.

When he was weary of these exercises of imagination, he would call Merelo y García, and make him sit by his side, and delight in hearing him relate with characteristic vehemence all the gossip from behind the scenes, if it is not irreverent to compare the lobbies of Congress with the flies of a theatre.

Merelo was at that time the phoenix of Madrid noticieros and the envy of the other newspaper proprietors, who had more than once made him overtures of increased salary to get him away from the Conde de Ríos; but Merelo, with fidelity that could not be too highly praised (and therefore he did not cease to praise it), had remained firm in his resistance to all temptations.

There was no one his equal in covering in a moment a dozen groups, in finding out what they were talking about, what they had been talking about, and what they were going to talk about, in gliding between the deputies' feet and discovering the most inviolate and carefully guarded secrets of politics, in worrying foreign envoys with questions; audaciously approaching the ministers, in tormenting the subordinates, and in "cutting out of every one whatever he had in his body," sometimes by suavity, at others by force.

Really Merelo y García was in Spain the pioneer of that pleiad of young reporters who, at the present day, make our press so illustrious; he it was who draughted the first lineaments of bills in the forms of questions and answers, though they afterward appeared so much changed. Still, in Merelo's time, they were as yet, as it were, in swaddling clothes, and Chinese and Moorish ambassadors did not answer in such a precise and categorical manner as they do now, when the reporters ask them, for example "How long were you on your journey? Were you able to get any sleep?" etc., etc.

Merelo was thus better known than the postman in all official centres and more feared than the cholera. When he made up his mind to find out about anything, neither sour faces nor rude replies could daunt him; he was proof against all rebuffs. It was told of him that one time when the Minister of State had just come out from a very important diplomatic meeting, Merelo met him with the question:—

"How now, Señor F——? is the matter of the treaty settled or not?"

The minister looked at him with curiosity, and asked:—

"What journal are you editor of?"

"Of La Independencia," replied Merelo, with a genial smile.

"I might have known it by the impudence which you show," retorted the minister coolly, turning on his heel.

The General Count de Ríos used to tell at his receptions, with the tears of delight, of one famous exploit which Merelo's especial gifts had allowed him to accomplish.

He was at his favorite post of observation, like a watch-dog, at one of the doors of the salón de conferencias; he had been for some time on the scent for news, when he happened to see a page carry a telegram to the President of the Council of Ministers. The President opened it, read it carefully, and crumpled it in his hands with a frown, and then walked along with slow step to the lobby. Merelo was all alive, and followed him with ears alert, with eager eyes, and quivering nostrils. The President went to the wash-room. Merelo waited patiently. The President came out. Then Merelo's brain underwent a sudden and terrible revolution; he hesitated a moment whether or not to follow him back; but at that instant he was inspired by one of those thoughts that illuminate the records of journalism; instead of following his quarry, he darted like a flash into the wash-room, looked, and hunted, and hunted.... At last, in an obscure spot, he found a bit of crumpled blue paper. He had no hesitation in pulling it out.

That evening La Independencia printed the following:—

"It seems that the preconization of the bishop-elect of Malaga, Señor N——, first cousin of the President of the Council of Ministers, meets with opposition in Rome."

The President read this notice as he was going to bed, and he was greatly surprised, as he afterwards confessed to his friends, because the report of the Pope's opposition to his cousin's confirmation had been telegraphed to him by the ambassador. Racking his memory, he recalled the fact that that afternoon, after reading the telegram, he had been followed along the lobby of Congress by a shadow, and that the shadow was waiting when he had come out of the wash-room. The President instantly guessed how the cat was let out of the bag, and burst into a roar of laughter. "That was a good joke," he exclaimed, as he put out the light.

V.

Utrilla had gone to bed, feverish and nervous. And it was with very good reason. For the second time he had failed to pass his examination; he was as good as expelled from the Military Academy.[14]

His prescient heart had told him before the examination: "Jacobo, they will certainly ask you about the pendulum, and that is the very thing in which you are weakest!"

And indeed he had scarcely taken his seat before the tribunal, when, zas! the professor of physics said to him in a wheedling accent:—

"Señor Utrilla, have the goodness to explain for us the theory of the pendulum."

The cadet, rather pale, arose and looked with wild eyes at the professor's desk.... The algebra professor smiled ironically, as though he divined his confusion. Why had that old man taken such a dislike to him? Utrilla could not explain it otherwise than by envy; the professor had seen him at the theatre with Julita under his protection. He arose, and with uncertain steps went to the slaughter; that is, to the blackboard. With trembling hand he made a few ciphers, and at the end of fifteen minutes drew a deep sigh of relief, and returned to his seat. The professor of physics shook his head several times:—

"That is wrong, Señor Utrilla; that is wrong."

The cadet sponged out the figures that he made, and began the operation a second time. A second quarter of an hour, a second sigh of relief; more negative signs on the part of the professor.

"That is just as wrong, Señor Utrilla."

And Utrilla rubbed out his work again, and for the third time began to cipher; but now he was weak, confused, livid, persuaded that death was at hand.

"Still entirely wrong, Señor Utrilla," exclaimed the professor, in a tone of compassion.

The algebra man smiled mephistopheleanly, and said, with an affected accent in pure Andalusian:—

"There be three ways of spellin' proctor ... paroctor, peroctor, poroctor!"[15]

The gentlemen of the tribunal covered their eyes with their hands to hide their amusement. This sneer cut our cadet to the heart; he changed color several times in the course of a few moments.

"That will do; you are dismissed," said the professor of physics, trying in vain to put on a sober face.

The son of Mars retired, stumbling over everything in his way, as though he were blind; his neck was swollen, his Adam's apple preternaturally prominent, his heart boiling over with indignation and wrath.

As soon as he reached home, by the advice of the housekeeper he fainted away. His father, on learning the cause, instead of helping him, was furious, and exclaimed:—

"You might better die, you great good-for-nothing! This fellow has used up more of my patience and money than he is worth!"

Afterwards came the following family scene. When he recovered from his fainting fit, he was informed that his father and brother were waiting for him in the office on the first floor. Here our young soldier had to endure a new and grievous humiliation. His father attacked him in a rage, called him an imbecile and a blunderbuss, and showed him the book in which he had kept account of his expenses.

"For so many months of tutoring in mathematics, so much; drawing lessons, so much; dress uniform, so much; every day ditto, so much," etc., etc.

While his señor padre was lecturing him in an unnaturally high voice on this subject, his older brother was gnashing his teeth like one in torment; from time to time he gave utterance to pitiful groans, as though some demon had come that very moment to throw more coal in the furnace where they were roasting him. At last, when he succeeded in getting his breath, he exclaimed in a low voice:—

"The idea of a man having to humiliate himself from morning till night engaged in handling fat and lard in order that what he earns should be wasted by a fellow like this, in folderols and glasses of cognac!"

"It shall not be so any longer, Rafael! I swear it shall not!" roared the father. "After to-day this lazybones shall help you in the factory. There he will have a chance to learn how to earn his bread and butter!"

The ex-cadet was annihilated. He, a gentleman cadet in the most aristocratic corps of the army, to be suddenly transferred into the service of a candle factory! This for Utrilla was the height of degradation. He said nothing for a few moments: at last he spoke solemnly and deliberately in his deep bass:—

"If it has come to this, that my dignity must be lowered by making me a factory foreman, it would be better that I should be taken out into the field and shot down with half a dozen bullets!"

"Knocked down with half a dozen sticks; that's what you ought to have done to you, you good-for-nothing idler! Just wait! just wait!"

And the worthy manufacturer glanced angrily around the room, and seeing a reed cane leaning against the wall, he sprang to get it. But Achilles, he of the winged feet, had already darted out of the room, and in half a dozen leaps had reached his chamber.

Once across the threshold, he bolted the door with marvellous dexterity, and after listening breathlessly with his ear at the key-hole, in order to make sure that Peleus had not passed the middle of the corridor, he felt safe to give himself up to meditation.

He began to promenade up and down, across the room, from corner to corner, with his hands in his pockets, his head sunk and his shoulders lifted, thinking seriously how ...

But his sword was constantly thumping against the furniture and getting between his legs, and making it hard for him to walk; he took it off and flung it in military disgust on the sofa.

