The grapevine of Las Vides which has such pleasant recollections for Don Victoriano Andres de la Comba, bears those large, substantial grapes of the light red and pale green hues which predominate in Flemish vineyards, which are known in the neighborhood by the name ofnáparoorJaengrapes. Its clusters hang in long corymbs of a gracefully irregular shape, half hiding themselves among the thick foliage. The vine casts a cool shade, and the murmur of a slender stream of water that falls into a rough stone basin in which vegetables lie soaking, adds to the air of peacefulness of the scene.
The massive building looks almost like a fortress; the main building is flanked by two square towers, low-roofed and pierced by deep-set windows; in the middle of the central building, above a long iron balcony, stands out the large escutcheon with the armorial bearings of the Mendez—five vine-leaves and a wolf's head dripping blood. This balcony commands a view of the mountain slope and of the river that winds below; at the side of one of thetowers is a wooden gallery, open to the sun, which projects over the garden, and where, thanks to the southern exposure, fine carnations grow luxuriantly in old pots filled with mold, and wooden boxes overflow with sweet basil, Santa Teresa's feathers, cactus, asclepias, and mallows—a sun-loving, rich, Arabian flora of intoxicating sweetness. The interior of the house is merely a series of whitewashed rooms with the rafters exposed and almost without furniture, excepting the central room, called the balcony-room, which is furnished with chairs with straw seats and wooden, lyre-shaped backs, of the style of the Empire. A mirror from which the quicksilver has almost disappeared, with a broad ebony frame ornamented with allegorical figures of gilded brass representing Phœbus driving his chariot, hangs above the sofa. The pride of Las Vides is not the rooms, but the cellar, the immense wine-vault, dark, and echoing, and cool as the aisle of a cathedral, with its large vats ranged in a line on either side. This apartment, unrivaled in the Border, is the one which Señor de las Vides shows with most pride—this and his bedroom, which has the peculiarity of being impregnable, as it is built in the body of the wall and can be entered only through a narrow passage which scarcely affords room for a man to turn around.
Mendez de las Vides resembled in no way the traditional type of the ignorant lord of the manor who makes a cross for his signature, a type very common in that inland country. On the contrary, Mendez prided himself on being learned and cultured. He wrote a good hand—the small, close handwriting characteristic of obstinate old age; he read well, settling his spectacles on his nose, holding the newspaper or the book at a distance, emphasizing the words in a measured voice. Only his culture was confined to a single epoch—that of the Encyclopedists, with whom his father became acquainted late in life, and he himself a century after their time. He read Holbach, Rousseau, Voltaire, and the fourteen volumes of Feijóo. He bore the stamp and seal of this epoch even in his person. In religion he was a deist, never neglecting, however, to go to mass and to eat fish in Holy Week; in politics he was inclined to uphold the prerogatives of the crown against the church. Since the arrival of Don Victoriano, however, some movement had taken place in the stratified ideas of the hidalgo of Las Vides. He admired English independence, the regard paid to the right of the individual combined with a respect for tradition and the civilizing influence of the aristocratic classes—a series of Saxon importations moreor less felicitous but to which Don Victoriano owed his political success. Uncle and nephew spent hour after hour discussing these abstruse problems of social science, while Nieves worked, listening with the hope of hearing the trot of some horse sound on the stones of the path announcing some visitor, some distraction in her idle existence.
To make the journey to Las Vides, Segundo borrowed the vicious nag of the alguazil. From the cross onward the road grew precipitous and difficult. Smooth, slippery rocks obstructed the way at times, so that the rider was obliged to hold a tight rein to keep the animal, whose hoofs slipped continually, drawing sparks from the stone, from falling headlong down the descent. The ground, parched by the heat, was rugged and uneven. The houses seemed to cling to the mountain-side, threatening to lose their hold at every moment and topple over into the river, and the indispensable pot of carnations, whose flowers peeped through the rails of the wooden balconies, reminded one of the flower with which a gypsy carelessly adorns her hair. Sometimes Segundo's way led through a pine grove, and he inhaled the balsamic odor of the resin and rode over a carpet of dry leaves which deadened the sound of his horse's hoofs; suddenly, between two fences, anarrow path, bordered by blackberry bushes, foxglove and honeysuckle would open before him, and not unfrequently he experienced the delightful sense of well-being produced by the coolness cast by umbrageous foliage during the heat of the day, as he rode through some verdant tunnel—under some lofty grape arbor supported on wooden posts, beholding above his head the bunches already ripening, and listening to the noisy twittering of the sparrows and the shrill whistle of the blackbird. Lizards ran along the moss-covered walls. When two or more paths met Segundo would rein in his horse, to inquire the way to Las Vides of the women who toiled wearily up the steep path, bending under their load of pine wood, or the children playing at the doors of the houses.
