THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA

(MARTA Y MARÍA):

A Realistic Social Novel

BY
DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS.

———

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

———

NEW YORK:
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.,
No. 13 Astor Place.

Copyright, 1886,
BY T. Y. CROWELL & CO.

THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA.

——

AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE.

THE work which I now have the honor of presenting to the public is not based upon ordinary every-day occurrences; nor are the incidents narrated in it such as we are wont frequently to witness. Very likely it will be called untrue or improbable, and regarded as a fanciful production, remote from all reality. With resignation I bow myself in advance to these criticisms, though I claim the right to protest in my own heart, if not publicly, against the unfairness of such a charge. For the chief events of this novel—I must say it, though my glory as an originator may be destroyed—have all actually taken place. The author has done nothing more than recount them and give them unity.

I have the presumption to believe that, though Marta y María may not be a beautiful novel, it is a realistic novel. I know that realism—at the present time called naturalism—has many impulsive adepts, who conceive that truth exists only in the vulgar incidents of life, and that these are the only ones worth transferring to art. Fortunately this is not the case. Outside of markets, garrets, and slums, the truth exists no less. The very apostle of naturalism, Emil Zola, confesses this by painting scenes of polished and lofty poetry, which assuredly conflict with his exaggerated æsthetic theories.

The character of the protagonist of my novel is an exceptional character. I take delight in acknowledging this. But to be exceptional is not to be less true to nature, less human. Mystic temperaments are not apt to abound in Madrid: the frivolous and sensual life of the court is little adapted for their development. But all who have lived in a province will have known, just as I have, certain passionate and pious souls, who, without any motive of a temporal kind, have renounced the world and consecrated themselves to God. Take the periodicals, and scarcely a day will pass without your seeing the announcement of some young woman becoming a nun. Among these young persons are beautiful girls, daughters of wealthy families, rejoicing in all the gifts of nature and the flatteries of society. Is not, peradventure, the careful study of such souls worthy of the literary man, even though he call himself a naturalist?

The motive or occasion of this book being written is as follows: I found myself one afternoon in Don Fernando Fe's bookstore, turning over recent publications and periodicals, when there fell into my hands a number of the Ilustración Española y Americana, in which appeared a capital cut representing "The Taking of the Veil in a Convent of Carmelite Nuns." A pretty young girl was seen on her knees before the inner door of the convent, from which three sisters, bundled up in great thick robes of black, were coming forth to receive her, with a coarse wooden cross. In the background an aged bishop was calling down upon her the blessing of heaven; and a lady, in whom the mother was to be instantly recognized, was looking on with ecstatic and troubled eyes. Still farther back there was a numerous group of people, pre-eminent among them being two other young ladies, elegantly dressed, whose resemblance to the novice quickly told that they were her sisters. The first was sadly contemplating the ceremony, while the other hid her face in her hands, as if she were trying to smother her sobs.

I felt impressed in presence of this scene so admirably interpreted by the artist, and as a natural consequence I was assailed by many memories and not a few reflections connected with the same subject, and I came to the conclusion that it was worth while to make a study of it. It did not deal with anything ancient and remote which might serve merely as a theme for the investigations of the historian, but with a most curious and interesting fact taking place before our very eyes. The enthusiasm, the ardent raptures, the ecstasies, and even the frenzies of these souls at once simple and passionate, who find no way to quench the thirst devouring them, to calm the unrest torturing them, by intercourse with the world, and who seek in the mystery of the cloister, medicine for their ills, seemed to me a theme worthy for the contemporary novelist to master and offer with due respect to the consideration of the public. A certain series of events which took place a few years ago, and happened to come under my observation, occurred to my mind, and instantly the desire seized me to write a novel. But one circumstance proved to be a stumbling-block. It had never entered into my calculations to write novels with transcendental themes, especially those based upon religious subjects. This I declared without qualification in a little line of parenthesis which I put under the title of my first novel, El Señorito Octavio (a novel without transcendental thought). And in truth I was afraid to bring myself so soon into conflict with my æsthetic programme in a country where everything is pardoned except contradiction. But among the honorable pleasures conferred by the Supreme Creator upon the heroic Spanish public, there is none more keen and delectable than that of breaking the laws and programmes which they have freely imposed upon themselves. In this particular, sybaritism has reached the point of making itself every morning some rule for the pleasure afforded by breaking it in the afternoon. Therefore as soon as I saw the contradiction, the problem was solved. I will write the novel, I said, for my conscience, so that I may have to endure fifteen literary sessions of the Athenæum without stirring from my place.

The novel is now written. The subject is one sufficiently rude and liable to be carried away by prejudices and extravagances which the novelist who has a wish to paint the reality must avoid with care. I have striven with all my power to bring myself into a point of view relatively neutral (granting that the absolute cannot be attained), and to study the theme with the calmness of the physiologist. Whatever my sympathies may have been, I have tried always to subordinate them to the truth and to the profound respect which all noble sentiments and all honest beliefs deserve from me. You shall say if I have succeeded.

CHAPTER I.
IN THE STREET.

WITHIN the arcade the people were crowding relentlessly; each and every one was performing prodigies of skill to flout the physical law of the impenetrability of bodies, by reducing his own to an imaginary quantity. The night was unusually thick and dark. The feet of the loungers found each other out in the darkness, and when they met they indulged in somewhat expressive forms of endearment; the elbows of some, by a secret and fatal impulse, went straight into the eyes of others; the passive subject of such caresses instantly raised his hand to the place of contact, and usually exclaimed with some asperity, "You barbarian, you might at least—" but an energetic "Sh—sh—sh" from the throng obliged him to nip his discourse in the bud, and silence again began to reign. Silence was at this time the most pressing necessity which was felt by the inhabitants of Nieva there gathered together. The least noise was regarded as an act of sedition, and was instantly punished by a threatening hiss. Coughs and sneezes were prohibited, and still more condign punishment was meted out to laughter and conversation. There was profuse perspiration, although the night was not among the mildest of autumn.

In the arcades of the houses opposite, more or less the same state of things existed; but in the street itself there were few people, because a very fine rain was slowly falling, and this the natives of Nieva had learned not to despise, since in the long run and notwithstanding its gentle and insinuating ways, it was like any other. Only a few people with umbrellas, and some others who, not having them, sheltered themselves with their philosophy, maintained a firm footing in the midst of the gutter.

The balconied windows of the house of Elorza were thrown wide open, and through the embrasures streamed a bright and cheerful light which made the dark and misty night outside still more melancholy. Likewise there streamed forth from time to time torrents of musical notes let loose from a piano.

The house of Elorza was the principal one in a long, narrow street, adorned with an arcade on both sides like almost all the rest in the town of Nieva. Its most important façade looked into this street, but it had another with balconies facing the town square, which was wide and handsome like that of a city. Though the darkness does not allow us to make out exactly the appearance of the house, yet we can prove that it is a building of faced stone and of one story, with spacious arcade, the elegant and stately arches of which instantly declare the rank of its owners. This arcade, which might be called a portico, makes a notable contrast with that of the succeeding houses, which is low and narrow and supported by round, rough pillars without any ornamentation. Likewise the same difference is to be seen in the pavement. In the arcade of which we are speaking, it is of well-set flagging, while the others offer merely an inconvenient footway paved with cobble-stones. Without venturing, indeed, to call it a palace, it is not presumptuous to assert that this mansion had been built for the exclusive use and gratification of some person of importance; the fact that it had only one story very clearly decided this point. The truth demands that we set forth likewise the fact that the architect had given undeniable proofs of good taste in laying out the plan of the building, since its proportions could not be more elegant and correct. But what most struck the eye was a certain attractive and aristocratic thriftiness about it perfectly free from presumption, which, though calculated to inspire envy, certainly did not arouse in the minds of the people those hatreds and heart-burnings always excited by overweening wealth. The frowning firmament ceaselessly poured down all the moist and chilly mist with which its clouds were surcharged. The shadows shrowded and concealed the outlines of the house, crowding together underneath the arches and in the hollows of their stone mouldings, but they did not dare so much as to approach the bright, joyful openings of the balconies, which drove them away in terror. They gazed clandestinely into the heavenly el dorado of the interior, and eaten up with envy, they poured out their spite upon the heads of the philosophers who were listening in the open air. The pyramidal group of loungers, enjoying the protection of the opposite arcades, did not take their eyes from the balconies, while those who clustered under the arches of the house itself, as they lacked this expedient, entirely trusted to their ears, the receptive capacity of which they strove to increase by placing the palms of their hands behind them and doubling them forward a little. The darkness was dense in both arcades, for the town lanterns shed their pallid rays at respectable distances. Each served only to light up a sufficiently circumscribed area at wide intervals in the plaza, making melancholy reflections on the wet stones of the pavement. Amid the shadows now and then the light of a cigar flashed out for an instant, causing a ruddy glow on the smoker's mustachios. A little further away, on the corner, a variety shop still remained open; but the shopkeeper's shadow could be seen often crossing in front of the door as he was putting his wares in order before shutting up. On the principal floor of the same house the balconied windows were all thrown wide open; through them rang voices, coarse outbursts of laughter, and the clicking of billiard balls, sounds which fortunately reached the arcades greatly softened. This was the Café de la Estrella, frequented until the small hours of the night by a dozen indefatigable patrons. Otherwise, silence reigned, although it was impossible to get rid of the peculiar rumble inseparable from the thronging of people in one place, which is caused by the shuffling of feet, the stirring of bodies, and above all by the smothered phrases in falsetto tones let fall by some in the hearing of others.