He came to the conclusion that two courses lay before him: one was to make his escape from the house, enlist in the army, and in this way fulfil the only vocation for which he felt any call; the other was to enter the factory and work there like his brother. It was necessary to make a decisive resolution, as became his inflexible and energetic character; and in very truth our ex-cadet, with an energy that has few examples in this degenerate epoch, promptly decided to work in the candle factory.

This important point having been settled, he became calmer, and could stop long enough to roll and smoke a cigarette.

One other thing, however, remained to be done, and this was one of great importance: to wipe out the insult which the algebra professor had given him during the examination. Utrilla argued in this way:—

If he remained in the army, the affront would not have been serious, because, of course, discipline forbids the inferior to demand satisfaction for insults from a superior; but once out of the corps and transformed into a civilian, the matter put on a different aspect—"Certainly very different!" he repeated, putting on a deep frown that was very imposing. "To-morrow I will settle this point."

And in this desperate state of mind our cadet set himself to work to indite the draft of a letter which he proposed to send to the algebra teacher.

"My dear Sir:—

"If you have any delicacy (which I have reason to doubt) you will perfectly understand that after the coarse insult which you took pains to give me yesterday, enjoying the advantage of your position, it is absolutely necessary that one or the other of us should vanish from the earth. As for the proper remedy, you will be kind enough to come to an understanding with my two friends Señor—— and Señor—— (Here will be two blanks for the names of my seconds, for I have not yet decided who they will be). I remain, Sir, at your command, etc."

After reading this letter three or four times, it seemed to him that it was not forcible enough. He tore it up, and at one breath wrote this one:—

"Sir: You are a scoundrel. If this intentional insult is not sufficient to bring your seconds, I shall have the pleasure of flinging it in your face. Your servant, who subscribes his name,

"Jacobo Utrilla."

Perfectly satisfied with the content and form of this last missive, the heroic lad copied it off with particular care, closed it with sealing-wax, and directed it; then he left it in his table drawer until the next day, when he proposed sending it to its destination.

By this time night had come, and he went to bed without any desire to eat supper. Sleep delayed her visit; the angel of desolation flapped her pinions over his brow, and inspired him with the most terrific plans of destruction. And doubtless at that very hour the algebra professor was tranquilly sleeping without the slightest suspicion of the misfortune overhanging him.

When this suggestion presented itself to Utrilla, he could not help smiling in a most sinister fashion between the sheets.

At last Morpheus succeeded in overcoming him, but with no intention of sending sweet and refreshing dreams; a thousand gloomy nightmares tormented him all night long; from one o'clock till six in the morning he battled with his enemy, using all the methods known at the present day, and some of his own invention. Now he beheld himself facing the hateful professor with a foil in his hand; the professor had wounded him in the right hand, but nevertheless Utrilla, without a moment's hesitation, exclaimed: "Come on. Use the left hand!" filling all the witnesses full of admiration at his coolness. And with his left hand, zas! after a few thrusts he had buried the sword up to the hilt in his body!

Then they appeared each with pistol in hand; the seconds give the signal to aim; the professor fires, and his ball grazes his cheek; then he aims, and keeps aiming, and the professor, now seeing death at hand, falls on his knees and begs for his life; he grants his prayer, firing into the air, but not without first saying scornfully: "And to think of this man insulting Jacobo Utrilla!"

Divine Aurora, the goddess with the saffron veil, was already descending the heights of Guadarrama, when the stripling awoke in the same prophetic state of mind. Sad day that was now beginning to dawn for an innocent family, for the algebra professor's six children, had not Jupiter hastened to send to the hero's bolster his daughter Minerva in the form of the housekeeper.

"Jacobito, my dear, will you be perishing of weakness, my child! Here I have some chocolate and spiral cakes which you like so much."

The lad rubbed his eyes, cast an excessively severe look at the chocolate which was so compassionately brought him, and made up his mind to take it, but not before he had gnashed his teeth in such a desperate fashion that the good Doña Adelaida was alarmed.

"Come, come, Jacobito, my son, don't grieve, don't be so much troubled, because you will be sure to fall sick.... There is no help for it.... Going to bed without taking anything was a piece of folly. Your father will come round all right, and finally everything will be settled as you want it. You certainly must have had a very bad night! You must not go on this way trifling with your stomach!... And now what are you going to do, my son? I am afraid for you with such a rash disposition as God has given you!"

When Jacobo heard this question, he for a moment suspended the hateful task of swallowing his chocolate, raised his angry face to the housekeeper, and shouted with concentrated fury:—

"What am I going to do!... You shall see, you shall see what I am going to do!"

And then he once more began to grit his teeth so terribly that Doña Adelaida was frightened out of her wits, and exclaimed:—

"Come now, calm yourself, calm yourself, Jacobito! You know that I was present when you were born, and that your sainted mother, who left you when you were a mere baby—poor woman!—charged me to have a watchful eye over you. If you should do anything desperate, you will kill me with sorrow.... Come, my son, tell me what you intend to do...."

The lad, pushing away the chocolate cup with an energetic movement, and rolling his eyes frenziedly, screamed rather than said:—

"Do you want to know what I am going to do?... Then I will tell you this very instant.... I am going to the factory, I am going to put on a blouse, I am going to daub my hands with grease, pull the candle moulds, and roast my face in front of the furnaces.... And when any stranger comes to the factory, the hands will be able to say: 'This man whom you see—dirty, nasty, ill-smelling—used to be a gentleman cadet, a cadet in the Military Academy!... Ah!" he said, concluding with a muffled voice, "Ah! no one knows, no one knows what Jacobo Utrilla is capable of!"

The housekeeper, who was expecting some desperate resolution, when she found that it was of this sort, could not refrain from a cry of joy.

"That is right, my son, that is right! That is the best way of heaping coals of fire on the heads of your father and brother, who have been pestering me to death by saying that you were of no use, that you were a lazybones...."

"But before doing that," interrupted Jacobo, extending both hands as though he were trying to hold back the avalanche which was about to fall, "it is necessary that one of us two perish!"

"Merciful Virgin!" exclaimed Doña Adelaida. "Who is going to perish, Jacobito? For Heaven's sake, don't go lose your mind! Do you want your father to die?"

"Not him, señora, not him! I refer to my algebra professor, with whom this afternoon or to-morrow at the very latest, I am going to fight a duel!"

"And what has the algebra professor done to you? Made you fail in your examination? Now if you had studied, as your father told you to do, this would not have happened."

"Señora," cried Jacobo, in a stentorian voice so fiendish that Doña Adelaida in affright took a step or two backward, "don't you dare to speak about what you do not understand! I cannot get over my vexation that I ever had anything to do with algebra. What the professor did was to sneer at me, and this, my father's son cannot put up with! Do you understand?"

"Come, calm yourself, Jacobito; you have been very much disturbed since yesterday. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think. It may be that this gentleman did not sneer at you on purpose."

"He may not have done it intentionally, but the fact is, he insulted me, and I will not stand it; I never have yet, and I never intend to let any one insult me with impunity. You know very well that in this respect I am a peculiar man."

"I know it, Jacobito; you have the same disposition as your grandfather (peace to his soul!). What a man he was! He was as quick to flare up as gunpowder! Just think; one time when he was shaving, he heard a cry in the court; he turned his head so suddenly that he gave himself a tremendous cut in the nose.... But it is necessary, my son, to have self-restraint, and repress one's nature a little, if one would live in this world. It is my idea that if this professor made sport of you, what you ought to do is to make sport of him!"

With slight variations, such was the advice that in the early days of Greece, Minerva, the goddess of the glorious eyes, gave the divine Achilles in his famous quarrel with Agamemnon, the son of Atreus.

We are obliged to confess that this hero of ours did not show himself so amenable to the goddess's commands as "Peleus' godlike son"; instead of immediately sheathing his sword and yielding, he refused to make use of any other measures than those of force.

The only concession that Doña Adelaida could obtain after many prayers was to postpone the professor's destruction till another day.

That same morning, however, he put into effect his energetic decision of going to the factory and working there all day long "like a dog," whereby it is to be supposed that he quite put his father and brother to shame and confusion, though they succeeded in hiding it perfectly.

The greater part of the difficulties due to his exceptional position having been thus overcome, thanks to his incredible boldness and sang froid, the only thing that troubled him now was lest Julita would not take in good part this premature retirement from the military service. So it was that he delayed for several days telling her about it; but it was not altogether that he was afraid of annoying her; the fact was that for some time he had not seen his sweetheart as frequently as formerly. It was ominous that Julita nowadays appeared but seldom on her balcony, and it was not less significant that she was putting obstacles in the way of his sending letters regularly.