Far below ran the Avieiro, that, from the height at which Segundo regarded it, looked like a steel blade flashing and quivering in the sunshine. Before him was the mountain where, like the steps of a colossal amphitheater, rose one above another massive walls of whitish stone, erected for the support of the grapevines, the white stripes showing against the green background, forming an odd combination in which stood out here and there the red roof of some dovecote or some old homestead, the whole surmountedby the darker green of the pine woods. Segundo at last saw below him the tiles of Las Vides. He descended a steep slope and found himself before the portico.
Under the grapevine were Victorina and Nieves. The child was amusing herself jumping the rope, which she did with extraordinary agility, the feet close together, without moving from one spot, the rope turning so rapidly that the graceful form of the jumper seemed to be enveloped in a sort of mist. Through the interstices in the foliage of the grapevine came large splashes of sunshine suddenly flooding the girl's form with light, in which her hair, her arms and her bare legs gleamed, for she wore only a loose navy blue blouse without sleeves. When she caught sight of Segundo she gave a little cry, dropped the rope and disappeared. Nieves, to make amends, rose from the bench where she had been working, with a smile on her lips and a slight flush of surprise on her cheeks, and extended her hand to the newcomer, who made haste to dismount from his horse.
"And Señor Don Victoriano, how is he?" he asked.
"Oh, he is somewhere in the neighborhood; he is very well, and very much interested in the labors ofthe country—very contented." Nieves said these words with the abstracted air with which we speak of things that possess only a slight interest for us. Segundo observed that the glance of the Minister's wife rested on his fine suit, which he had just received from Orense; and the idea that she might think it pretentious or ridiculous disturbed him so greatly for a time that he regretted not having worn his ordinary clothes.
"You frightened away Victorina," continued Nieves, smiling. "Where can the silly child have disappeared to? No doubt she ran away because she had on only a blouse. You treat her like a woman, and she is growing unbearable. Come."
Nieves gathered up the skirt of her morning gown of white cretonne spotted with rosebuds, and made her way intrepidly into the kitchen, which was on a level with the yard. Following the little Louis XV. heels covered by the Breton lace of her petticoat, Segundo passed through several rooms—the kitchen, the dining-room, the Rosary room, so called because in it Primo Genday said prayers with the servants, and finally the balcony room. Here Nieves stopped, saying:
"I will call to them if they chance to be in the vineyard."
And leaning out of the window, she cried:
"Uncle! Victoriano! Uncle!"
Two voices responded.
"What is it? We are coming."
Finding nothing opportune to say, Segundo was silent. Her conscience at rest, now that she had called the elders, Nieves turned toward him and said, with the graciousness of a hostess who knows what are the duties of her position:
"How good this is of you! We had not thought you would care to come before the vintage. And now that the holidays are approaching—indeed I supposed we should see you in Vilamorta before seeing you here, as Victoriano has determined to take a fortnight's course of the waters."
She leaned against the wall as she spoke, and Segundo tapped the toe of his boot with his whip. From the garden came the voice of Mendez:
"Nieves! Nieves! Come down, if it is all the same to you."
"Excuse me, I am going for a parasol."
She soon returned, and Segundo offered her his arm. They descended into the garden through the gallery, and after the customary greetings were over Mendez protested against Segundo's returning that afternoon to Vilamorta.
"The idea! A pretty thing that would be! To expose yourself to the heat twice in the same day!"