At the moment when the present history begins, the vibrating tones of the piano were heard preluding the passionate allegro of the aria from "La Traviata": gran Dio morir si giovine. When the prelude was ended, a soft and appropriate accompaniment began. The expectation was intense. At last, above the accompaniment arose a clear and most dulcet voice, echoing through the whole plaza like a sound from heaven. The two groups of listeners were stirred as though they had touched their fingers to the knob of an electric machine, and a subdued murmur of satisfaction ran up and down among them.

"'Tis Maria," said three or four, hoping that the ears of the walls would not overhear them.

"It was high time!" remarked one, in a little louder voice.

"It is she that is singing now; hark! and not that beast of the canning factory!" exclaimed a third, still more impulsive.

"Have the goodness to keep quiet, gentlemen, so that we can hear!" cried a very angry voice.

"Let that man hold his tongue!"

"Out with him!"

"Silence!"

"Sh—sh—sh—shhh!"

"I have always insisted that there are no people more ill-bred than those of this place!" again cried the angry voice.

"Hold your tongue!"

"Don't be a fool, man!"

"Sh—sh—sh—shhh!"

Finally all became silent, and Verdi's passionate melody could be heard, interpreted with remarkable delicacy. The lovely, limpid voice, issuing from the open balconies, rent the saturated atmosphere out of doors, and vibrating with force, went the rounds of the plaza, and died away in the mazes of the town. The loneliness and gloom of the night increased the power and range of that lovely voice, lovely beyond all praise. I do not say that, for any one of those clever people who feel themselves wrapped up in the vocalism of the paradise of the Royal Theatre, the singer was a prodigy in her mastery of attacking, sustaining, and trilling the notes; but I affirm that for those whom we do not see tortured by musical scruples, she sang very well, and she possessed, above all, a bewitching voice, of a passionate timbre, which penetrated to the very depths of the soul.

The loungers of both arcades, and likewise the philosophers of the gutter, gave unmistakable proofs of feeling moved. The taste for music in country towns always partakes of a more violent and impetuous nature than is shown in large cities, and this is due to the fact that the latter are furnished with an excess of theatres and salons, while the former can only from time to time enjoy it. No one whispered, or moved a step from his place; with open mouths and far-away eyes, they followed ecstatically the course of that despairing melody, in which Violetta mourns that she must die after such sufferings undergone. The most sensitive began to shed tears, remembering some gallant adventure of their youthful days. The sky, still relentless, kept sending down its inexhaustive deposit of liquid dust. Two of the philosophers of the gutter felt of their garments, shook their sombreros, and muttering a curse against the elements, took refuge in the arcade, causing by their arrival a slight disturbance among their neighbors.

At some little distance from both groups, and near a column, were seen, not very distinctly, three small bodies, with whom we must bring the reader into contact for a few moments. One of them struck a match to light a cigar, and there appeared three fresh, laughing, mischievous faces of fourteen or fifteen years, which resolved into darkness again as the match went out.

"Say, Manolo," asked one, lowering his voice as much as possible, "who gave you that mouth-piece?"

"Suppose I ragged it of my brother!"

"Is it amber?"

"Amber and meerschaum; it cost three duros in Madrid."

"I pity you, if you should get caught by your—"

"Hush up, you fool you! What have we got a servant in the house for, if not to blame for such faults?"

A man who was standing nearer than the rest, harshly bade them hold their tongues. The urchins obeyed. But after a moment Manolo said, in a barely perceptible voice, "See here, lads! would you like to have me break this all up in a jiffy?"

"Yes, yes, Manolo!" hastily replied the others, who evidently had great faith in the destructive powers of their companion.

"Then you just wait; stay quiet where you are."

And moving a little aside from them, he hid himself beside a door, and set up three extraordinary yelps, precisely like those emitted by dogs when they are beaten. A tremendous, furious, universal barking immediately resounded through the spaces. All the dogs of the community, united and compact, like one single mastiff, protested energetically against the punishment inflicted upon one of their kind. Maria's singing was completely lost beneath that formidable yelping. The listening multitude experienced a painful shock, stirred tumultuously for some moments, uttered incoherent exclamations against the cursed animals, endeavored to bring them to silence by shouting at them, and at last, seeing the uselessness of their efforts, resigned themselves to the hope that they would cease of themselves. The howls, in fact, were gradually dying away, all the time becoming more and more infrequent and remote; only the dog belonging to the variety shop, which had just been closed, continued for some time barking furiously. At length even he ceased, though most unwillingly. The song of the dying Violetta was once again heard, pure and limpid as before, and once again the auditors began to experience the softening impressions which it had made upon them, although they were somewhat restless and nervous, as if fearing at any moment to be deprived of that pleasure.

Manolo, choking with amusement, rejoined his companions and was received with stifled laughter and applause.

"Come, Manolito, yelp once again."

"Wait, wait awhile; we want to take 'em by surprise."

After some little time had passed, Manolo once more cautiously crept away, and, skirting the group, stationed himself at the opposite extreme. From there he set up three more howls like the first, and the same thunderous barking filled the spaces, giving back kind for kind. The multitude underwent a new excess of vexation, but accompanied by far greater tumult; everybody was speaking at once, and uttering furious ejaculations.

"This is horrible!"

"Here's a concert for us given by those confounded dogs!"

"The dog that howled is the one to blame."

"Curse him!"

"Confound it!"

"Silence! silence! give us a chance to hear something!"

"What can you hear?"

"Deuced bad luck!"

"Silence! silence!"

"Sh—sh—sh—shhhhhh!"

The dogs one after another were beginning to quiet down, according to their own good pleasure, and little by little calm was reasserting its sway. Violetta's song re-appeared, full of melancholy, sweetness, and passion. Maria's voice, in her interpretation of it, expressed such pathos that the heart was melted, and tears sprang into the eyes. One single dog, the one at the variety shop, kept on barking with a persistency that was in the highest degree exasperating, since it prevented the singer's voice from reaching the ears of the public with the clearness desired. A man with a cudgel in his hand detached himself from the throng, and braving the elements, crossed the plaza to stop his barking, but the dog immediately smelt the stick and took to flight. The man came back into the arcade. At length perfect silence reigned in the plaza, and the music lovers could enjoy to their hearts' content the concert in the house of Elorza.

What had become of Manolo? His companions waited for him for some time, so as to congratulate him on his praiseworthy conduct, but he did not put in an appearance. The smaller urchin at length timidly asked the other,—

"Say! what would they do to him if they'd caught him yelping?"

"Why, nothing; they'd treat him to a little cane syrup."[1]

He who had propounded the question trembled a little, and held his peace.

"But then," continued the other, "they haven't caught him, not a bit of it; he's too cute to let himself get caught."

At this instant Manolo raised two shrieks still more maddening in the opposite arcade, and with the same madness the dogs of the neighborhood, barking, took up the refrain. It is impossible to describe what happened thereupon in the multitude of listeners in both arcades. The tumult which ensued was in reality overpowering. A goodly number of hands flew about in the darkness, flourishing terrible canes and umbrellas, and from both the throngs arose a chorus of imprecations far from flattering to the canine race. The confusion and disorder took possession of all minds. Breasts breathed nothing but vengeance and extermination.

"Kill that beastly cur! cried a voice above the tumult.

"Yes, yes, break his back for him!" replied another, instigating the fittest method of slaughter.

"That dog, that dog!"

"But where is that cursed beast?"

"Find him and break his back!"

"And if you can't find the dog, break his master's back!"

"That's the idea! his master's!"

"Thunder and lightning! kill 'em both!"

The disorder had increased to such a degree, and the shouting had become so scandalous, that some of the balconied windows in the vicinity emitted a sharp sound, and were cautiously opened; the inquisitive heads which were thrust forth, not being able to discover what had caused the disturbance, and fearing to catch cold, were incontinently withdrawn. In the house of Elorza three or four people likewise peered out and likewise hurriedly drew back, and oh! the grief of it! closed the windows as they went.

"Well now! we shall hear what we must hear."

"Have they shut the windows?"

"Yes, señor, they have, and shut 'em up tight."

From that multitude escaped a submissive sigh of weariness and rage. There was silence for a moment as a tribute rendered to their vanished hopes. No one moved from his place. At last some one said in a loud voice: "Señores, good night, and good luck to you. I'm going home!"

This salutation shook them from their stupor. The groups began to dissolve slowly, not without uttering choleric exclamations. A few individuals walked off under the arcades. Others crossed the plaza with umbrellas spread. A few remained in the same place, making endless commentaries on what had just occurred. At last a half-dozen loafers remained, and these, tired of complaining in that locality, adjourned to the Café de la Estrella, to do the same. While they were crossing the space that lay between the arcade and the café, an angry voice, the same which had raised its protest against the faulty manners of that town, said, with still more anger,—

"I have always declared that there aren't any worse trained dogs than those in this city!"

CHAPTER II.
THE SOIRÉE AT THE ELORZA MANSION.

"WHAT a shame, Isidorito, that you did not study for a doctor! I don't know why it is I imagine you must have a keen eye for diseases."

The young man turned red with pleasure.

"Doña Gertrudis, you flatter me; I have no other desert than that of sticking fast to whatever I undertake, and this seems to me absolutely necessary in whatever career one devotes himself to."