Still Utrilla wrote informing her that, "owing to family reasons, and for the purpose of attending to his pecuniary interests, he had retired from the service."

This was the only dignified way that he could find of saying that he had been dismissed.

Contrary to his expectations, this information did not produce any great effect. On the other hand, she waited five or six days before she answered it, and at the end she wrote:—

"That if he had given up his career because it was convenient, he did perfectly right; but that henceforth he would do her the favor not to send letters to her through the door-maid, since she had certain reasons for objecting to it, and that he should wait until she told him to whom he should entrust his letters."

It happened that Miguel during these days twice met the ex-cadet. The latter was so glad to see him, and showed him so much affection and friendliness, that Rivera could not help reciprocating it, carrying his magnanimity to such an extent as to call him once or twice his future brother-in-law.

"If there is no way of preventing my sister from marrying a rascal, it would be better to have you, friend Utrilla," said he.

The former cadet swelled with delight until he almost burst, not only at the prospect of marrying Julita, but also to hear himself called a rascal in such a genial way.

At both interviews he urged Rivera warmly to come and visit his factory, because he was very anxious to show it to him, and to explain the great improvements that he was planning to make in it, if his father and brother, both whom were very conservative, did not make too strong opposition. He expressed his desire so eagerly that finally one afternoon Miguel decided to take a carriage and drive to Cuatros Caminos, from which it was easy to reach the candle factory of Utrilla and Company.

"Is Señor Utrilla here?"

"Don Manuel does not often come to the factory; he lives at forty-six Sacramento Street."

"I want to see his son."

"Ah! Don Rafael," said the door-keeper. "Yes, sir; he is here. Walk in."

"It is Don Jacobo whom I want to see."

"Don Jacobo," repeated the door-keeper, hesitating and smiling. "Ah yes, sir, Jacobito; I had forgotten. He is here too. Walk in."

Jacobo was writing in the same room with his elder brother, who, when he saw that it was a friend of Jacobo, scarcely deigned to lift his head, and gave a slight nod. Utrilla, however, colored to the ears, and came to greet him with great eagerness.

"Don Miguel! You here? How glad I am!... Rafael," he added, addressing his brother, "I am going to show the factory to Señor Rivera."

Rafael without looking up, said:—

"Very well."

They went out of the office and passed slowly through the shops, stopping to examine the mechanism of each process, which Utrilla explained in a loud voice. From time to time he would say in an imperious tone:—

"José, run this mould!... Enrique, lift this lid!"

The workmen were in no haste to obey these orders, and he had to repeat them in a voice which any operatic basso would have envied.

The ex-cadet's factory garb could not have been more appropriate,—trousers of drilling, red shirt, shoes, and an old coat with the collar turned up. Although it was very warm, Utrilla, both on the street and at home, always wore his collar this way, which gave him the appearance of being a very dissipated man, and this was something that delighted him.

In the rooms where the women were working, Utrilla allowed himself to take some liberties with the operatives, such as winking at them, twitching at their handkerchiefs, and making this or that dubious little witticism.

"You will excuse me, Don Miguel; these are the bad habits of military life. Though one were going to be shot, one couldn't help saying some nonsense to the girls."

"All right, all right, friend Utrilla; don't incommode yourself on my account."

"Man alive, you are going now to see something very original which I happened to think of doing the other day. You will be surprised.... The foreman of the shop said to me, 'What you don't think of, the Devil himself would not, think of!'"

"Let us see it."

He then took him to the storeroom, and opening a closet, showed him a number of packages of candles with lithographed labels, which read:—

JULIA
(Bujía Extrafina).

"How is that?" he demanded, with radiant and triumphant face.

"Very pretty! very delicate!" replied Miguel, smiling.

"Take a package!"

"My dear fellow, no, thank you!"

"Nonsense! take one. If you don't, then I shall send one to you."

From there he took him to a room that was a sort of incommodious private office, with a wretched straw-stuffed sofa, a few chairs, and a table with a writing-desk on it; on the wall hung a panoply with the cadet's military outfit,—sword, belt, spurs, and a couple of foils and a fencing-mask.

Utrilla confessed to his friend that he could not look at this panoply without sadness, recollecting "the happy days in the service."

"What life is so happy as the military! Believe me, Señor Rivera, that in spite of the strictness of the rules, I miss it immensely."

Afterwards he offered him a cigar, and taking out a huge meerschaum mouthpiece, he began calmly to color it, calling up at the same time, with a veteran's satisfaction, various anecdotes of his academy life.

"That cigarette-holder is very pretty: what does it represent?"

"A cannon on a pile of projectiles; I beg of you to take it, Don Miguel."

"I do not need it," replied Rivera, handing it back.... "It is in very good hands."

"But I should be much better pleased to have you keep it, and I won't take it."

"Come now, friend Utrilla, don't be so lavish."

"Throw it down if you please, but I will not take it."

There was nothing to be done but keep it.

Then the former cadet brought the conversation round to Julia, and besought her brother's intercession, as he had written her four letters and had received not a single answer.

"You will understand, my dear Utrilla," said Miguel, becoming serious, "that this is a very delicate matter, and that I have no right to mix myself up in your affairs."

"The trouble is," rejoined the ex-cadet, with a sigh, "with the passionate nature which God gave me, I sent her a letter to-day, telling her that if she persisted in her conduct, she would do me the favor never to write to me again, ... and I am afraid that she is really offended."

"I am afraid," said Miguel, laughing, "that your command will be fulfilled to the letter."

The cadet remained for several moments pensive and gloomy. Then shaking himself from his melancholy stupor, and passing his hand over his forehead, he said:—

"By the way, Don Miguel, you have not washed your hands."

Rivera looked at him in surprise.

"One always gets dirty in the factory," continued the cadet. "Here is a bowl and soap for you."

"Thank you; my hands are not dirty."

But Utrilla at the same time offered him a china bowl filled with clear water, and the soap-dish, in such a way that Miguel rather than appear the enemy of cleanliness yielded and washed his hands. The soap was strongly scented with orange.

"Do you know this soap is very fine and pleasant?" said Rivera, so as to say something.

"Do you like it?... Then I am going to give you a cake of it."

"My friend, I beg of you!"

Utrilla, without heeding his protests, got the soap out of the desk, wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and almost by main force thrust it into his pocket. From that time forth Miguel took care not to commend anything which he happened to touch.

As he was going, the ex-cadet shook his hand ardently, and said in a voice full of emotion:—

"Don't fail to speak to her. If you knew how sad and desperate I am."

The truth of the matter was that he had good reason to be, as will appear in the next chapter.

VI.

"If your son were to put up at a hotel while I have a house in Madrid, I should be seriously vexed with him, and with you too," la brigadiera Angela had written to her cousin María Antonia.

And her cousin replied:—

"I have sent a copy of your letter to Alfonso, and assured him that he would enjoy much staying with you. Although he always rebels against my advice, I hope that this time he will gratify me. But I am afraid, my dear, that his visit may cause you a good deal of trouble, for I don't know what kind of habits he has contracted in Paris; but you have asked for it, and you can try it."

La brigadiera caused the rooms that Miguel had occupied to be put in order with so much care and nicety, worried her daughter Julia so desperately in the details of the appointments, the curtains, etc., that the girl when she spoke of her cousin always spoke of him as "el niño de la bola."[16]

Before she made his acquaintance, she conceived a violent antipathy to him. This was caused in no small measure, because the visitor twice disappointed them about coming. The reports that she had heard about him were not very favorable either.

Alfonso Saavedra had lost his father when he was very young: he was the inheritor of a considerable fortune; his mother had not had sufficient energy or ability to train him properly; he had not chosen any definite career; his only occupation was amusement, and allowing free course to his passions, which, according to what people said, could not have been more violent. Very amusing stories were told about him, and some that were extremely displeasing: he had been living in Paris almost constantly since he was a young lad, and there he had largely squandered his estate, but as he had still large expectations from his mother's property, which was even larger than his father's, he lived without apprehension of the future, and spent his money lavishly.

Finally, a telegram was received announcing the departure from Paris of el niño de la bola.

And on the morning of the following day he arrived. When Julia heard the bell ring, feeling disturbed, she went to the sewing-room and began to jest with the maid about the style which her cousin affected; then there was heard in the corridor a great commotion of moving luggage.