And Señor de las Vides, availing himself of an opportunity which no rural proprietor ever lets slip, took possession of the poet and gave himself up to the task of showing him over the estate. He explained to him at the same time his viticultural enterprises. He had been among the first to employ sulphur fumigation with success, and he was now using new manures which would perhaps solve the problem of grape cultivation. He was making experiments with the common wine of the Border, trying to make with it an imitation of the rich Bordeaux; to impart to it, with powdered lily-root, the bouquet, the fragrance, of the French wines. But he had to contend against the spirit of routine, fanaticism, as he said, confidentially lowering his voice and laying his hand on Segundo's shoulder. The other vine-growers accused him of disregarding the wholesome traditions of the country, of adulterating and making up wine. As if they themselves did not make it up. Only that they did so, using common drugs for the purpose—logwood and nightshade. He contented himself with employing rational methods, scientific discoveries, the improvements of modern chemistry, condemning the absurdcustom of using pitch in the skins, for although the people of the Border approved of the taste of pitch in the wine, saying that the pitch excited thirst, the exporters disliked, and with reason, the stickiness imparted by it. In short, if Segundo would like to see the wine vaults and the presses——
There was no help for it. Nieves remained at the door, fearing to soil her dress. When they came out they proceeded to inspect the garden in detail. The garden, too, was a series of walls built one above another, like the steps of a stairs, sustaining narrow belts of earth, and this arrangement of the ground gave the vegetation an exuberance that was almost tropical. Camellias, peach trees, and lemon trees grew in wild luxuriance, laden at once with leaves, fruits, and blossoms. Bees and butterflies circled and hummed around them, sipping their sweets, wild with the joy of mere existence and drunken with the sunshine. They ascended by steep steps from wall to wall. Segundo gave his arm to Nieves and at the last step they paused to look at the river flowing below.
"Look there," said Segundo, pointing to a distant hill on his left. "There is the pine grove. I wager you have forgotten."
"I have not forgotten," responded Nieves, winking her blue eyes dazzled by the sun; "the pine grove that sings. You see that I have not forgotten. And tell me, do you know if it will sing to-day? For I should greatly like to hear it sing this afternoon."
"If a breeze rises. With the air as still as it is now, the pines will be almost motionless and almost silent. And I sayalmost, for they are never quite silent. The friction of their tops is sufficient to cause a peculiar vibration, to produce a murmur——"
"And does that happen," asked Nieves jestingly, "only with the pines here or is it the same with all pines?"
"I cannot say," answered Segundo, looking at her fixedly. "Perhaps the only pine grove that will ever sing for me will be that of Las Vides."
Nieves lowered her eyes, and then glanced round, as if in search of Don Victoriano and Mendez, who were on one of the steps above them. Segundo observed the movement and with rude imperiousness said to Nieves:
"Let us join them."
They rejoined their companions and did not again separate from them until they entered the dining-room, where Genday and Tropiezo were awaitingthem. The last to arrive was the child, now modestly attired in a piqué frock and long stockings.
The table at which they dined was placed, not in the center, but at one side of the dining-room; it was square and at the sides, instead of chairs, stood two oaken benches, dark with age, as seats for the guests. The head and foot of the table were left free for the service. Sober by nature, Segundo noticed with surprise the extraordinary quantity of food consumed by Don Victoriano, observing at the same time that his face was thinner than before. Now and then the statesman paused remorsefully, saying:
"I am eating ravenously."
The Amphitryon protested, and Tropiezo and Genday expounded in turn liberal and consoling doctrines. "Nature is very wise," said Señor de las Vides, who had not forgotten Rousseau, "and he who obeys her cannot go astray." Primo Genday, fond of eating, like all plethoric people, added with a certain theological unction: "In order that the soul may be disposed to serve God the reasonable requirements of the body must first be attended to." Tropiezo, on his side, pushed out his lower lip, denying the existence of certain new-fangled diseases. Since theworld began there had been people who suffered as Don Victoriano was suffering and no one had ever thought of depriving them of eating and drinking, quite the contrary. For the very reason that the disease was a wasting one it was necessary to eat well. Don Victoriano allowed himself to be easily persuaded. Those dishes of former times, those antiquated, miraculous cruet-stands in which the oil and the vinegar came from the same tube without ever mingling, that immense loaf placed on the table as a center-piece, were for him so many delightful relics of the past, which reminded him of happy hours, the irresponsible years of existence. At the dessert, when Primo Genday, still heated with a political discussion in which he had characterized the liberals as uncircumcised, suddenly grew very serious and proceeded to recite the Lord's Prayer, the Minister, a confirmed rationalist, was surprised at the devoutness with which he murmured—"Our daily bread."Caramba, those memories of the days when one was young! Don Victoriano grew young again in going over those recollections of his boyish days. He even called to mind ephemeral engagements, flirtations of a fortnight with young ladies of the Border who, at the present time, must be withered oldmaids or respectable mothers of families. A pretty fool he was! The ex-Minister laid down his napkin and rose to his feet.
"Do you sleep the siesta?" he asked Segundo.
"No, Señor."
"Nor I either; let us go and smoke a cigar together."
They seated themselves near the window in the parlor in a couple of rocking-chairs brought from Orense. The garden and the vineyard breathed a lazy tranquillity, a silence so profound that the dull sound of the ripe peaches breaking from the branch and falling on the dry ground could be plainly heard. Through the open window came odors of fruit and honey. In the house unbroken silence reigned.