"You are quite right. The main thing is to apply one's self to what lies before him, and not go wool-gathering. Now, for example, take Don Maximo. It cannot be denied that he has great knowledge, and I wish him well, but he has the misfortune of not applying himself to anything that is said to him, and therefore he scarcely ever hits the mark. Please tell me, Isidorito, how is it possible for man to succeed in curing one, if when the invalid is telling him her sufferings, he sets himself to work sharpening lead-pencils or drumming with his fingers. You don't know how I have suffered on account of him. I pray God may not set down against him the harm he has done me. My husband is very fond of him—and so am I too, you must believe me. In spite of all, he is a good man, and it's twenty-four years since he first entered this house; but I must tell the truth though it is hard: the poor man has the misfortune of not applying himself—of not applying himself little or much."

"Just so, just so. Don Maximo, in my opinion, lacks those gifts of observation indispensable to the profession to which he belongs. Perhaps it may surprise you to know what qualifications are needed for the practice of medicine from a scientific point of view; it is my own private opinion, which I am ready to sustain anywhere, either in public or in private. Medicine, in my judgment, is nothing else whatever than an empirical profession, purely empirical. I repeat that it is my private opinion, and that I expound it as such, but I harbor the belief that very soon it will be a truth universally accepted."

"The truth is, Isidorito, that he has simply not understood me. Day before yesterday I spent the whole day with a roaring in my head as though a lot of drums were beating behind it. At the same time this left knee was so swollen that I could not even walk from my room to the dining-room. I sent a message to Don Maximo, and he did not appear till it was dark. I assure you I passed a wretched day, and if it had not been for some tallow plasters which my daughter Marta put on my temples at midnight, I should certainly have died, for Don Maximo did not think it necessary even to have a lamp lighted to see me."

"What you point out still more confirms my assertion. You see how domestic remedies, administered without other judgment than that suggested by experience, by the results obtained in a long series of cases, sometimes operate on the organism in a more successful way than scientific medicine. Such a thing could not happen in our profession, señora, where all the chances that may occur are foreseen in advance by the laws, or by jurisprudence raised into the category of the law. There is not a single litigation which does not find its adequate solution in the civil codes, nor can any crime or misdeed whatsoever be committed, without provision being made for it in some article of the penal code. And in order that nothing may even be wanting the free will of the tribunals (I except the usual interpretation), we have as a supplement the canonical law, which is an abundant source of rules for conduct, though these all are based principally on equity."

"Certainly, certainly, Isidorito. Doctors absolutely do not understand a single thing. If I could measure out into bottles, once for all, the medicine that I have taken, I could very easily open an apothecary shop. And yet here you see me just as I was at the very beginning,—at the very beginning,—without having made a single step in advance. God grants me great resignation, otherwise—Just consider! yesterday I was as usual, but to-day, my fête-day too, what I suffer I'm sure will be the death of me, the death of me;—an uneasiness throughout my body,—a crawling up and down my legs like ants,—a rumbling in my ears. You who have so much talent, don't you know what it is to have a rumbling in the ears?"

"Señora, I think—ahem—that a purely nervous state is answerable for this infirmity,—nervous alterations are so varied and extraordinary—ahem—that it is not possible to reduce them to fixed principles, and so it is much better not to lay down any rule, but to study them in detail, or let each one stand separately."

It was hard work, but at last he extricated himself from the difficulty. Isidorito was a lean, bashful young man, with deep precocious wrinkles in his cheeks, with thin hair and goggle eyes. He was regarded as one of the most serious-minded youths, or perhaps the most serious-minded youth of the town, and always served as a mirror for the fathers of families, to hold up before their rattlebrain sons. "Don't you see how well Isidorito behaves in society, and with what aplomb he talks on all sorts of subjects?" "Ah, if you were like Isidorito, what a happy old age you would make me spend!" "Shame on you for letting Isidorito be made doctor of laws these four years, while you have not succeeded in graduating as a licentiate yet, you blockhead!"

Doña Gertrudis, wife of Don Mariano Elorza, the master of the house in which we find ourselves, is seated, or, to speak more correctly, is reclining, in an easy-chair at Isidorito's side. Although she had not yet passed her forty-fifth year, she appeared to be as old as her husband, who was now approaching his sixtieth. Not entirely lacking in her cadaverous and faded face were the lines of an exceptional beauty, which had given much to talk about there from 1846 to 1848, and which had redounded to her in a multitude of ballads, sonnets, and acrostics, by the most distinguished poets of the town, inserted in a weekly journal entitled El Judio Errante, which was published at that time in Nieva. Doña Gertrudis preserved with great care a gorgeously bound collection of Judios Errantes, and was in the habit of assuring her friends that if the young man who signed his acrostics with a V and three stars had not faded away with quick consumption, he would have been by this time the fashionable poet; and that if another lad, named Ulpiano Menéndez, who disguised himself under the pseudonym of The Moor of Venice, had not gone off to America to make his fortune in business, he would have been, at least, as great as Ayola, Campoamor, or Nuño de Arce. Don Mariano, her husband, shared the same conviction, although at another epoch the lyric poet, as well as the merchant, had caused him great anxieties, and not a few times had disturbed the peaceful course of his love; but he was a just man and fond of giving every one his due.

Doña Gertrudis was wrapt up in a magnificent plush comforter, and her head was covered with a net, underneath which appeared her hair turning from auburn to white. Her features were delicate and regular, and of a singularly faded pallor. Her eyes were blue and extremely melancholy. The marks of close confinement rather than of illness were to be seen in that face.

"This roaring in my ears is killing me, killing me. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, I cannot get any rest anywhere."

"I think that you ought to stay in your room."

"That is worse, Isidorito, that is worse. In my room I cannot distract my thoughts. My mind begins to grind like a mill, and it ends by giving me a fever. I am much sicker than people give me credit for. They'll see how this will end. To-day I am so nervous, so nervous.—Feel my pulse, Isidorito, and tell me if I am not feverish."

As she drew out her thin hand and gave it to the young man, Don Mariano and Don Maximo, who were engaged in lively discussion in the recess of a balconied window, turned their faces in her direction and smiled. Doña Gertrudis blushed a little and hastened to hide her hand under her comforter.

"Your wife already has a new physician!" added Don Maximo, in a tone of irony.

"Bah, bah, bah! What cat or dog is there in town that my wife won't have taken into consultation? These days she is furious with you, and says that she is going to die without your paying any attention to her. I find her better than ever. But we shall see, Don Maximo. Do you really believe that we can accept the line from Miramar?"

"And why not?"

"Don't you comprehend that it would swamp us forever?"

"Don Mariano, it seems to me that you are blinded. What is of importance for Nieva is to have a railroad right away, right away, I say!"

"What is of importance for Nieva is to have a decent road, a decent road, I say. The line from Miramar would be our ruin, for it ties us to Sarrió, which, as you know very well, has far greater importance as a commercial town and a seaport town than we have. In a few years it would swallow us like a cherry-stone. Moreover, you must take into account that as it is fifteen kilometers from the junction to Nieva, and only twelve to Sarrió; trade would not fail to select the latter point for exportation, on account of the saving in the rate, for those three kilometers of difference. On the other hand, the line from Sotolongo offers the great advantage of uniting us to Pinarrubio, which can never enter into rivalry with us; and at the same time it decidedly shortens the distance to the junction, bringing it down to thirteen kilometers. The difference in the rates, therefore, is a mere trifle, not sufficient to induce trade to go to Sarrió. If you add to this the fact that sooner or later—"

A violent coughing fit cut short Don Mariano's discourse. He was a large, tall man, with white beard and hair, the beard very abundant. His black eyes gleamed like those of a boy, and in his ruddy cheeks time had not succeeded in ploughing deep furrows. Doubtless he had been one of the most gallant young men of his day, and even as we find him now, he still attracted attention by his genial and venerable countenance, and by his noble athletic figure. The violence of his cough had a powerful effect on his sanguine complexion, and he grew exceedingly red in the face. After he had stopped coughing, he resumed the thread of his discourse.

"If you add to the fact that sooner or later we shall have a good port, either in El Moral or in Nieva itself,—for the war isn't going to last forever, nor is the government going to leave us always in the condition of pariahs,—you will see at once what an impulse will be instantly given to the trade of the town and how soon we shall put Sarrió into the shade."

"Well, well, I agree that the line from Sotolongo offers certain advantages; but you very well know that neither at the present time, nor for many days to come, can we do anything but dream about that one, while the road from Miramar is in our very hands. The government is deeply interested in it because there is no other means of protecting our gun-factory. You certainly realize that if the Carlists succeeded in breaking the line of Somosierra, they would overrun us and make themselves at home; they would take the arms on hand, dismantle the factory, and without the slightest risk they could set out for the valley of Cañedo. At present there is no danger of their breaking the line; I grant that, but who can guarantee what the future may bring forth? Moreover, may not the day come when the Carlist element which we have here will raise its head? Then if there were a railroad, no matter from what point, nothing would be more easy than to set down here in a couple of hours four or five thousand men—"

"In the first place, Don Maximo, a military railroad, as you yourself confess that the one from Miramar is to be, is not such as we have the right to ask of the nation. We need a genuine railroad, suitable for the promotion of our interests, and not to serve merely for the protection of a factory. Just consider that it is a work to last for all time, and that if from its very inception it suffers from a gross mistake, this mistake will hang forever over our town. In the second place, the Carlists will never get beyond Somosierra. As to their raising their heads here, you understand perfectly well that it is impossible because they have very few elements to rely on—and, as to their doing this—"

"I have reason to believe that they are! We must be on the watch, and not be found napping. And, as a final reason, a sparrow in the hand is worth more than a hundred flying.—But tell me, Don Mariano, to change the subject, have the stables been put in order yet?"