"What room has he been shown into, Inocencia?" she asked of the girl who came in at that moment.

"He is in the library with your mamma."

In a few moments a powerful ring at the bell was heard.

"The señora is calling," said Inocencia, running.

"Señorita will please come immediately to the library, says your mamma," she announced, on returning.

"Very well," the girl replied, in bad humor. "Are they sitting down?"

"Yes, señorita."

"Then they can wait without hurting them any."

But in a few minutes the pull at the bell was repeated with more violence, and the girl, foreseeing her mother's vexation, arose with a very bad grace, and dropping her sewing, exclaimed with a scornful accent:—

"There now, we are going to see Don Alfonso, Prince of Asturias!"

Don Alfonso was a man of about thirty-five, a gay bachelor, with regular features, with shaven cheeks, and mustaches twisted in the French style; in his wavy, black hair gleamed here and there a thread of silver; otherwise, his fresh and ruddy cheeks, his white and carefully brushed teeth, and his easy, graceful gestures, made him seem like a boy; his travelling-costume was affectedly elegant, with certain Parisian refinements unknown in Madrid. Julita took all this in at one rapid glance. He was not at all the man that she expected to meet. Having heard her cousin spoken of as a spendthrift, she had always imagined him as jaundiced, lean, scrubby, and inflicted with a cough, like some hair-brained Madrileños whom she knew by sight.

When he saw the young lady, he arose hastily to his feet.

"Oh, what a pretty cousin!" he exclaimed, at the same time taking her hand in a frank and affectionate manner. "You will forgive me for having disturbed you in what you were doing, will you not?"

"I was not doing anything.... Won't you sit down, sir?"

Don Alfonso remained a moment in a state of uncertainty, and then as he sat down, he exclaimed with a gesture of resignation:—

"What a terrible blow to my illusions, aunt! Your daughter has not dared to say thou to me.... These cursed gray hairs!"

Julita flushed a deep crimson.

"That is not the reason!"

"Then it is because you have been prejudiced against me; confess it!... But it is not my fault either that I am old, or that your mamma has disturbed you on my account."

Julita, flushing deeper and deeper, did not know how to defend herself; her mother came to her aid.

"It is neither the one thing nor the other, Alfonso; the trouble is that, as having never met you before, she is confused."

"Is that so?" he asked his cousin, at the same time looking at her with a bright smile.

Julita gave an affirmative gesture, and returned his smile.

"That is not so bad.... But I still feel a keen sense of remorse. It will be very gratifying to me if you will tell me that I am forgiven."

Julita, with difficulty overcoming the timidity that choked her, said in a low tone:—

"I have nothing to forgive you for."

"Thanks, little coz," pursued Don Alfonso, rising, and with an elegant and graceful gesture again shaking hands with her.

Then he began to talk with his aunt about family affairs; asking her many questions about his whole circle of relatives, and learning many particulars of which he had been ignorant.

Then the conversation turned on the customs of Paris, which he described pleasantly and attractively, taking pains to extol Spain, instead of depreciating it as the majority of travellers are in the habit of doing. This appealed to la brigadiera's sympathies. Don Alfonso spoke easily and naturally, but without conceit; on the contrary, in the midst of his talk, he would correct any idea that seemed at all pretentious, and was evidently anxious to show that he had no wish whatever to make himself out a remarkable man.

If he spoke of women, all had "given him the mitten"; if he spoke of art, or gave his opinion about museums and singers, he protested that he had little or no knowledge of painting or music; if by chance he was obliged to refer to any quarrel in which he himself had taken part, he passed over it lightly, and did not fail to have it understood that he had done everything possible to avoid it, and at the same time he made sport of the duel and of duelists.

As Don Alfonso had the reputation of being lucky in love affairs, and many of his adventures had made considerable talk, as he played the piano pretty well, and was accounted one of the crack marksmen of Paris, and had fought more than a dozen duels, this modesty of his in conversation was a refreshing contrast, sure of bringing success in society. These accomplishments were rendered still more attractive by the slight foreign accent which made his words all the more insinuating and suave.

Julita listened to him, gazing at him with that intense and conjuring look by which young girls in an instant analyze all a man's physical and moral nature.

Her cousin made a very favorable showing as the result of the analysis; she had no idea that he was such an amiable and attractive man; the incidents of his life which she had heard before gave him the reputation of being haughty and violent in character, if not even coarse and shameless.

One evening in Seville he was engaged in playing ombre, and because he was not very successful, he became so much excited that he said all sorts of impudent things, and finally told the ladies present that he was going to ride into the parlor on his nag. No one placed any credence in what he said, and he went out without any one noticing it; but in a few minutes he made his appearance on horseback, to the amazement and terror of all, especially the ladies, who began to scream, while he, striking the spurs into his horse, roared with laughter.

On another occasion, being deep in an intrigue with a young woman of the middle class, he went in full dress to the house of her parents, and told them that he wished to speak with them on a very private and serious matter. The father, who was a humble government employé, imagining, as any one might have supposed, that he was going to ask his daughter's hand, received him trembling with emotion; then after many periphrases and circumlocutions, Saavedra ended by asking him to give him a favorable report on a certain matter that he had in his department.

This hateful piece of drollery was noised over the whole town, and put that poor innocent señor in a most ridiculous light.

But Julita, as she saw and listened to him, forgot these and other escapades; unquestionably this young man, who in her presence was so refined and modest, was an entirely different person.

Saavedra after showing such gallantry to his cousin, waited a long time before he addressed her, or even looked at her; he seemed to be absorbed in his conversation with her mother. Thus it was that she had an abundance of time to make a careful scrutiny of his appearance: his shirt-collar, his cravat, his watch-chain, his boots, all were elegant, and proved by their style that they came from the other side of the Pyrenees.

"You will feel like getting the dust off and having a wash, Alfonso," said la brigadiera. "Come; we will show you to your room: it is the one which my son Miguel used to occupy."

Don Alfonso could not praise it sufficiently: he found everything to his taste.

"I shall be just like a fish in the water here. You will have trouble in getting rid of me, I assure you!"

"I will warn you," said Julia, "that it was I who made the bed myself. Don't you dare say that you have not slept well."

As soon as she had said these words, which by their mischievous spirit were perfectly proper, she repented having said them, and blushed. Don Alfonso turned his face upon her, and looked at her with some friendly curiosity.

"That is the very reason that I shall not sleep well. You were unkind to tell me."

Julita blushed more than ever, and to hide her confusion began to straighten the bottles on the dressing-table, and then she left the room. Finally her mother also went, leaving him to himself, and shortly afterward he again appeared in the parlor, in another costume of the latest and most elegant style.

"Julita," said her mother, "tell them to put on the breakfast; you must feel weary, Alfonso."

"No, aunt; I feel hungry, though. The word is more prosaic, but it is nearer the truth."

La brigadiera, with a laugh, accepted the arm which her nephew offered her as they went to the dining-room. During the meal he entertained the ladies in the same agreeable fashion, telling them a thousand curious incidents, giving them minute descriptions of the soirées in the fashionable society of Paris. They were most interested in what he had to say about the ladies' dresses and the decoration of the salons.

During the conversation he never once forgot those gallant and thoughtful attentions which were demanded by his situation. By intuition he discovered when Julita's wine-glass was empty; he offered his aunt the olives; he passed her the mustard, cut the bread for her, etc.

Julia was merry, and perhaps rather more talkative than usual; but when she made use of any expression that was a little more piquante than usual, she would feel her cheeks flush under her cousin's steady, smiling, and somewhat ironical gaze.

It was the first time that she had ever forced herself to be witty and sharp and say sharp things. When she said anything that was particularly clever, Saavedra would look up, and his smile would seem to say, "This little girl is bright."

Julia was rather humiliated by his smile at first, but then she read under it an expression of scornful protection, or at least of absolute indifference, scarcely masked by the extreme courtesy which he showed in all his words and gestures. For in this respect Don Alfonso did not weary a single instant; he did not miss a single opportunity of showing them his subordination, and of giving both his aunt and cousin to feel how agreeable he could be to them.

In the days that followed, his gallantry did not in the least relax. La brigadiera wrote her cousin, assuring her that "she would keep her nephew not merely a month, but all his life in her house; that he was a perfect gentleman, and that young men could not in Spain possibly acquire such an admirable education and such manners as he possessed."

A hearty and perfect confidence quickly grew between him and Julia; the girl amused him with her lively and picturesque chatter which recalled to the exile his years of childhood and youth.