"Will you have a cigar?"
"Thanks."
The cigars were lighted and Segundo, following Don Victoriano's example, began to rock himself. The rhythmical movement of the rocking-chairs, the drowsy quiet of the place, invited to a serious and confidential conversation.
"And you, what do you do in Vilamorta? You are a lawyer, are you not. I think I have heard that it is your intention to succeed your father in his practice—a very intelligent man."
Segundo felt that the occasion was propitious.The smoke of the cigars, diffusing itself through the atmosphere, softened the light, disposing him to confidence and dispelling his habitual reserve.
"The thought of beginning now the career my father is just ending horrifies me," he said, in answer to the ex-Minister's question. "That sordid struggle to gain a little money, more or less, those village intrigues, that miserable plotting and planning, that drawing-up of documents—I was made for none of those things, Señor Don Victoriano. It is not that I could not practice. I have been a fair student and my good memory always brought me safely through in the examinations. But for what does the profession of law serve? For a foundation, nothing more. It is a passport, a card of admission to some office."
"Well——" said Don Victoriano, shaking the ashes from his cigar, "what you say is true, very true. What is learned at the University is of scarcely any use afterward. As for me, if it had not been for my apprenticeship with Don Juan Antonio Prado, who taught me to make a practical use of my legal knowledge and to know how many teeth there are in a comb, I should not have distinguished myself greatly by my Compostelan learning. My friend, what makes a man of one, what really profits one is this terrible apprenticeship, the position in which aboy finds himself when a pile of papers is set before him, and a pompous gentleman says to him, 'Study this question to-day and have ready for me by to-morrow a formulated opinion on it.' There is the rub! That is what makes you sweat and bite your nails! There neither laziness nor ignorance will avail you. The thing must be done, and as it cannot be done by magic——"
"Even in Madrid and on a large scale the practice of the law has no attractions for me. I have other aspirations."
"Let us hear what they are."
Segundo hesitated, restrained by a feeling of shyness, as if he had been going to narrate a dream or to descant on the delights of love. He followed with his eyes for a few moments the blue smoke curling upward and finally, the semi-obscurity of the room, secluded as a confessional, dissipated his reserve.
"I wish to follow the profession of literature," he returned.
The statesman stopped rocking himself and took his cigar from his mouth.
"But my boy, literature is not a profession!" he said. "There is no such thing as the profession of literature! Let us understand each other—haveyou ever been out of Vilamorta? I mean beyond Santiago and the neighboring towns?"
"No, Señor."
"Then I can understand those illusions and those childish notions. They still believe here that a writer or a poet, from the mere fact of his being such, may aspire to—and what do you write?"
"Poetry."
"You don't write prose at all?"
"An occasional essay or newspaper article. Very little."
"Bravo! Well, if you trust to poetry to make your way in the world—I have remarked something curious in this place and I am going to tell you what it is. Verses are still read here with interest, and it seems the girls learn them by heart. But in the capital I assure you there is scarcely anyone who cares for poetry. You are twenty or thirty years behind the age here—at the height of the romantic period."
Segundo, annoyed, said with some vehemence:
"And Campoamor? And Nuñez de Arce? And Grilo? Are they not famous poets? Are they not popular?"
"Campoamor? They read him because he is very witty, and he sets the girls thinking and he makesthe men laugh. He has his merit, and he amuses while he philosophizes. But remember that neither he nor Nuñez de Arce lives by writing verses. Much prosperity that would bring them! As to Grilo—well, he has his admirers among ladies of rank, and the Queen Mother publishes his poems, and as far as we can judge he has plenty of money. But convince yourself that no one will ever grow rich by following the road that leads to Parnassus. And this is when masters are in question, for of poets of a secondary rank, young men who string rhymes together with more or less facility, there are probably now in Madrid some two or three hundred. Have you ever heard of any of them? No; nor I either. A few friends praise them when they publish anything in some insignificant review. But there is no need to go on. In plain words, it is time lost."
Segundo silently vented his anger on his cigar.
"Don't take what I say as an offense," continued Don Victoriano. "I know little about literature, although in my youthful days I wrotequintillas, like everybody else. Besides, I have seen nothing of what you have written, so that my opinion is impartial and my advice sincere."
"My ambition," began Segundo at last, "is notconfined exclusively to lyric poetry. Perhaps later I might prefer the drama—or prose. Who knows? I only want to try my fortune."