Don Mariano, instead of replying, felt in all the pockets of his coat with a distracted air, and not finding what he was looking for, turned towards a corner of the room.

"Martita, come here!"

A young girl who was seated at one end of a sofa, not talking to anybody, came running to him. She might have been thirteen or fourteen years old, but the proportions of a woman grown were very distinctly observable in her. Nevertheless, she wore short dresses. She had a light complexion, with black hair and eyes, but her countenance did not offer the exasperating expression so commonly met with in faces of that kind. The features could not have been more regular and their tout ensemble could not have been more harmonious; nevertheless, her beauty lacked animation. It was what is commonly called a cold face.

"Listen, daughter: go to my room, open the second drawer on the left-hand side of my writing-table, and bring me the cigar-case which you'll find there."

The girl went off on the run, and quickly returned with the article.

"Let us go and have a smoke in the dining-room," said Don Mariano, taking Don Maximo by the arm.

And the two left the parlor by one of the side doors.

Marta sat down again in the same place. The ladies on one side were engaged in lively conversation, but she took no share in it. She kept her seat, casting her eyes indifferently from one part of the parlor to the other, now resting them on one group of bystanders, now on another, and more particularly dwelling on the pianist, who at that moment was executing an arrangement of Semiramide.

Scarcely ever had the parlors of the Elorza mansion presented a more brilliant appearance; all the sofas of flowered damask were occupied by richly dressed ladies with bare arms and bosoms. The chandelier suspended from the middle, reflected the light in beautiful hues which fell upon smooth skins, making them look like milk and roses. Those fair bosoms were infinitely multiplied by the mirrors on both sides: the severe bottle-green paper of the parlor brought out all their whiteness. Marta turned to look at the Señoras de Delgado; three sisters: one, a widow, the other two, old maids. All were upwards of forty; the old maids did not trust to their youthfulness, but they had absolute confidence in the power of their shining shoulders and their fat and unctuous arms. Near them was the Señorita de Morí, round-faced, sprightly, with mischievous eyes, an orphan and rich. At a little distance was the Señora de Ciudad, napping peacefully until the hour should come for her to collect the six daughters whom she had scattered about in different parts of the parlor. Yonder in a corner her sister Maria was holding a confidential talk with a young man. The girl's eyes wandered slowly from one point to another. The music interested her very slightly. She seemed to be sure of not being noticed by any one, and her face kept the icy expression of indifference of one alone in a room.

The gentlemen in black dress-coats properly buttoned, languidly clustered about the doors of the library and dining-room, staring persistently at the arms and bosoms occupying the sofas. Others stood behind the piano, waiting till a period of silence gave them time to express by subdued exclamations the admiration with which their souls were overflowing. Only a very few, well beloved by fortune, had received the flattering compliment of having some lady calm with her hand the exuberant inclinations of her silken skirts and make a bit of room for them beside her. Puffed up with such a privilege, they gesticulated without ceasing, and spread their talents for the sake of entertaining the magnanimous señora, and the three or four other ladies who took part in the conversation. The torrent of demisemiquavers and double demisemiquavers pouring from the piano which was situated in one corner of the parlor, filled its neighborhood and entirely quenched the buzzing of the conversation. At times, however, when in some passage the pianist's fingers struck the keys softly, the distressing clatter of the opening and shutting of fans was heard, and above the dull, confused murmur of the thoughtless chatterers some word or entire sentence would suddenly become perceptible, making those who were drawn up behind the piano shake their heads in disgust. The heat was intense, although the balconied windows were thrown open. The atmosphere was stifling and heavy with an indistinct and disagreeable odor, compounded of the perfume of pomades and colognes and the effluvia of perspiring bodies. In this confusion of smells pre-eminent was the sharp scent of rice-powder.

Doña Gertrudis according to her daily habit had gone sound asleep in her easy-chair. She asserted an invalid's right, and no one took it amiss. Isidorito, getting up noiselessly, went and stood by the library door. From that impregnable coigne of vantage he began to shoot long, deep, and passionate glances upon the Señorita de Morí, who received the fires of the battery with heroic calmness. Isidorito had been in love with the Señorita de Morí ever since he knew what dowry and paraphernalia[2] meant, rousing the admiration of the whole town by his loyalty. This passion had taken such possession of his soul that never had he been known to exchange a word with or speed an incendiary look towards any other woman except the señorita aforesaid. But Isidorito, contrary to what might have been believed, considering his vast legal attainments and his gravity no less vast, met with a slight contrariety in his love-making. Señorita de Morí was in the habit of lavishing fascinating smiles on everybody, of squandering warm and languishing glances on all the young men of the community; all—except Isidorito. This incomprehensible conduct did not fail to cause him some disquietude, compelling him to meditate often on the shrewdness of the Roman legislators who were always unwilling to grant women legal capacity. He had lately been appointed municipal attorney of the district, and this, by the authority conferred upon him, gave him great prestige among his fellow-citizens. But, indeed, the Señorita de Morí, far from allowing herself to be fascinated by her suitor's new position, seemed to regard his appointment as ridiculous, judging by the pains she took from that time forth to avoid all visual communication with him. Still our young friend was not going to be cast down by these clouds, which are so common among lovers, and he continued to lay siege to the restless damsel's chubby face and three thousand duros income, sometimes by means of learned discourses, and sometimes by languishing and romantic actions.

At one side of Marta a certain young engineer who had just arrived from Madrid, turned the listening circle (tertulia) gathered around him into an Eden by his wheedling and graceful conversation. It was a tertulia, or petit comité, as the engineer called it, consisting exclusively of ladies, the nucleus of which was made up by three of the De Ciudad girls.

"That's only one of your gallant speeches, Suárez," said one lady.

"Of course it is," echoed several.

"It is absolute truth, and whoever has lived here any length of time will say so. In Madrid there's no halfway about it; the women are either perfectly beautiful or perfectly hideous. That union of charming and attractive faces which I see here is not to be found there; and so don't let it surprise you when I tell you that the hideous are much more numerous than the beautiful."

"Oh, pshaw! Madrid is where the prettiest women are to be seen, and especially the most elegant."

"Ah! that is quite a different matter; elegant, certainly; but pretty, I don't agree with you!"

"It is so, though you don't agree with us!"

"Ladies, there is one reason why you are more beautiful than the Madrileñas; it is a reason which can be better appreciated by those who, like myself, have devoted themselves to the fine arts: here there is color and form, and there they do not exist. By good fortune, this very evening, I have the opportunity of noticing it and of making comparisons, which show most favorably for you. Now that we are allowed to contemplate what is ordinarily draped with great care, I can take my oath that you have those beautiful forms which we admire so much in Grecian statues and Flemish paintings, soft, white, transparent; while if you enter a Madrid drawing-room, you don't stumble upon anything else than skeletons in ball dresses—"

The ladies broke into laughter, hiding their faces behind their fans.

"What a tongue, what a tongue you have, Suárez!"

"It only serves me to tell the truth. The Madrid girls have the effect upon me of shadow-pantomimes. In you I find visible, palpable, and even delectable beings—"

Marta noticed that the wax of a candelabrum was burning out, and that the glass socket was in danger of cracking. She got up and went to puff it out. Then when she sat down again, she took a different position.

The pianist ended his fantasy without stumbling. The conversations stopped abruptly; some clapped their hands, and others said, "Very good, very good." No one had been listening to him, but the pianist felt himself rewarded for his fatigues, and raising his blushing face above the piano, he acknowledged his thanks to the company with a triumphant smile. A young fellow who wore his hair banged like the dandies of Madrid, profited by this blissful moment to beg him to play a waltz-polka.

At the very first chords an extraordinary commotion was observable among the young men near the doors, who were evidently suffering from lack of exercise. A few began to draw on their gloves hastily; others smoothed back their hair with their hands, and straightened their cravats. One asked, with constrained voice,—

"It's a mazurka, isn't it?"

"No, a waltz-polka."

"What! a waltz-polka?"

"Can't you tell by your ears?"

"Ah, yes. You're right. But then, señor, this wretched fellow at the piano will prevent me from dancing with Rosario this evening."

All seemed restless and nervous as though they were about to pass through the fire. The boldest crossed the drawing-room with rapid steps, and joined the young ladies, hiding their trepidation behind a supercilious smile. As soon as the señorita who had been invited stood up and took the proffered arm, they began to feel that they were masters of themselves. Others, less courageous, gave three or four long pulls to their cigars, puffing the smoke out toward the entry, and having keyed themselves up to the right pitch, slowly directed their steps to some young lady less fascinating than the others, receiving for their attention a smile full of tender promises. The more cowardly struggled a long while with their gloves, and finally had to ask some grave señor to fasten the buttons for them. When this operation was finished, and they were ready to dance, they discovered that there were no girls sitting down. Thereupon they resigned themselves to dance with some mamma.

One after another all the couples took the floor. Marta remained sitting. Two or three very complaisant and patronizing young fellows came to invite her, but she replied that she did not know how to dance. The real motive of her refusal was that her father did not like to have her take part in society while she was so young. She sat, therefore, attentively watching how the others went round. Her great black eyes rested with placid expression on each one of the couples who went up and down before her. Some interested her more than others, and she followed them with her glance. Their ways, their movements, and their looks were so different, that they made a curious study. A tall, lean youth was bending his back as near double as possible, so as to put his arm around the waist of a diminutive señorita who was endeavoring to keep on her very tip-toes. An elderly and portly lady was leaning languidly over a boy's shoulder, besmearing his coat with Matilde Díez's wax-white. Some, like Isidorito, did not succeed in steering, and frequently stepped on their partners, who soon declared that they were weary and asked to be excused. Others put down their heels with such force that they scratched the floor. Marta looked at these with considerable severity, like a true housewife. After a while the faces began to show signs of weariness, some becoming flushed, others pallid, according to the temperament of each. With mouths open, cheeks aglow, and brows bathed in perspiration, they gave evidence of no other expression than that of absolute stupidity. At first they smiled and even dropped from their lips a compliment or two; but very soon gallantries ceased, and the smile faded away; all ended by skipping about silent and solemn, as if some unseen hand were laying on the lash in order to make them do so. Marta from time to time shut her eyes, and thus she avoided the dizziness which began to attack her.