Don Alfonso played the guitar as well as the piano, and to his skill and facility in singing Polish and Spanish songs was due in no small measure his social success in Parisian society. But there he played and sang to attract the notice of the ladies and make himself known, while here it was for his own pleasure or to bring to mind happy days or events.

When he came home in the afternoon an hour before dinner, he was fond of sitting by his cousin's side, with the guitar on his knees, and singing his whole repertoire, not only of classic songs, but also of the serenades,[17] habaneras, and polkas of his earlier days. Julia recalled some that he had forgotten, and whenever this happened he clapped his hands with delight, and enthusiastically praised his cousin's memory.

She was in her element those days; she had some one to talk with, and she was amused a large part of the day in looking out for the visitor's wants, superintending the ironing of his linen, and seeing that his room was kept neat and clean, and in inspecting with childish curiosity his belongings; and then she heard herself constantly called all sorts of pet adjectives.[18] And what young girl on the face of the earth would not enjoy this? Don Alfonso had certainly remarkable gifts in the way of giving compliments without repeating himself, and without descending to eternal vulgarities, and he was very skilful in finding occasion to say something pleasant about the maiden's charms.... Now it was her hands: "pretty enough to eat"; now it was her teeth: "abroad very few such splendid ones were to be seen"; again, it was her jet-black hair: "I am tired of seeing nothing but tow on women's heads."

Without noticing it, the girl began to wait impatiently afternoons for her cousin's coming, and if anything delayed him, she would keep jumping up from her seat, and then coming back to it again without any reason.

It was during these days that our droll friend Utrilla wrote those famous letters mentioned in the last chapter.

One afternoon as Saavedra came in, Julia happened to be passing through the vestibule; she affected to go in front of him without greeting him, but suddenly twitched the end of his cravat, and untied it.

"Hold on there, you little witch! Now come and tie it for me again!"

But Julia was already out of sight, laughing. Don Alfonso followed her; he overtook her in the dining-room; when the girl saw him, she started to run again, and went to the kitchen.

"You won't escape me that way!" cried Saavedra.

"Yes I shall too," retorted the girl, again vanishing from sight.

Both ran along the corridor, but when they were near the parlor, Julia turned around, and going a few steps toward her cousin, said:—

"Don't chase me any more; I will tie the cravat, but I won't promise to do it well."

"It is enough if you do it; it is a punishment which I impose upon you."

Laughing, though her hands trembled a little, she arranged the tie.

"What is that you have hanging there?" she asked, bending her head so as to examine a trinket which her cousin wore on his watch-chain.

"A gold heart.... Just like mine!"

And as he said that he bent over and imprinted a kiss on the girl's neck.

Julia straightened herself up as though a pin had pricked her, flushed deeply, and giving him a severe look, said in a muffled voice:—

"I assure you that I do not wish you to do such a thing again!"

Saavedra looked at her with mischievous, mirth-provoking eyes, and not paying any attention to her anger, went on calmly talking to her. Julia, uncertain what course to take, replied gravely to his questions, and did not look at him. Finally his perfect calmness and confidence had their effect upon her, and in a little while she was as gay as ever.

Their relations continued on this friendly footing for a number of days, until suddenly Julia for some occult reason began to grow sober and melancholy. Some afternoons, instead of going to the parlor to talk with the visitor, she left him alone with her mother; if she met him in the corridor, she would give him a serious and furtive glance, and let him pass without a word; sometimes when he addressed her, she would not answer, pretending not to hear him; at other times, if she happened to go into the library, and found him there reading a newspaper, she would turn back in all haste.

All these signs of disregard or resentment, strange as it may seem, had no effect whatever on Don Alfonso, who, as though not noticing them, continued to show her the same gallantry as before, even more pronounced if possible, and he did not in the least alter his habits, nor his hours of entering or leaving the house.

It must not be supposed that Julia was sad every day; there were some, when without the least apparent reason, she would appear extraordinarily gay, filling the whole house with her merry voice, rallying her mamma, her cousin, and every one who happened to be visiting them, and being far more audacious in her witticisms than usual.... But in the midst of this obstreperous gayety, she would suddenly stop for several moments, with her eyes set and ecstatic, and then her face would take on a very strange expression of pain.

On these merry days she would treat her cousin with unaccustomed amiability as though she were anxious to compensate him for the petty disdain that she had shown him in the days gone by.

Don Alfonso stole three or four more kisses, each time receiving an energetic protest on the girl's part, and finally the formal threat of telling her mother. Nevertheless, these were not the days when she was sad and down-spirited.

One evening Julia, Miguel, Maximina, and Don Alfonso formed a little group[19] in the la brigadiera's library. Julia was very happy. Suddenly Saavedra said:—

"See here, Julita, haven't you a sweetheart?"

The girl grew as red as a cherry; then pale. Miguel, seeing her embarrassment, and being absolutely at sea as to the reason for it, hastened to her aid, saying:—

"Julia has not as yet decided upon any man; her character is too fickle...."

"What do you know about it!" interrupted the girl in a fury of passion, casting a look of hatred upon him.

"My dear girl, I thought...."

"Please talk about what you know. You haven't the slightest idea what is going on in my mind," she rejoined, with a severe intonation; and turning to her cousin, and looking him straight in the face, she added:—

"And supposing I had, what of it?"

"Nothing," replied Don Alfonso, calmly. "How glad I should be if you had one worthy of you; but it seems to me that would not be very easy, considering what a nice girl you are, little coz!"

"Oh yes, I am an angel!" exclaimed the girl, in a sarcastic tone.

She remained a moment lost in thought, then, jumping up, left the room.

Miguel had been surprised by his sister's answer, not so much at the significance of her words as at the violent and scornful tone which till that time she had never used toward him. And stopping to think a moment, he was not slow to fathom what was passing through the girl's mind.

She came back again after a few moments, with smiling face, the same as before, and began to enliven the tertulia with her witticisms. She did not sit down, but kept moving about the room with the lithe grace and liveliness characteristic of her.

Miguel noticed, however, that there was too much excitement underneath her gayety: she went rapidly from one subject to another; she asked questions and answered them herself, and laughed boisterously at the slightest excuse. She sat down at the piano and began to play very loud; then she sang a romanza from an opera, and this she suddenly changed into a Spanish song, which she did not finish either. Then she quitted the piano to frolic with Maximina, whom she obliged to dance a polka whether she would or no; presently she accosted her brother and kissed him again and again, saying to Maximina:—

"You aren't jealous, are you now?"

Don Alfonso's eyes followed her in all these evolutions keenly and persistently, with a peculiar expression of gentle irony. Miguel noticed it, and made a slight gesture of dissatisfaction.

In the following days Julia's avoidance of her cousin increased, and was shown in a very unpleasant manner. He had only to come where she was for her immediately to leave the room: if he asked her to sing, or play the piano, she would give him a flat refusal; she did not address a single word to him, and if he asked her a question she would answer curtly and without looking at him. La brigadiera noticed these shortcomings, and chided her severely, but without any effect. Don Alfonso pretended not to notice them, and continued imperturbably to treat her with his exquisite courtesy, and finding every opportunity to give her praise which, of course, she received with very bad grace.

One day at dinner time, while they were still at dessert, la brigadiera was conversing socially with her nephew. Julita preserved an obstinate silence, making little balls of bread and looking steadily at the table.

They were talking about a ball to be given by a certain duke, one of Saavedra's friends, where they were going to revive the ancient and classic minuet. In fact, they had been practising it several days, and Saavedra had ordered an elegant costume of doublet and hose, the details of which he was carefully describing to his aunt.

Julita looked up, and giving him a saucy glance, said with peculiar malice ill-concealed:—

"It seems like a falsehood for you to engage in such things."

"Why, little coz?" asked Don Alfonso, smiling amiably.

"Because you are already an old man," rejoined the girl, with a scornful accent. A moment of silence followed that impudent thrust. It was la brigadiera who broke it, and she was so furious that she could not complete her sentences:—

"You wicked girl! Insolent! Aren't you ashamed? How could you dare.... I feel as though I should sink through the floor!... (standing up, in high dudgeon). The idea!... Leave the room this very moment, you shameless creature!"

Don Alfonso, smiling with unchanged calmness, endeavored to pacify her, saying:—

"But what is the harm in her remark, señora? Julia has only told the truth. It is what I say to myself every morning when I brush my hair.... The worst of it is, that I am getting to be a boyish old man."