Don Victoriano rose and stepped out into the balcony. Suddenly he returned, placed both hands on Segundo's shoulders, and putting his clean-shaven face close to the face of the poet, said with a pity which was not feigned:
"Poor boy! How many, many disappointments are in store for you!"
And as Segundo, astonished at this sudden effusion, remained silent, he continued:
"Novice as you are, you have no means of knowing what you are doing. I am sorry for you. You are deluding yourself. In the present state of society, in order to attain eminence in anything, you must sweat blood like Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. If it is lyric poetry that is in question, God help you! If you write comedies or farces, you have an enviable fate before you—to flatter the actors, to have your manuscript lie neglected in the corner of a drawer, to have half an act cut out at a stroke; and then the dread of the first night, and of what comes after it—which may be the worst of all. If you become a journalist, you will not have ten minutes in the day to yourself, you will make thereputation of others, and you will never see even so much as the shadow of your own. If you write books—but who reads in Spain? And if you throw yourself into politics—ah, then indeed!"
Segundo, his eyes cast down, his gaze wandering over the pine knots in the boarded floor, listened without opening his lips to those convincing accents that seemed to tear away one by one the rose-leaves of his illusions, with the same strident sound with which the nail of the speaker flicked away the ash of his cigar. At last he raised his contracted face and looking at the statesman said, not without a touch of sarcasm in his voice:
"As for politics, Señor Don Victoriano, it seems to me that you ought not to speak ill of that. It has treated you well; you have no cause of complaint against it. For you politics has not been a stepmother."
Don Victoriano's countenance changed, showing plainly the ravages disease had made in his organism; and rising to his feet a second time, he threw away his cigar and, walking up and down the room with hasty steps, he burst forth passionately, in words that rushed from his lips in a sudden flood, in an impetuous and unequal stream, like the stream of blood gushing from a severed artery:
"Don't touch that point. Be silent about that, boy. How do you, how does anybody know what those things are until he has thrown himself headlong into them and is caught fast and cannot escape! If I were to tell you—but it is impossible to tell one's whole life, day by day, to describe a battle which has lasted for years, without rest or respite. To struggle in order to make one's self known, to go on struggling to keep one's self from being forgotten, to pass from law to politics, from a wheel set with knives to a bed of live coals, to fight in Congress without faith, without conviction, because one must fight to keep the place one has won; and with all this not to have a free hour, not a tranquil moment, not have time for anything. One achieves fortune when one no longer has the inclination to enjoy it; one marries and has a family and—one has hardly liberty to accompany one's wife to the theater. Don't talk to me. A hell, a hell upon earth is what politics is. Would you believe" (and here he uttered a round oath) "that when my little girl was beginning to walk, I proposed to myself one day to have the pleasure of taking her out walking—a caprice, a whim. Well, I was going downstairs with the child in my arms, very contented, when lo, I found myself face to face with the Marquisof Cameros, a candidate for representative from Galicia, who had come to ask me for fifteen or twenty letters—written in my own hand so that they might prove more efficacious. And I was such a fool, man, I was such a fool, that instead of throwing the Marquis down the stairs, as I ought to have done, I walked back my two flights, gave the child to her nurse, and shut myself up in my office to prepare the election. And it was the same thing always; tell me, then, have I reason or not to abominate such folly, such humbug? Ah, what pains we are at to make ourselves miserable!"
There could be no doubt of it; in the voice of the statesman there was the sound of repressed tears; in his throat smothered curses and blasphemies struggled for utterance. Segundo, to do something, threw open the window leading to the balcony. The sun was low in the heavens; the heat had grown less intense.
"And worst of all—the consequences!" continued Don Victoriano, pausing in his walk. "You strive and struggle without pausing to reflect what will be the effect upon your health. You fight, like the knights of old, with visor down. But as you are not made of iron, but only of flesh and blood, when youleast expect it, you find yourself sick, sick, wounded, without knowing where. You do not lose blood, but you lose the sap of life, like a lemon that is squeezed." And the ex-Minister laughed bitterly. "And you want to stop, to rest, to get back health at any cost, and you find that it is too late; you have not a drop of moisture left in your body. Well, keep on until there is an end to you. Much your labors and your triumphs have profited you! You have drawn down on yourself a doom from which there is no escape!"