At last the piano suddenly ceased to sound. The couples, in virtue of the momentum which they had acquired, gave three or four hops unaccompanied by the music, and this made Marta smile. Before they took their seats the girls walked around the drawing-room for a few moments arm in arm with their partners, engaged in lively and interesting discourse. The pianist accepted the effusive thanks of the smart young man with the bangs. At length the ladies were all seated in their respective places, and the gentlemen fell back once again to the doors, mopping their brows with their handkerchiefs. Those who had danced with the beauties of the drawing-room showed faces shining with beatitude, and smilingly received the jests of their friends, while those who had pressed the less favored to their bosoms, praised to the skies their partners' Terpsichorean skill.

The youth with the hair over his forehead conceived the idea of Don Serapio singing a song, and he went from group to group around the room, making an instantaneous and satisfactory propaganda with his happy thought.

"Yes, yes, Don Serapio must sing!"

"Don Serapio must sing! Don Serapio must sing!"

"Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake—I have a very bad cold!"

"No matter; you will sing well enough, Don Serapio."

"A thousand thanks, ladies, a thousand thanks. I should wish at this moment that I had the voice of an angel, for angels only ought to sing to angels."

This compliment produced an excellent impression upon the feminine element of the company. The masculine element received it with derisive smiles.

"We always enjoy great pleasure in listening to you; you know it very well."

"Because generosity ever goes in company with beauty. The face is the mirror of the soul, they say, and if that is true, how could you help being benevolent toward me?"

The second compliment was likewise received with a laugh of complacency by the ladies. The men continued to smile scornfully.

"Sing, sing, Don Serapio!"

"But supposing I am not in practice—I don't know how I can repay such kindness. Besides, I have lost my voice entirely."

Don Serapio let himself be urged for some time. At last he went toward the piano, escorted by a circle of ladies, to whom he addressed smiles and words full of honeyed sweetness, and managed to extract clandestinely a roll of music which he carried in the inner pocket of his coat. The pianist instantly saw through this manœuvre, and came to his assistance by quietly taking the music from his hand.

"Don Serapio is going to sing—you are going to sing the romance Lontano a te," he said as he spread it out on the rack.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake! it is too sentimental, and these ladies are not now in favor of romanticism—"

"On the contrary, Don Serapio!" exclaimed one of the Delgado girls; "we women in this age of selfishness and calculation are the very ones who ought to worship sentiment and heart."

"Always as graceful as you are felicitous!" declared the vocalist, bowing to the floor.

The pianoforte introduction began. Don Serapio, before he uttered a note, kept arching his eyebrows, and he stretched his neck as much as possible, as a token of his feeling. He was upwards of fifty, although pomades, dyes, and cosmetics gave him from a distance the appearance of a young man. Near at hand, his mustachios, though waxed to perfection, were not sufficient to make up for the crows'-feet and wrinkles of every sort which lined his face. He was a manufacturer of canned goods, and a confirmed old bachelor; not because he failed to honor the fair sex and hold it in esteem, but because he thought that marriage was death to love and its illusions. Never was there a man more soft and honeyed in his conversation with ladies, and never was there a gallant who had a more abundant assortment of flatteries to lavish upon them. He made great use of such expressions as the fire of passion, the loss of will power, perfumed breath, palpitations of the heart, and other like elegancies, all sure of hitting the mark. This was as regards society women. As for work-girls and serving-maids, Don Serapio's gallantries did not stop with compliments. He was regarded as one of the most formidable and successful of seducers among such, and it was a matter of common knowledge in Nieva that more than one, and more than two, had had seriously to complain of his behavior, so that it brought about his head a tremendous scandal which he had hastened to hush with the fulness of his locker. As a general thing he led a regular life, rising very early, going to his factory to attend to his accounts and to inspect the spicing of his fish and oysters, and coming home about five o'clock in the afternoon to wash himself and dress for his promenade or his calls, which were not few, and which always ended at eleven o'clock in the evening. The only reading for which he cared was that of detective stories.

Don Serapio's voice was a trifle disagreeable. As one of the young wags among those clustering about the door said, no one could tell for a certainty if it were tenor, baritone, or bass. In compensation, he sang with sentiment fit to melt the rocks, as could be judged by the infinite movements of his eyebrows, and by the expression of disconsolateness which came over his face as soon as he stood in front of the piano; no one ever saw a face so wrinkled, so long drawn, so full of compunction. The romanza Lontano a te, better than any other, had the power of exciting his sensibility and giving his eyes an exceedingly hopeless expression.

While the proprietor of the canning factory was expressing in Italian his grief at finding himself far from his lady love, the elder daughter of the family was in the most retired part of the room still engaged in conversation with a youth of a pleasant, open countenance, with swarthy complexion, black eyes, and a young mustache.

"Enrique misunderstood my commission," said the youth. "I asked him to send me some jewelry worth something, but what he sent me is just about as commonplace as could be; so much so that I am thinking of sending it back to-morrow without showing it to you."

"Don't trouble about it any more; it's all the same one way or the other."

"What do you mean, 'all the same'? Since when, señorita, have you grown so indifferent to matters of the toilet? I am certain that if I were to bring you this jewelry, you would laugh me to scorn."

"Don't imagine such a thing."

"Perhaps you think I don't remember how you made fun of that hat that your aunt Carmen presented you a few days ago!"

"It was very wrong of me to make fun of it; but you are just as bad when you throw it in my face. The truth is that in the end one hat or one set of jewelry is as good as another."

"Be it so! Keep it up! I know you well, and you can't cheat me. The jewelry shall be sent back, and in its place we'll have another set to my taste and yours. But let's drop the subject. I had something to tell you, and I can't remember what it was. Oh, yes! we must write to your uncle Rodrigo, for judging by the note I have just received from him, he doesn't know yet the day on which we are to be married. I think we ought to write him both of us in the same letter; doesn't it seem so to you?"

"Just as you like."

"All right; I'll come round to-morrow before dinner, and we'll write it."

Both remained silent a few moments and listened to the singing of Don Serapio, who was lamenting always with a more and more pathetic accent the solitude and sadness in which his mistress kept him. One of the Delgado señoritas lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, declaring in a low voice to those standing near that hitherto there had been few things that ever brought the tears into her eyes.

"What a bore that wretched Don Serapio is! he wrinkles up his forehead so that his wig is almost lifted off behind."

"Don't be so unkind. Have a little charity, and let the poor man enjoy himself without harming God or his neighbor."

"As far as I am concerned he may sing till doomsday. But I notice, lassie, that for some time you have been becoming a great preacher. Are you thinking of entering into competition with the curé of the parish?"

"What I am anxious for is that you shouldn't be a backbiter. If you love me as you say you do, my good advice ought not to make you vexed."

"It doesn't make me vexed, loveliest; quite the contrary. I always listen to it with pleasure and follow it—when I can. You surely are acquainted with my ways, and know that I can't help making fun. However, you'll have time enough to preach to me all you want, won't you? Not only time enough but space enough. You can go on giving me sermons from Nieva to Madrid, then from Madrid to Paris, and from Paris to Milan, and from Milan to Venice, and thence to Rome and Naples, and back by Geneva, Brussels, Paris, and Madrid, home again. With what delight I shall travel through all these foreign countries listening to a preacher so devoted! How do you like the itinerary of our journey?"

"Well enough."

"Well enough! That isn't saying anything. One would think the subject didn't interest you as much as it did me. I won't fix it definitely till you have made such changes as you like in it, or vary it entirely, if it seem good to you. I am just as much interested in going to Berlin or London as to Paris and Rome. You can imagine how much difference it makes to me, if I go with you, which way we travel!"

"Whatever you decide upon will be well."

"Let us have it decided. Do you like the plan I propose? Yes or no?"

"I have told you yes already."

"But, lassie, what is the matter with you? You have scarcely allowed yourself to smile this whole evening, and you haven't said a word more than was strictly necessary. What is the reason of such solemnity? Are you put out with me?"

"What reason should I have to be?"

"Then I'll ask you why you are. You must be, since there's no other way of explaining the curt way in which you have been answering me this long time."

"That's your own imagination. I answer you just as I always do."

Ricardo, without speaking, looked at his betrothed, who turned away her eyes, fixing them on Don Serapio.

"It must be so, but I don't understand it. If you are really angry with me, it would be very unkind of you not to tell me why, so that I could repair my mistake, if perchance I had committed any. My conscience does not accuse me of anything—"

"I tell you that I am not angry; don't be so tiresome!"

Maria said these words with evident asperity, not turning her face from the singer. Ricardo again looked at her for a long time.

"Very good—it is better so—still I thought—"

Both kept silence for some moments. Ricardo broke it, saying,—

"When Don Serapio has finished, they are going to make you sing; I am sure—all get good out of it except me."

"Why?"

"For two reasons: the first is, because much as I enjoy hearing you when we are alone, I don't like it when you sing before people; the second is, because they will take you away from me."