La brigadiera would not listen to him, but pointed her daughter to the door, with extended arm; Julia, bursting into tears, but still with haughty and lofty face, left the room.

Don Alfonso went on trying to calm his aunt, who not having relieved her mind, as she usually did, in a more brutal fashion, in order to find compensation, heaped reproaches on her daughter. After she was somewhat relieved she got up and went to enjoy her siesta for a little while.

Her guest likewise arose, with his cigar in his mouth, and with slow, lazy steps went to the sewing-room, hoping to find his cousin there. He was not disappointed; she was there, reading a book, with her head resting on one hand, and the other hanging over the back of the chair.

Don Alfonso halted at the threshold, and gazed at her for a while with an indefinable smile playing over his lips.

Julia sat motionless, rigid; the frown on her brow grew a trifle deeper. Don Alfonso slowly approached her, and bending his head humbly, touched his lips to the girl's hand, at the same time saying:—

"Pardon!"

Julia gave a jump, knocking over the chair, and vanished like a vapor.

VII.

The life of Rivera and his wife had gradually come into regular channels; the house was now entirely furnished. Miguel arose early and went to his library to work. Maximina stayed some time longer in her room, making up for the trials which she had been obliged to undergo both at the convent and at her aunt's house. Her constitution required much sleep, and she had never been able to satisfy this necessity. Once she had asked her aunt as a special favor:—

"Aunt, when will you let me sleep as long as I should like?"

"Some day, some day, I will let you."

But the day never came. She had been obliged to be up at half-past five in the winter, and at five in summer, and there was no help for it. Now that there was no one to torment her, since Miguel dressed as quietly as possible so as not to wake her, she was able to indulge in her slothfulness. When at last she got up she would go straight to the library, and always greet her husband with a timid—

"What will you say to me?"

"What am I going to say to you, tonta? It must have been terrible to get up so early! It is not yet quarter-past nine!"

Maximina, who had noticed in passing, that the clock said that it was almost ten, was delighted with her husband's equivocation, and would kiss him affectionately.

"Listen; you must call me to-morrow when you get up."

"All right, I will."

"On your word?"

"On my word of honor."

It is safe to say that Miguel did not fulfil this promise: he felt that it was too great a pity to do so.

During the first months of their married life they made various calls, and received an equal number; among others, one from the Galician señoritas whose acquaintance they had made on the train; and they showed Maximina a warm and boisterous affection, appropriate to such maidens. Everywhere the young wife left a charming impression by her simple and natural manners.

"What a good woman your wife must be!" said Miguel's friends, when they found him alone.

The young man would smile with ill-repressed pride, and exclaim:—

"She is just a mere child!"

But he would say to himself:—

"God gave me light."

Marriage had not caused him to lose any of his independence, nor any of those bachelor habits which are so hard to overcome at a certain age. Maximina never demanded, or even asked, any sacrifice of him. She felt herself absolutely happy to be the wife of the man whom she adored; and the daily and commonplace actions of life were to her a source of unspeakable delight.

When breakfast time came, she would lightly lift the latch of the library door, step noiselessly up to her husband, and say:—

"It is half-past twelve now."

While they were breakfasting, the conversation which they kept up was full of affectionate trifles; when their eyes met, they expressed mute caresses; and many times Miguel reached across the table to get his wife's hand and kiss it, much to the young woman's terror and apprehension; she would instantly snatch it away by main force, glancing at the door as though there were danger of some dragon making its appearance.

The dragon was Juana, who was likely to appear with the waiter in her hands.

After breakfast came the happiest hour of the day for Maximina: she would go with her husband to the library, and he, settling himself comfortably in an easy-chair, would take her on his knees, fold her to him, and whisper in her ears the sweetest things she ever heard. Sometimes it happened that he would fall into a doze, and Maximina would not lift a finger for fear of waking him; and even though her position were uncomfortable, she would endure it until Miguel opened his eyes.

"There now, I must be going!" he would say, getting up. "What! so soon?" she would exclaim sadly.

Miguel would fondle her, and smile, and take leave of her at the door. It seemed as though these leave-takings would never end.

"They might see us from the opposite side," Maximina would say, tearing herself out of his arms.

"But the door is closed!"

"That makes no difference; they might see us through the ventanilla.[20]"

Sometimes, as a little joke on his wife, he would start to go without saying good by; but as soon as she heard him raise the latch, she would drop whatever she was engaged in doing, whether in the dining-room, the kitchen, or in her own room, and fly to the door. When she did not hear the latch, he would do his best to make her hear it.

Maximina spent her afternoons with the servants. Besides Juana, they had hired two others,—a cook, and another maid, who had a better idea of laundry work than the maid from Pasajes.

When Miguel came in at dusk, and rang the bell, the young woman's heart would give a leap, and she herself would run to open the door for him. Sometimes she would let the maid open it; but then she would hide behind the door or in the next room. The maid's smiling face would betray the secret to the young man, that his wife was somewhere near, and he would say, sniffing in a comical way:—

"I smell Maximina here."

And then he would go straight to where she was hiding, and catch her by the arm.

"I don't see how you found me so quick," she would say, with simulated disappointment. At other times she would open the ventanilla, and ask:—

"What is it you want?"

"Does Don Miguel Rivera live here?" he would ask.

"Yes, señor; but he is not at home."

"Is the señora in?"

"The señora is in, but she cannot receive you."

"Tell her that there is a gentleman here who wants to give her a hug and a kiss."

They laughed and amused themselves with these trifles, and the young wife never thought of asking her husband to give her an account of his time. She would go with him to the library. Miguel would take a book and sit down, saying:—

"There now, leave me alone a few minutes; I want to read."

"You naughty, naughty boy!" she would retort with innocent vexation. "You are very naughty to send me away!"

Miguel would relent, and pull her back by the hand.

After dinner they used to spend another little while together, and then he would go to the café, and from there to his editorial rooms, returning at twelve or one. His wife used to try to wait for him, either by reading a book or by taking a nap. Saturdays they always went to the theatre, for La Independencia was not published on Sundays, and so there was one day in the seven when he was not driven with work.

One evening, as she was coming down stairs, Maximina, who was occupied in putting on her gloves, tripped and fell, rolling down several steps.

"Oh! my wife!" cried Miguel, hastening to her aid.

The young woman got up with a smile, though she, was flushed with alarm. She had not suffered any harm, but the heart-rending cry uttered by Miguel had gone to the very depths of her soul.

Then, also for the first time, Miguel realized how this gentle creature had taken possession of his heart.

She had been greatly troubled at a slight ailment from which her husband suffered during the early months of their marriage: severe rheumatic pains kept him housed for several days; he grew pale and thin, and, worse than all, was in a very unhappy frame of mind, for he was not a man to endure adversities patiently.

Maximina was deeply troubled, and do the best she could, it was impossible for her to hide her grief. She sat all day long beside the bed, and did not take her eyes from her husband; from time to time, almost overcome with grief, and making great efforts to control herself, she would say:—

"You feel better, you do feel better, don't you? Yes, yes, you must feel better!"

"Since you say so, you must be very sure of it," he would say slyly, with an ironical smile.

And then seeing her great, timid, innocent eyes fill with tears, he would repent of his unseasonable words, and add, caressing her hand:—

"Don't mind about me. I am doing well. To-morrow I shall be all right; truly I shall."

And the young wife was happy for a few moments, until she would be alarmed again by some new complaint from the sick man.

How delightful when he got well again! It was the first time that her husband ever heard her sing at the top of her voice. She ran and jumped, jested with the maids, and was even quite successful in mimicking the Madrid accent which Juana had been recently acquiring. This sudden attack of obstreperous joy formed a lovely contrast with the usual seriousness of her character. Miguel, who knew the reason of it, looked at her with delight.

When he was entirely recovered, it was incumbent upon them to attend mass at San Sebastian. Maximina suggested it, and asked him with so much humility that he hadn't the heart to object.

The former colegiala of the convent of Vergara could not help mixing religion with all the acts of her life. Miguel, in spite of his own lack of faith, found his wife's piety so poetical, so innocent, that it never once passed through his mind to disaffect her of it. "If ever it became hypocritical, it would be quite another thing," he said to himself.

Consequently he was not at all averse to going with her every Sunday to mass; besides, Maximina for many months could not bring herself to set foot in the street alone.