He spoke with gesticulations, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets in an outburst of confidence, expressing himself with as little reserve as if he had been alone. And in reality he was talking to himself. His words were a monologue, the spoken utterance of the gloomy thoughts which Don Victoriano, thanks to heroic efforts, had hitherto been able to conceal in his own breast. The strange malady from which he suffered gave rise to horrible nightmares; he dreamed that he was turning into a loaf of sugar and that his intellect, his blood, his life, were flowing away from him, through a deep, deep channel, converted into syrup. In his waking moments his mind refused to accept, as one refused to accept a humiliation, so strange a malady. Sanchezdel Abrojo must be mistaken; his was some functional, transitory disorder, an ordinary ailment, the result of his sedentary life, and Tropiezo's old-fashioned remedies would perhaps after all prove more efficacious than those of science. And if they did not? The statesman felt a cold chill run through him that made his hair stand on end and constricted his heart. To die when he was scarcely past forty, with his mental powers unimpaired, with so many things begun, so many accomplished! And no doubt this consuming thirst, this insatiable voracity, this debilitating sensation of melting away, of fusion, of dissolving, were all fatal symptoms.
Suddenly Don Victoriano remembered the presence of Segundo, which he had almost forgotten. And laying both hands on his shoulders a second time, and fixing on the poet's eyes, his dry eyes, scorched by repressed tears, he cried:
"Do you wish to hear the truth, and to receive good advice? Have you ambitions, aspirations, hopes? Well, I have had disappointments, and I desire to do you a service by recounting them to you now. Don't be a fool; stay here all your life; help your father, take up his practice when he lays it down, and marry that blooming daughter of Agonde. Never leave this land of fruits, of vines,whose climate is so delightful. What would I not give now never to have left it! No, my boy, remain quietly here; end a long life here surrounded by a numerous progeny. Have you observed how healthy your father is? It is a pleasure to see him, with his teeth so sound and perfect. I have not a single tooth that is not decayed; they say that it is one of the symptoms of my malady. Why, if your mother were living now you would be having little brothers and sisters."
Segundo smiled.
"But, Señor Don Victoriano," he said, "to act out your ideas would be to vegetate, not to live."
"And what greater happiness than to vegetate," responded the statesman, looking out of the window. "Do you think those trees there are not to be envied?"
The garden, indeed, seen in the light of the setting sun, had a certain air of voluptuous bliss, as if it were enjoying a happy dream.
The lustrous leaves of the lemon trees and the camellias, the gummy trunks of the fruit trees, seemed to drink in with delight the fresh evening breeze, precursor of the vivifying dews of night. The golden atmosphere took on in the distance faint lilac tints. Innumerable noises began to make themselvesheard, preludes to songs of insects, to the concerts of the frogs and toads.
The pensive tranquillity of the scene was broken in upon by the quick trot of a mule, and Clodio Genday, out of breath, flung himself out of his saddle, and reeled into the garden. Gesticulating with his hands, with his head, with his whole body, he called, screamed, vociferated:
"Oh, I have a nice piece of news for you, a nice piece of news! I will be there directly, I will be there directly!"
They went to the head of the stairs leading to the garden, to meet him, and when he rushed upon them, like an arrow shot from a bow, they saw that he wore neither collar nor cravat, and that his dress was in the utmost disorder.
"A mere bagatelle, Señor Don Victoriano—that they are playing a trick upon us; that they have played it already, that unless we take prompt measures we shall lose the district. You would not believe it, if I were to tell you of all the plans they have been laying, for a long time past, at Doña Eufrasia's shop. And we simpletons suspecting nothing. And all the priests are in the plot; the parish priests of Lubrego, of Boan, of Naya, and of Cebre. They have set up as a candidate Señorito de Romeroof Orense, who is willing to loosen his purse-strings. But where is Primo, that good-for-nothing, that scarecrow, who never found out a word of all this?"
"We will look for him, man. What do you tell me, what do you tell me? I never thought they would have dared——"
And Don Victoriano, animated and excited, followed Clodio, who went shouting through the parlor:
"Primo! Primo!"
A little later Segundo saw the two brothers and the ex-Minister going through the garden disputing and gesticulating violently. Clodio was making charges against Primo, who tried to defend himself, while Don Victoriano acted as peacemaker. In his fury Clodio shook his clenched fist in Primo's face, almost laying violent hands upon him, while the culprit stammered, crossing himself hastily:
"Mercy, mercy, mercy! Ave Maria!"
The poet watched them as they passed by, remarking the transformation that had taken place in Don Victoriano. As he turned away from the window he saw Nieves standing before him.
"And those gentlemen," she said to him graciously, "have they left you all alone? The pines must at this time be singing. There is a breeze stirring."
"Undoubtedly they will be singing now," returned the poet. "I shall hear them as I ride back to Vilamorta."