"I don't see why you should dislike it because I sing before people. I am the one not to like it—and I don't at all. As to the separation, that's nonsense, because we are together much more than we ought to be."

"It would be a long and difficult task for me to explain why I don't like you to sing in public. As to the separation which you call nonsense, it's the solemn truth. In spite of our being together several hours a day it seems to me very little. I could wish that we were together all the time. For a man who is going to be married inside of a month and a half, I don't think that such a wish is very extraordinary."

And lowering his voice, he added in a passionate tone:—

"I am never satisfied, and never shall be satisfied, however much I am with thee, my own life. In all the years since I have adored thee, never for a single instant have I felt the shadow of satiety. When I am near thee, I think that I could not be more content, even in heaven; when I am away, I think how much happier I should be if I were with thee. This is a guaranty that we should never get tired of each other's society; isn't it so? For my part, I give thee my word that if we reach old age, I shall enjoy more by thy side than sitting in the sunshine! What a happy life is waiting for us, and how long it is that I have dreamed about it! Do you remember how one day in the big garden, when you were eight years old, and I was ten, my dear mamma made us take each other's hands, saying to us in a serious tone: 'Would you like to be husband and wife? Then kiss each other, and look out that you don't quarrel any more.' From that time forth I have never dreamed of the possibility of marrying any other woman than you."

Maria made no reply to this fervid declaration. She kept looking at the proprietor of the canning factory, with a strange expression, as though her thoughts were far away.

"Do you know one thing?"

"What?"

"That the chests have come with thy clothes, but I have not opened them yet. Both of them have on the lid thy cipher with the coronet of marchioness above. You may laugh at me, but I shall tell thee, all the same, that it made my heart leap to see the coronet. I imagined that we were already married, and that I hadn't to wait these everlasting forty-five days. I don't know what I wouldn't give if to-day were the last day of December. Tell me, don't you feel any inclination to call yourself the Marquesa de Peñalta? to be mine, mine for ever?"

Maria arose from the sofa, and with a scornful gesture, nor deigning to look once at her lover, replied,—

"Well enough."

And she went and sat down beside one of the numberless De Ciudad girls. Ricardo remained for a few moments glued to his seat, without stirring a finger. Then he got up abruptly and hastened from the room.

Don Serapio at last ceased mourning his lady's absence, declaring in a finale that if such a state of things existed longer, he should die without delay. The pianist added force to this wail of woe by performing a noisy run in octaves. A great clapping of hands was heard, and affectionate smiles of approbation were lavished by the ladies upon the vocalist. The young fellows near the doors, always ready for fun, did their best to bring about a repetition of the romanza, but Don Serapio was shrewd enough to perceive that the plaudits of these boys were not in good faith, and he refused to grant the favor.

Then the stripling with the banged hair made the following little speech to the assembled audience:—

"Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that now is the time for us to listen to the great artiste. We are all waiting impatiently for Maria to delight us—one of those happy moments—with which she has in days gone by delighted us. Isn't it a good idea?"

"That's it; Maria must sing!"

"Of course she will sing; she is very accommodating."

The spokesman offered his arm to the young señorita, and led her to the piano.

When Maria was left standing alone, facing the audience, a thrill of admiration was excited as usual. "How lovely, how lovely she is!" "That girl grows prettier every day!" "What exquisite taste she shows in her dress!" "She looks like a queen!" These and many other flattering phrases were whispered among the friends of the Elorza family.

Without being very tall she was of stately stature and presence. She was slender, lithe, and graceful as those beautiful dames of the Renaissance, which the Italian painters chose as their models. The line of her soft lustrous neck reminded one of Grecian statues. This neck supported a shapely head; the face fair, the cheeks slightly rose-tinted, delicate, regular, transparent, with ruby lips and blue eyes. She bore a notable resemblance to Doña Gertrudis, but she had an attractive and fascinating expression which that celebrated lady never had, whatever may have been the persuasion of the lyric poet of the acrostics. Around her clear and brilliant eyes showed a slight violet circle, which gave her face a decided poetical tinge.

"Now Suárez, you will see what kind of a singer this girl is," said one lady.

"I shall appreciate her, for this Señor Don Serapio has spoiled my ears for the time being."

"Oh! Maria is an artist."

"What I perceive just now is, that she has a stunning figure."

"You just wait till you hear her."

"That girl does everything well! If you could see how she draws!"

"Haven't the Elorzas any other daughters than this?"

"Yes, that other girl, who is sitting down over there; her name is Marta. She is going to be very handsome, too."

"Indeed, she is pretty; but she hasn't any expression at all. It's a common kind of beauty, while her sister—"

"Hush! she's going to begin." Then ensued a silence in the company such as had always been Don Serapio's ideal—unrealizable like all ideals. Maria sang various operatic pieces which were asked for, and needed no urging. When she finished, the plaudits were so eager and long that it made her blush.

Suárez assured his circle[3] of ladies that she had a voice which resembled Nantier Didier's, and that a short time at the conservatory would put her on an equality with the leading contraltos.

When the congratulations had ceased, and the looks of all had ceased to be fastened upon her, a shade of sadness came over Maria's lovely face. She went to Doña Gertrudis and whispered in her ear,—

"Mamma, I have a very severe headache."

"Ay! daughter of my heart, I sympathize with you. I, too, am having my share of pain."

"I should like to go to bed."

"Then go, my daughter, go. I will say that you are feeling a trifle indisposed."

"Adios, mamaita! Good night, and sleep well."

Maria kissed her mother's brow, and gradually, taking care not to be noticed, she left the parlor by the dining-room door. She stopped to get a drink of eau sucré, and stood a moment motionless, with her eyes fixed on vacancy. The shade of melancholy had greatly dulled the brilliancy of her face.

She passed out of the dining-room and crossed a long and pretty dark entry. At the end there was a door which led to a back stairway. She had mounted only four or five steps when she felt herself seized roughly by the arm, and uttered a cry of terror. Turning round, she saw with embarrassment the pale and troubled face of her betrothed.

"Ricardo! what are you doing here?"

"I saw that you left the dining-room, and I followed you."

"What for?"

"To hear for a second time from your lips the infamous words you said to me in the drawing-room. Do you think, perhaps, it isn't worth while to repeat them? Do you think, perhaps, that I can give up a whole past of love, a whole future of happiness, all the sweet dreams of my life, without calling you infamous, a hundred times infamous, a thousand times infamous, now right here, while we are together alone, afterwards in open society, and then before the whole world? Come, come back, you miserable girl—come back, and let me call you so before everybody!"

And Ricardo, pale and trembling like a gambler who has staked his last remaining money on a card, firmly grasped his sweetheart by the wrist and tried to drag her back to the parlor.

Maria hung her head and said not a word. Without offering any resistance she allowed him to pull her down the four or five steps of the staircase. But on reaching the passage-way, Ricardo felt on his cheek a warm kiss, which caused him to loose his captive and fall back with horror; instantly Maria's arms were wound around his neck, and on his lips he felt the imprint of other lips.

"Ricardo mio, for heaven's sake, don't put me to shame!"

These words, whispered in his ear with a passionate accent, were accompanied by a cloud of caresses. The young man pressed her close to his heart without answering a word; his emotion choked his utterance. When he became a little calmer, he asked her with trembling voice,—

"Do you love me?"

"With all my soul!"

"Was that nothing else but a moment of ill humor?"

"That was all."

"Oh, what a wretched time you have made me have! Not for all the gold in the world would I go through it again!"

"Tell me, haven't I made up for it now?"

"Yes, loveliest."

"Let me loose. I am going to lie down. I have such a headache!"

"Wait a minute. Let me kiss thee on thy forehead,—now another on thy eyes,—now another on thy lips,—now on thy hands!"

"Adios!"

"Adios!"

"Let me go, Ricardo, let me go!"

The young fellow, laughing with happiness, still held her by the hand. Maria struggled to escape, though she also was laughing.

"Come, let me go, don't be foolish."

"It shows I'm not foolish because I don't let you go!"

"Think how my head aches!"

"All right, then, I'll let you go."

"Till to-morrow! Be careful whom you dance with now."

"Don't you worry. I am going immediately. Till to-morrow!"

Maria tore herself away. Ricardo tried to catch her again, leaping up the dark staircase, but he did not succeed. The girl said good night[4] with a merry laugh from the top of the stairs.

When Ricardo returned to the parlor he was smiling like a happy man. The light of the chandelier somewhat dazzled him, and he hastened to sit down.

Maria's room, when she entered it, was plunged in darkness. She groped about for the matches and lighted a lamp of burnished iron. The room was furnished with a luxury and good taste rarely to be found in provincial towns. The furniture was upholstered in blue satin; the curtains and paper were of the same color. In the recess between the windows was a mahogany wardrobe with a full-length mirror. The dressing-table loaded down under the weight of its bottles stood against the opposite wall; the carpet was white, with blue flowers. The exquisite niceness with which all these objects were put in place, the elegance and coquetry of the furniture, and the delicate fragrance perceptible on entering, clearly declared the sex and the station of the person who dwelt there.

When Maria lighted her lamp, her eyes met the eyes of an image of the Saviour which stood on the centre of the table where the light burned. It was on wood, beautifully carved and painted, with a decidedly sad and meek expression of the face, and it was this which had led the young woman to buy it. When she caught sight of the sweet but icy face of the image, the happy smile which still hovered over her lips died away, leaving her motionless and deeply thoughtful. Little by little, doubtless under the influence of the ideas which came into her mind, her face lost its usual expression and assumed one as melancholy and humble as that of a Magdalene. At that moment the sound of the piano came vibrating through the dark stairway, telling of the first movement of a fascinating rigadoon. She fell on her knees and bent her head. Every now and then she sobbed. Her lips were pressed convulsively against the naked feet of the Saviour, and muttered unintelligible words.