After a while, however, the brigadier's son began to forget his duty, and under the pretext that San Sebastian was near at hand, he would stay at home Sunday mornings, while Maximina, with heroic courage, would assume the terrible risk of going to church all by herself.

Still she suffered greatly; she imagined that everybody despised her, that they were going to say impudent things to her; the unfriendly glances so much in fashion among the natives of Madrid filled her with terror; she could have wished to be invisible!

But she did not venture to tell her fears to Miguel, lest she should vex him, and cause him to go to mass with her against his inclinations.

One morning, a little while after she had started out for church, Miguel heard the bell ring violently; then the library door was flung open, and Maximina came in, pale as a sheet.

"What has happened?" he demanded, rising.

Maximina dropped into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and began to weep.

Miguel anxiously insisted: "Did you feel ill?"

The young wife made an affirmative gesture.

"How was it? Tell me."

"I don't know," she replied, in a weak and hesitating voice. "I had been in church but a few minutes.... I begun to feel sick. Then the pictures of the saints began to waver before my eyes.... I felt as though my sight were leaving me.... And without knowing what I was doing I started to run.... And before I knew it I found myself near the grand altar.... I heard the people saying: 'What is it? what is it?' and that there was a confusion.... I turned around, and without looking at any one, I crossed the church again, and came out...."

Miguel succeeded in calming her; he made the servant bring her a cup of lime juice, and promised that he would not let her go to church again alone.

After a while, when she was entirely recovered, he asked her a question in a whisper, which she, dropping her eyes, answered in the negative. Then with a smiling face he whispered a few words in her ear.... The young wife, when she heard them, trembled, fastened her eyes on him with an anxious expression for a moment, and, confused and blushing, threw herself into his arms, murmuring:—

"Oh, don't deceive me! Don't deceive me, for Heaven's sake!"

VIII.

From this day forth the serenity and sweetness which we have said was characteristic of Maximina's face began to gain a more concentrated, more delicate aspect, like the mystic expression of saints assured of heaven. She did not speak of the occurrence with her husband again, and when he alluded to it, she dropped her smiling eyes, and her face flushed a little.

But Miguel understood perfectly that she was thinking of nothing else; that the bliss of coming maternity filled her whole nature, her life, and her being. He also was delighted, not so much at the new trust with which nature was going to honor him, as at the spectacle of his wife's happiness, and in secretly watching in her eyes, and in all her movements, the adorable mystery that was taking place in her soul.

When they walked along the street, he noticed that she cast quick and anxious glances at the linen shops, where baby-caps and children's wardrobes were on exhibition. And divining that she would enjoy stopping, he would make some excuse for asking the price of shirts or handkerchiefs, and let her amuse herself looking at infant wardrobes.

"Do you know," she would say afterwards, "do you know how much baby shirts cost a dozen?"

"No," he would answer, laughing.

"I do, though!"

One day, as he was passing by the chamber door into the library, he caught sight of her looking into the wardrobe mirror; and he was surprised, because no woman was ever freer from vanity and coquetry than she; but his surprise was changed into amusement when he saw that she was looking at her profile to see whether her form had changed. But lest he should embarrass her he went out on his tiptoes.

Another day, as they were walking in the neighborhood of the Retiro, they happened to see a white hearse in which was a child's coffin. Maximina looked at it with an expression of deep pain, and watched it until it disappeared from sight; then, with a gentle sigh, she exclaimed;—

"Oh, how sorry it makes me feel for children that die!"

Miguel smiled and made no reply, reading her thoughts.

While time glided away in this sweet and delightful manner for our young couple, Marroquín, the hairy Marroquín, was trying to accomplish his own ends; the nation was over a volcano, and the former professor of the Colegio de la Merced, secretly, and in company with our friend, Merelo y García, was not behindhand in stirring the flames of civil discord.

Not a night passed without both of them uttering bloody prognostications for the future in the Café de Levante; the number of times that institutions had been crumbled into dust on the marble tables was beyond belief; the waiters, from listening to democratic discourses, served the customers badly; more then once the secret police had visited the establishment, so said the disturbers of the public peace; but there had been no arrests, and this made Marroquín desperate. He enjoyed, beyond measure, speaking so as to be heard of all who came to the table, at the same time fastening his gaze on some peaceable customer, and making tremendous boasts, so as to rouse his curiosity.

"Don Servando," he would shout to a gentlemen sitting some distance from him, "do you expect to go out for a walk to-morrow?"

"Certainly, as always, Señor Marroquín."

"You had better not take your wife and children."

"Man alive! why not?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! That is all I have to say."

But the revolutionary professor enjoyed most one evening when he succeeded in bringing to the café; his old friend and colleague Don Leandro.

Don Leandro's name was still on the faculty of the Colegio de la Merced, which was no longer under the direction of the ex-captain of artillery, but of the chaplain Don Juan Vigil. Don Leandro was the only one of the old professors left, and this was because he was unhappy and patiently endured the caprices of the chaplain, who now more than ever took delight in tormenting him, and lavishing upon him the tremendous gifts of sarcasm wherewith he was endowed by nature.

Marroquín met him one Sunday in the street, and after a hearty greeting, as his custom was, he began to say harsh things of the curé, which was also a habit of his. This flattered the worthy Don Leandro immensely, though he affected not to listen to him, for he detested backbiting, and was greatly afraid of hell, though not so much of purgatory.

So that Marroquín, in spite of his depraved ideas, served as a powerful temptation for his friend to go into El Levante and have a glass of water, for example. Don Leandro, no matter what opprobriums the heretical professor heaped upon his born enemy, acquiesced with a smile; and even, from time to time, he himself would let slip some spiteful word, promising before the tribunal of his conscience to confess it immediately.

But the trouble was, Don Leandro's confessor was the very same chaplain, who, like his glorious predecessor, Gregory VII., aspired to possess the key to the consciences of his subjects, and would not hear to any alumnus or dependent of the college confiding his load of sins to any other bosom than his.

This, according to all logic, caused poor Don Leandro great tribulation, who, as he went often to confession, found himself obliged to tell the chaplain all the evil thoughts that he had about him; but the torment that the latter inflicted was much greater and more cruel. Oftentimes, while Don Leandro was unbosoming himself, the confessor heaved deep sighs and made the confessional creak as though his chair pinched him.

He was tempted to dismiss him from the college, but he felt that such a thing would be an attack on the sacred character of the confessional, since Don Leandro did his duty conscientiously, and to turn him off required that he should make use of his knowledge acquired in the tribunal of penance.

Afterwards it occurred to him to send him to some one else to make his confession; but the demon of curiosity had firm possession of him, and, though every day he promised himself to give him notice, he never reached the point of doing so, and continued to hear his own deeds criticised without the power to defend himself.

"Barájoles! what a penance God has put upon me," he would say afterwards, as he strode up and down his room. "How I should like to give this idiot a couple of raps!"

Don Leandro, when he entered El Levante, had no idea that he was going to meet so many gentlemen, and still less that there were among them a number of impious revolutionists, enemies of "all religious restraint." Accordingly, when he began to hear them speak of the government in the terms which they were wont to use, he flushed deeply and began to cast surreptitious glances in all directions, and especially at Marroquín.

"See here, Señor Marroquín!" he said in an undertone, "let us talk about something else."

Marroquín, smiling in a superior manner, replied:—

"Don't have any fears, my friend Don Leandro; the police have come in here already several times; but they did not see fit to lay their hands on any one: if they should, the affair is now so well matured it would be the signal for the eruption to break out."

"What eruption?"

"The revolution, man alive!"

"Santo Crísto! Do you know, Señor Marroquín, these things are very serious, very serious! If you will not take it in bad part, I should like to be going.... Anyway, I have something that I must be doing...."

Marroquín took him by the arm, and compelled him to sit down again.

"Don't you have any apprehension, my dear friend! Nothing can happen to you, at any rate, because you do not, like me, figure in all the lists which the police have been sending to the authorities."

"No matter; if it does not make any difference to you, we will change the subject."

The subject was changed, indeed, but the topic which followed was still more terrible and demoniacal.

They talked of nothing else than the queen, and any one can imagine what could have been said of that august lady,—that she was going to lose her crown and go into exile.

The moment the professor heard these atrocious remarks, he grew livid, and it was impossible to keep him longer; he left without saying good by, and directed his steps toward his college, which he reached in a breathless condition....

The poor man had the innocence to relate this episode to the mayordomo, who lost no time in reporting it to the director.