Nieves' movement of surprise did not pass unnoticed by Segundo, who, looking her steadily in the face, added coldly and proudly: "Unless you should command me to remain."
Nieves was silent. She felt that courtesy required that she should make some effort to detain her guest, while at the same time to ask him to remain, they two being alone, seemed to her inexpedient and liable to misconstruction. At last she took a middle course, saying with a forced smile:
"But why are you in such a hurry? And will you make us another visit?"
"We shall see each other later in Vilamorta. Good-by, Nieves, I will not disturb Don Victoriano. Say good-by to him for me and tell him he may count upon my father's services and upon mine."
Without taking Nieves' outstretched hand or looking at her he descended into the courtyard. He was settling his feet in the stirrups when he saw a little figure appear close beside him. It was Victorina, with her hands full of lumps of sugar, which she offered the nag. The animal eagerly pushedout its under lip, which moved with the intelligent undulations of an elephant's trunk.
Segundo interposed:
"Child, he will bite you; he bites."
Then he added gayly:
"Do you want me to lift you up here? You don't? I wager I can lift you!"
He lifted her up and seated her on the saddle-cloth, before him. She struggled to free herself and in her struggles her beautiful hair fell over the face and shoulders of Segundo, who was holding her tightly around the waist. He observed with some surprise that the girl's heart was beating tumultuously. Turning very pale Victorina cried:
"Mamma, mamma!"
At last she succeeded in releasing herself and ran toward Nieves, who was laughing merrily at the incident. Half-way she stopped, retraced her steps, threw her arms around the horse's neck and pressed on his nose a warm kiss.
Eight or ten days intervened between Segundo's visit to Las Vides and the return of Don Victoriano and his family to Vilamorta. Don Victoriano desired to drink the waters and at the same time to take measures to frustrate the dark machinations of Romero's partisans. His plan was a simple one—to offer Romero some other district, where he would not have to spend a penny, and thus removing the only rival who had any prestige in the country he would avoid the mortification of a defeat through Vilamorta. It was important to do this before October, the period at which the electoral contest was to take place. And while Genday, García, the Alcalde and the other Combistas managed the negotiation, Don Victoriano, installed in Agonde's house, drank two or three glasses of the salubrious waters every morning, after which he read his correspondence, and in the afternoon, when the sultry heat invited to a siesta, he read or wrote in the cool parlor of the apothecary.
Segundo frequently accompanied him in thesehours of retirement. They talked together like two friends, and the statesman, far from insisting on the ideas he had expressed in Las Vides, encouraged the poet, offering him to endeavor to obtain a position for him in Madrid which should enable him to carry out his plans.
"A position that will not take up much of your time, nor require much mental labor—I will see, I will see. I will be on the lookout for something."
Segundo observed unmistakable signs of improved health in the wrinkled face of the Minister. Don Victoriano was experiencing the transitory benefit which mineral waters produce at first, stimulating the organism only to waste it all the more rapidly, perhaps, afterward. Both digestion and circulation had become more active, and perspiration, even, entirely suppressed by the disease, had become re-established, dilating the pores with grateful warmth and communicating to the dry fibers the elasticity of healthy flesh. As a candle flares up brightly before going out, so Don Victoriano seemed to be recovering strength when in reality he was wasting away. Fancying health was returning to him, he breathed with delight the narrow atmosphere of party intrigues, taking pleasure in disputing his district inch by inch, in winning over adherents and receivingdemonstrations of sympathy, and secretly flattered by the absurd proposal made by his parishioners to the parish priest of Vilamorta, that incense should be burned before him. In the evening he amused himself patriarchally among Agonde's visitors, listening to the comical stories told of the clique at Doña Eufrasia's shop and enjoying the ripple of excitement occasioned by the proximity of the feasts. Little by little the innocent tresillo table of Agonde had become transformed into something much more wicked. Now, instead of four persons being seated at it, there was only one, around whom, their eyes fixed on his hands, the others stood grouped. The banker's left hand grasped the cards tightly while with the ball of his thumb he pushed up the last card until first the spot could be descried, then the number, then the knob of a club, the point of a diamond, the blue tail of a horse, the turreted crown of a king, and other hands took up stakes or took money from the pocket and laid it down on the fateful pieces of cardboard with the words:
"On the seven! On the four! The ace is in sight!"