After a long time she raised her face bathed in tears, and exclaimed in a tone of woe:—

"My Jesus! what treachery! what treachery! How illy do I repay the love which thou hast bestowed on me. Punish me, Lord, so that I may again have peace of mind!"

Arising from the floor, she took the lamp in her hand and went into her bed-room. It was tiny and warm as a nest, and it was ornamented with a profusion of engravings of Jesus and the Virgin. The bed, covered with satin curtains, was white and delightful as a baptismal altar. She placed the lamp on her dressing-table and with more tranquil face quickly undressed.

Then she took a travelling-mantle from the wardrobe, wrapped herself in it, blew out the lamp, made the sign of the cross time and again on her forehead, her mouth, and her breast, and lay down on the floor. The white bed, covered with satin and lawn, warm and perfumed, and full of sensuous delights, awaited her in vain all night. Thus she remained stretched on the floor till daylight dawned.

CHAPTER III.
THE NINE DAYS' FESTIVAL OF THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS.

DAY had hardly dawned, when our maiden arose suddenly from the floor. She stood motionless a moment with ear attent, but she did not catch the sound of the bells of San Felipe, which she thought she had heard in her dreams. She was mistaken; it was not yet six o'clock. She lighted her lamp, and going to her boudoir prostrated herself in humiliation before the image of Jesus and began to pray. As she wore nothing but a thin cambric night-dress, she naturally felt the cold through it, and began to shiver, but she would not yield, and she kept on with her prayers until her teeth chattered. Only then she decided to quit the position which she had taken and dress herself. Thereupon, she opened the four windows of her boudoir and blew out the lamp.

A peevish light, cold and chill, made its way into the Señorita de Elorza's room, giving the articles of furniture a lugubrious aspect quite different from what they usually bore. The morning chill also penetrated them as well as their mistress, and they stood silent and melancholy, doubtless hoping for the rays of the sun to show forth their beauty and splendor. Only in one spot or another, as the light fell on the varnish, there was a pale reflection which looked like the glassy, filmy eye of a dying person. The room was situated in a sort of square turret which was built in one of the rear angles of the mansion; it rose some yards above it, and was open to the light on all its four sides. The tower held only two apartments,—Maria's, composed of boudoir and bedroom, and her maid Genoveva's chamber, which was single. They were the coldest but at the same time the most cheerful rooms in the house. The few times that the sun deigned to visit Nieva he went straight to lodge in them, entered without as much as asking leave, in the way of sovereign guests, and spent the day, shining in the mirrors, brightening up the satin of the chairs, dulling the varnish of the clothes-presses, and in a word disporting himself in a thousand different ways,—all this, it may be said, would have been, had not Genoveva taken the precaution to draw the curtains in time. They were likewise the quietest; the noises of the house did not reach them, and those from outside had no possibility of disturbing them, owing to their situation. Only the wind, which almost never ceased to blow heavily around the tower, made strange noises, especially at night, sometimes moaning, sometimes screaming, and constantly complaining because the windows were kept hermetically sealed. During the daytime it was neither melancholy nor petulant, but contented itself with a perpetual but very dignified murmur like sea-shells held to the ear.

Maria, still shivering though she was wrapped up in her shawl, went to one of the windows which looked down into the garden whose earthwall was contiguous to the quay. From that window the whole length of the Nieva River could be seen down to El Moral, which was the place where it emptied into the sea. It would not measure more than a league in length, but its breadth varied wonderfully, according as it was seen at high or low water, at spring tide or neap tide. When there were full tides, it spread out half a league, lapping up against the foot of the pine-covered hills which shut in the valley on both sides. At low tide the water drew out almost completely, leaving barely a narrow, sinuous thread in the centre. Between the conterminous line of hills there lay on both sides of the channel wide flats of soft gray mud, dotted with pools of water where the ragamuffins of the quay took delight in splashing and wallowing until they had besmeared themselves thickly enough to go straight and wash it off by diving head first into the channel. Above the garden wall rose the masts of a few vessels, not a dozen in all, anchored by the quay, the majority of them smacks and schooners[5] of insignificant draught.

The young girl looked for an instant at the sky, which was still profoundly dark towards the west, hiding and confusing the outline of the distant mountains. In the zenith she noticed that it was completely overcast, of an ashen color, which grew lighter as she turned her face toward the east. There the clouds were not as yet compacted into a solid mass as in the opposite quarter; they stood out against the sweep of the sky in monstrous black piles, and opened sufficiently to let the few feeble, melancholy, ruddy rays pass through, which the sun, like a dying fire, was beginning to shed upon the earth. The tide was rising. The surface of the river absorbed the slender light of the sky, and gave forth nothing more than a tremulous metallic reflection in the far distance.

After watching the sunrise for a time, our maiden got a book which lay on the dressing-table in her room, and came back to the window to see if she could read; but it was not yet light enough. She laid the book on a chair and again went to the window, leaning her forehead against its panes. The sky kept growing brighter in the direction of El Moral; but it added no life or good cheer to the earth. The growing light seemed only to make more distinct its stern, forbidding face. A wretched and disagreeable day was in prospect, such as the natives of Nieva were accustomed to enjoy the larger part of the year.

But soon the windows of the east were closed; the huge, thick clouds which had stood out separate, allowing the light to pass, once more made one unbroken mass, by the impulse of some breath of air, and the rosy flush faded away. In their place remained a uniform pallid light, which, little by little, spread over the heavens, lazily struggling with the shadows in the west. The far-away reflections on the river likewise died out, leaving it all a monotonous color, like unpolished steel. The boudoir slowly filled with light; the pretty articles of furniture, and the objects adorning it, emerged from the obscurity, graceful, dainty, and fascinating, like the dancers in the opera, when at an outburst from the orchestra they throw aside the spectral mantles in which they had wrapped themselves. The light, however, did not smile; all the time it grew more melancholy and forbidding. Across the mighty masses of dark violet cloud which were rising above the four or five houses of El Moral, others, small and white, began to fly like wisps of gauze—a sure sign of storm.

Maria quickly felt the pane against which she was leaning tremble. A gust of wind and rain had savagely lashed the window. She stepped back a little and saw that all the panes were weeping at once. For some little time she occupied herself in watching the more or less rapid and uneven course which the drops of water followed as they rolled down the smooth surface of the glass. The sharp, intermittent pattering of the rain brought back to her memory the many afternoons that she had spent near that same window listening to it with an open book in her hand. The book had always been a novel. For more than four months she had incessantly begged her father to let her have the use of the boudoir in the tower so that she might give herself up entirely to her favorite occupation without fear of any one interrupting her. But Don Mariano feared to give his permission, because the apartments in the tower were cold, and the girl's health was delicate. At last, overcome by her entreaties and caresses, he yielded, after having the rooms carefully carpeted, and exacting the condition that Genoveva should sleep near by. It was a happy period for Maria. She was sixteen, and her mind was restless and high-spirited. Her music, in which she had made prodigious strides, had stimulated in her heart a decided tendency to melancholy and tears. She wept at the slightest provocation, sometimes without reason, and when it was least expected, but her tears were so sweet, and she experienced such intense pleasure in them, that on many occasions she fostered them artificially. How many times, gazing from that window upon the delicate clouds of the horizon tinted with rose or the last splendors of the dying sun, she felt her heart overcome by a depth of melancholy which found relief only in sobs! How many times she had pained her father with a storm of tears, the cause of which she could not tell, because she herself knew not! The knowledge of painting, in which she also excelled, turned her inclinations towards light and a wide outlook, and this equally contributed to make her long for the rooms in the tower. When once she had taken her quarters there with her piano, her paints, and her novels, Maria looked upon herself as the most fortunate girl on earth. If at noon of some magnificent sunny day, under an effulgent azure sky, she opened all the windows of her boudoir and admitted the fresh, keen wind which toyed with her hair and scattered the papers from the table over the floor, she imagined with delight that she had mounted upon a star, and that she was in the midst of space, swimming through the air at the mercy of every chance. And this illusion, though it was hard for her to keep it up, made her happy. Sometimes at night she used to open the blinds and light not only her lamp, but all the candles in the candlesticks, so as to imagine that she was stationed in a lofty lighthouse. "From the river this tower must seem like a beacon, and my room the lamp which has just been lighted," was what she used to say, in childish delight. And then she began to peer through the panes to see if any ship were on its way down to El Moral, until, frightened by the darkness without and dazzled by the light within, she finally grew terror-stricken at such an illumination and hastened to extinguish the lights.

Don Mariano called that gay, aerial boudoir Maria's bird-cage; and in truth the name was admirably appropriate, for the girl was constantly flitting about in it, moving the furniture and changing the things from one place to another, nervous and restless as a bird. To make the resemblance more complete, it often happened that when the family were gathered in the dining-room they heard the distant trills of some cavatina or romanza which Maria was studying. Don Mariano never failed to exclaim, with his usual benignant smile, "Our little bird is singing." And all would likewise smile, full of content, for everybody in the house loved and admired the girl.