Unlucky Don Leandro! For many days he had to endure the chaplain's grievous and coarse mockery.... What troubled him most was, that before the scholars he called him conspirator, in that sarcastic tone affected by the curé in such cases. At other times he nicknamed him the "Venetian conspirator," which made the boys laugh, and as Don Leandro said, very truly, "The dignity of the professorship was undermined."

The labors of our friend Mendoza, otherwise Brutandor, in behalf of the revolutionary cause, were employed in a higher circle than those of Marroquín, Merelo, and the other small fry of the liberal school. He had disappeared for the time being, as we already know, and in Spain the fact of a person disappearing is something that gives infinite importance, and often imperishable glory. For, indeed, when a man disappears, the public rightly presume that it must be for working out in secret great and noteworthy undertakings. Those of Mendoza, although we know not what they were, must have been portentous, if what was said was true, since they obliged him to remain concealed in Madrid more than three months, changing his concealment and his disguise any number of times. Miguel had known something of his life and perils, but at last he lost track of him.

This was the state of affairs, when one evening, after dinner, while Rivera was sitting in the library with Maximina on his knee, there was a tremendous ring at the door-bell.

The young woman was on her feet in a second.

"Who can that be at this time o' day?" queried Miguel. "Has either of the girls gone out?"

"I think not."

Just then Juana came in.

"Señorito, it is a waiter from the café wants to speak with you."

"A waiter from the café? I don't remember that I have any account anywhere.... Tell him to come in."

"Wait! wait!" exclaimed Maximina; "let me get out by this door!"

And she ran out by the parlor door, as was always her custom, when any of Rivera's visitors came.

At that instant the waiter appeared, and Miguel could scarcely recognize under his disguise his friend Mendoza.

"Perico!"

"Shhhhhhhhh!" exclaimed Mendoza, putting on an expression of terrible fear.

And he hastened to bolt the door.

"What is up?" asked Miguel, affecting great anxiety.

Mendoza sat down, heaved a sigh, and answered frankly:—

"Nothing."

"I thought so."

Brutandor, without heeding the irony of those words, began to whisper, bringing his mouth close to his friend's ear:—

"I have been for the last fortnight at La Florida, hiding in the house of the laundrymen...."

"Man! if I had known it, I should have made you a visit."

"Don't say anything about visits! They might follow you, and get their hands on me."

"And how have you enjoyed your visit in the country?"

"I had a pretty fair sort of time. There was only one bed in the house; in the night while the laundrymen were asleep, I would go out, and take a walk along the river bank, and at sunrise, when the men were up, I used to go to bed."

"How cool and delightful it must have been!"

"Well, sometimes it would nauseate me a little; do you wonder? The Countess de Ríos used to send me my meals with great precautions, changing the servant every time.... But day before yesterday the laundryman did not sleep in the house, and this, as you can easily imagine, worried me...."

"That's clear; when laundrymen don't sleep at home, it's a very bad sign."

"This morning I saw him with two bad-looking men ... suspicious characters, and so, fearing that they might hand me over to the police, I decided to leave the place. The waiter in a wretched café there sold me this disguise, and after it got to be dark, I made my escape without saying a word. I thought of going to Las Ventas del Espíritu Santo, but the police keep track of all such places. Then a brilliant idea struck me,—that of coming to your house. How the deuce would they ever think of my being here! A lady-love of mine years ago used to hide her letters among her father's papers, and he would go hunting for them all over the house."

"So that you stole the idea from your sweetheart? You ought to be original even at the cost of arrest!... However, I am delighted that you came. I cannot help being flattered greatly to have in my house a conspirator of so much importance.... For you do not realize the prestige that you enjoy, nor what is said about you on this account...."

"Really?" exclaimed Mendoza, flushing with pleasure.

"I assure you. You are called one of the heroes of the revolution.... But, my dear sir, what is worth much costs much; the greater the name you win among the revolutionists, the more exposed you will find yourself to whatever noose the government may tie for you. If they catch you now, I am inclined to think that you won't get off without being shot."

"Do you think so?" asked Brutandor, growing frightfully pale.

"I do, indeed.... But don't be alarmed; they won't think of coming here after you."

"See here, I beg of you, keep the servants from knowing anything about it, because you see some little word might get out through them ... and I should be lost!"

"It is rather a hard matter to deceive them," replied Miguel, laughing at the tone in which his friend spoke those last words.

Mendoza took up his abode in the house; but first it was necessary to have a trunk brought from his lodging, and for him to change his clothes in Miguel's bedroom; when this was accomplished he went out cautiously, and soon returned like an ordinary visitor.

By these manœuvres he deceived himself, and was convinced that he had deceived the servants....

Maximina did not fancy having the guest. She was so happy living alone with her husband! Nevertheless, with her usual docility to his wishes, she said not a word, nor showed in her face any sign of dissatisfaction.

While Miguel was away from home, Mendoza spent his time with her, but whole hours passed without their exchanging a dozen words. The young girl of Pasajes was not a very deep thinker. And Mendoza, as we know, was in the habit of keeping to himself the good things that came to his mind. Still she watched him closely out of the corner of her eyes, and afterwards gave her husband the benefit of her impressions. Though she tried to make the best of them, it was evident that they were not very flattering.

"It seems to me that Mendoza hasn't pleased you very well."

Maximina smiled, and said nothing.

"Well, he is an unfortunate."

"I imagine that he is not as fond of you as you are of him; that nothing in the world is quite as important as himself."

"Perhaps you are right, but it can't be denied that he is simpático. His egotism amuses me; it is like a child's."

Maximina, as her habit was, sat silently trying to evolve through her mental consciousness the meaning of simpático[21]; but her efforts remained unsuccessful.

Five days after his arrival, Mendoza received a letter from the Countess de Ríos, inclosing another from her husband. Both reached their destination by passing through various hands. The general said that the party who furnished the money for publishing La Independencia gave him to understand that he would not give another quarter unless he were guaranteed the thirty thousand duros which he had already spent. As he could not address himself to any of his friends, and judged that his wife was not a suitable person for the transaction, he charged him at all hazards to have an interview with the "white horse," and try to get a subscription that would be effective in pacifying him, because the paper had been a constant loss to them in these critical times.

Mendoza handed the letter to Rivera.

Although he had no connection with the financial administration of La Independencia, Rivera had for some time been conversant with the monetary difficulties with which the journal was struggling. After reading the letter carefully, he said, looking up:—

"Well, what now?"

"Well, as you can imagine, I cannot undertake this commission, because I do not go out of doors...."

"And so you want me to fill the gap, do you?"

Mendoza was silent, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Well then, my friend," said the brigadier's son in a determined voice, "I am sorry to tell you that I will not undertake to ask money or guarantees of money from any one."

Both were silent for some time after these words. At last Mendoza, without lifting his eyes from the floor, and evidently disturbed, began to speak:—

"I believe that if you were willing, the matter might be arranged without asking money of any one.... Eguiburu will be satisfied if only your name is endorsed, and he will furnish all that is necessary each month...."

Miguel looked at him keenly, while the other stood still with downcast eyes; then he said, with a laugh:—

"You are indeed a man of happy ideas! If you die before I do, I shall be able to take your skull, and say more complimentary things than Hamlet said about Yorick's."

Then he suddenly grew serious, and began to pace up and down the room with the letter in his hands. After a while he stopped in front of his friend, who was still standing in the position of a whipped schoolboy, and said:—

"And who is going to guarantee me the general paying those thirty thousand duros?"

"The general is a man of honor."

"Eguiburu, as you well know, will not be satisfied with such money; he wants either gold or silver."

"Besides, the count has many wealthy friends; some of them, as you well know, are compromised in this movement, and if the whole debt of the paper were put upon any one of them it would be paid."

The matter was discussed for a long time between them; Miguel in his ordinary jesting tone, Mendoza with his imperturbable gravity, and showing no impatience, but holding firmly to his reasons.

Rivera was over-persuaded. He finally yielded, and consented to endorse the paper. Over and above his friend's entreaties there was the interest which he felt in the success of the journal, and the affection which he felt for it; and these influenced him to take the step. On the other hand, although he jested at the general's honor, he did not doubt it, and was certain that he would not be "left on the bull's horns."

When, on the next day, he told Maximina what he had done, she said nothing, and went on working at the edging which she had in her hands.

"What do you think about it? Did I make a mistake?"