In two or three years a cargo of novels had made their way into the tower boudoir, and been sent away again, after having diverted the long leisure hours of our young friend, who put under contribution, not only her father's library and her own purse, but likewise the book-shelves of all the friends of the family. Don Serapio was her first purveyor, and thus for a long time she read only blood-thirsty accounts of terrible and unnatural crimes, in which the proprietor of the canning factory took such intense delight. In this period she did not enjoy much, for, though these novels excited her curiosity to the highest degree, keeping it in suspense and under the spell of the reading a large part of the day and night, yet no sweet or poetic aftertaste was left in her mind for her delectation, and she forgot them the day after she read them.

Moreover, they terrified her too much; many and many times they disturbed her dreams, and even on some occasions she begged Genoveva to lie down beside her, for she was frightened to death. After exhausting Don Serapio's library, she asked one of the Delgado sisters to give her the freedom of hers, which had the reputation of being abundantly supplied. In fact, it was furnished with a great quantity of novels, all of the primitive romantic school, and elegantly bound, but many of them soiled by use. In the more tender passages many of the pages were marked by yellow spots, which was a manifest sign that the various ladies into whose hands the book had fallen had shed a few tears in tribute to the misfortunes of the hero. We already know that one Señorita de Delgado wept with great facility. Among the novels which she read at this time were Ivanhoe; The Lady of the Lake; Maclovia and Federico, or the Mines of the Tyrol; Saint Clair of the Isles, or the Exiles on the Island of Barra; Oscar and Amanda; The Castle of Aguila Negra; and others. These gave her very much greater enjoyment. Absolutely absorbed, heart and soul, she explored the region of those delicious fantasies with which the illustrious Walter Scott, and other novelists not so illustrious, delighted our fathers, creating for their use a middle age peopled with troubadours and tournaments, with stupendous deeds of prowess, with Gothic castles, heroes, and indomitable loves. What exercised the greatest fascination upon the Señorita de Elorza was the unchangeable steadfastness of affection always manifested by the protagonists of these novels. Whether man or woman, if a love passion seized them, it was labor wasted to raise any barriers, for everything was idle; across the opposition of fathers and guardians, and in spite of the crafty schemes laid by jilted suitors, purified by a thousand different tests, suffering much, and weeping much more, at the end they always came out triumphant and well deserved it all. The Señorita de Elorza vowed secretly in the sanctuary of her heart to show the same fealty to the first lover whom Providence should send her, and imitate his fortitude in adversities. Each one of these novels left a lasting impression on her youthful mind, and for several days, provided that the characters of some other did not succeed in captivating her, she ceaselessly thought of the beautiful miracles accomplished by the heroine's love, pure as the diamond and as unyielding, and taking up the action where the novelist had left it, which was always in the act of celebrating the nuptials of the afflicted lovers, she continued it in her imagination, conceiving with all its minutiæ the after-life spent by the husband and wife surrounded by their children, and re-reading with folded hands the places where her tears had so often been shed. Our maiden was anxious for one of these irresistible and melting passions to take possession of her heart, but it never entered her mind that any of the young fellows who visited her house dressed in a frock-coat or Americana could inspire it. Love, for her, always took the form of a warrior, whom she imagined with helmet and breastplate, coming breathlessly and covered with dust, after having unhorsed his competitor with a lance-thrust, to bend his knee before her and receive the crown from her hand, which he would kiss with tenderness and devotion. Again, stripped of his helmet, and in the disguise of a beggar, yet evincing by his gallant port the nobility and courage of his race, he came by night to the foot of her tower, and accompanying himself on the lute, sang some exquisite ditty in which he would invite her to fly with him across country to some unknown castle, far from the tyranny of her sire and the hated spouse whom he wished to force upon her. The night was dark, the sentinels of the castle benumbed with a philter, the ladder already clung close to the window, and the champing steeds were pawing the ground not very far away. "Why dost delay, O mistress mine, why dost delay?" Maria heard a gentle tapping on the panes, and more than once she had risen from her bed, in her bare feet, to satisfy herself that it was not her warrior but the wind who called her, sighing. At that time she could not see a vessel making for the port at night, without trembling; the mystery which always attends a vessel seen in the darkness made her vaguely imagine an ambuscade laid by some ignorant, brutal suitor, who, fearing lest he be rebuffed, wished to ravish her away by main force from her home, and bear her away to distant strands where he might enjoy with her his barbarous pleasure. All that she needed to become disillusionized was to perceive the vessel carefully warping up to the quay and discharging a few barrels and boxes. But the romance which made the profoundest impression upon her was, without question, that entitled Matilde, or the Crusades. This, better than any other, was able to carry her mind back to that strange, brilliant epoch of which it treated, causing her to be present during that heroic struggle under the walls of Jerusalem. It is easy to comprehend, however, that it was not the battles between Infidels and Christians which most interested her in the tale, but that weird, improbable love, tender and passionate at once, which sprang up in the heroine's heart for one of the Mohammedan warriors who had laid violent hands on the Sepulchre of the Lord. The Señorita de Elorza absolved and almost with her whole heart sympathized with this passion where the sin of loving one of the most terrible enemies of Christ offered a more powerful attraction and a keener zest. How was it possible not to fall in love with that famous Malec-Kadel, so fiery and terrible in battle, so gentle and submissive with his ladylove, so noble and generous on all occasions! Ah! if she had been in Matilde's place, she would have loved in the same way in spite of all laws, human and divine! This Infidel was the character who captivated her the most of all, even to the point of inspiring her to make a very clever painting in which she represented him on the deck of a ship where he was sailing with Matilde, saving her from the snares of her enemies, protecting her with his left hand, and hewing off heads with his right hand, as one reaps the grain in summer. What best brought her to realize her enthusiasm, was the arrival of a Turk at Nieva, selling mother-of-pearl ornaments and slippers. She was so surprised to see him pass in front of the house, and her curiosity was so excited, that she was not content until she had addressed him, and made him undergo a long series of questions about the fields of Jerusalem where the love scenes which so impressed her had taken place, about the customs, the dress, and the government of the Mohammedans; but the Turk, either because he was not in the humor of parleying, or because of his being a native of Reus in the province of Tarragona, and having never been in Palestine in his life, answered her questions with impudent curtness.

It had now been a long time, however, since Maria had taken up a novel. The recollection of the time when she had devoured so many caused a slight contraction of her features, and drew in her smooth brow a wide, deep furrow.

The blasts of wind fraught with rain lashed the panes of glass for a long time, until they had given them a thorough washing. Gradually its gusts became less frequent, and at last they completely ceased. The light, meantime, had increased, mantling the whole of the murky heavens, and now bringing into relief the forms of the far western hills which were visible through the opposite casement. But the windows of the sky which gave passage to the rosy rays when the sunrise first began, did not open again, and all the clouds of the celestial vault united into one, like an ash-colored or grayish mantle, which gave free course to the rain and hindered the light. The storm, as usual, dissolved into a fine drizzle, which began to fall slowly, filling the atmosphere with an evanescent, tremulous veil, woven of watery threads, which still more diminished the brilliancy of the growing light, and hid the outlines of distant objects. The tide was still flowing; the wide sheet of water which stretched away to El Moral assumed a color earthy near its edges, but dark and heavy in the centre.

Maria again took up her book, brought her chair to the window, and sitting down, began to read, it now being light enough to allow it. It was the Life of Saint Teresa, written by herself,—a book bound in solid pasteboard covers, which were stamped with the gilt ornamentations characteristic of religious works.

According as the young girl became absorbed in her reading, her face grew more and more serene, and the deep frown on her brow disappeared. She was reading the second chapter in which the Saint sets forth how in the years of her youth she was enamored with books of knight-errantry, and the vanities of the toilet, and hints at the love affairs which at the same time she had passed through. When Maria raised her eyes from the book, they shone with a peculiar delight of inward content.

The bells of San Felipe at last actually began to ring. Maria quickly threw down her book and opened her maid's chamber-door.

"Genoveva! Genoveva!"

"I am awake, señorita."

"Get up; San Felipe's bells are ringing!"

In a twinkling Genoveva was up, dressed, and on hand in her mistress' room. She was a woman of forty years, more or less, short, fat, swarthy, with puffy cheeks, with great, protuberant gray eyes which were expressionless, absolutely expressionless, and with thin hair waving on her temples. She wore a plain carmelite skirt, and the black merino cloak gathered at the shoulders, such as are used by all provincial serving-women. She had entered the household when Maria was not yet a year old, to be her nurse, and she had never left her, being a notable example of a faithful, steadfast servant.

"How long has my little dove[6] been dressed?"

"About an hour already, Genoveva. I thought I heard the bells, but I was mistaken. Now they are ringing in good earnest. Let us not lose any time; take the umbrellas, and let us go."

"Whenever you please, señorita; I am all ready."

Both put on their mantillas, and trying not to make any noise, they went down to the entry, carefully unlocked and opened the door, and sallied forth into the street, which they crossed with open umbrellas until they reached the opposite arcade.

The little city of Nieva, as it seems to me I have already said, has almost all of its streets lined with an arcade on one side or the other, sometimes on both. As a general thing it is small, low, uneven, and supported by single round stone pillars, without ornamentation of any sort. Likewise it is ill paved. Only in occasional localities, where some house had been reconstructed, it was wider and had more comfortable pavement. If all the houses were to be rebuilt,—and there is no doubt that this will come in time,—the town, owing to this system of construction, would have a certain monumental aspect, making it well worthy of being seen. Even as it is now, though it does not boast of much beauty, it is very convenient for pedestrians, who need not get wet except when they may wish to pass from one sidewalk to the other. And certainly its illustrious founders were far-sighted, for, as regards constant, ceaseless rain, there is no other place in Spain that can hold a candle to our town.