Through respect for Don Victoriano, Agonde refrained from dealing the cards when the latter waspresent, bridling with difficulty the only passion that could warm his blood and excite his placid nature, giving up his place to Jacinto Ruedas, a famous strolling gambler, known everywhere, who followed the scent of the gaming-table as others follow the scent of a banquet, a rare type, something between a swindler and a spy, who made low jests in a hoarse voice. The chroniclers do not state whether the civil authorities, that is to say, the judge of Vilamorta, made any attempt to interfere with the unlawful diversion in which the visitors to the pharmacy indulged, but it is an ascertained fact that, the judge having one leg shorter than the other, the pounding of his crutch on the sidewalk gave timely warning of his approach to the players. And as for the municipal authority, it is known to a certainty that one day, or to speak with more exactness, one night, he entered the apothecary's back shop like a bomb, holding in his hand money which he threw on a card, crying:
"Gentlemen, I am queen!"
"Be an ass, if you like!" responded Agonde, pushing him away with marked disrespect.
This year Don Victoriano's presence and the open hostilities waged between his partisans and those of Romero gave a martial character to the feasts. TheCombists desired to render them more splendid and brilliant than ever before and the Romerists to render them a failure, as far as it was possible. In the main room of the townhall the monster balloon, which occupied the whole length of the apartment, was being repaired; its white sides were being covered with inscriptions, figures, emblems, and symbols, and around the floor were scattered tin kettles filled with paste, pots of vermilion, Sienna, and ochre, balls of packthread and cut paper figures. From the giant balloon sprung daily broods of smaller balloons, miniature balloons, made with remnants and fancifully decorated in pink and blue. At the meetings at Doña Eufrasia's they spoke contemptuously of these preparations and commented on the audacity of the inn-keeper's son, a mere dauber, who undertook to paint Don Victoriano's likeness on one of the divisions of the large balloon. The Romerist young ladies, compressing their lips and shrugging their shoulders, declared that they would attend neither the fire-works nor the ball, not if their adversaries were to offer novenas with that purpose to every saint in heaven.
On the other hand, the young ladies of the Combist party formed a sort of court around Nieves. Every afternoon they called for her to take her outwalking; chief among these were Carmen Agonde, Florentina, the daughter of the Alcalde, Rosa, a niece of Tropiezo, and Clara, the eldest of García's daughters. This latter was running about barefooted, spending her time gathering blackberries in her apron, when she received the astounding news that her father had ordered a gown for her from Orense, that she might visit the Minister's lady. And the gown came with its fresh bows and its stiff linings and the girl, her face and hands washed, her hair combed, her feet covered with new kid boots, her eyes cast down and her hands crossed stiffly before her, went to swell Nieves' train. Victorina took Clara García under her especial protection, arranged her dress and hair and made her a present of a bracelet, and they became inseparable companions.
They generally walked on the highroad, but as soon as Clara grew more intimate with Victorina she protested against this, declaring that the paths and the by-ways were much more amusing and that much prettier things were to be met with in them. And she pressed Victorina's arm saying:
"Segundo knows lovely walks!"
As chance would have it, that same afternoon, returning to the town, they caught sight of a man stealing along in the shadow of the houses, andClara, who was on the other side of the way, ran over to him, and threw her arm around his waist, crying:
"Hey, Segundo; you can't escape from us now, we have caught you."
The poet gave a brotherly push to Clara, and ceremoniously saluting Nieves, who returned his salutation with extreme cordiality, he said to her:
"The idea of this girl—I am sure she has been making herself troublesome to you. You must excuse her."
They sat down on one of the benches of the Plaza, to enjoy the fresh air, and when, on the following day the party walked out after the siesta, Segundo joined them, studiously avoiding Nieves as if some secret understanding, some mysterious complicity existed between them. He mingled among the girls and, laying aside his habitual reserve, he laughed and jested with Victorina, for whom he gathered, as they walked along the hedges, ripe blackberries, acorns, early chestnut burrs, and innumerable wild flowers, which the girl put into a little Russian leather satchel.
Sometimes Segundo led them along precipitous paths cut in the living rock, bordered by walls, supporting grapevines through which the expiring rays of the sun could scarcely penetrate. Again hewould take them through bare and arid woods until they reached some old oak grove, some chestnut tree, inside whose trunk, decayed and split with age, Segundo would hide himself while the girls hand in hand danced around it.
One day he took them to the stone bridge that crossed the Avieiro, under whose arches the black water, cold and motionless, seems to be dreaming a sinister dream. And he told them how in this spot, where, owing to the water being deeper there and less exposed to the sun's rays, the largest trout gathered, a corpse had been found floating last month near the arch. He took them to hear the echo also, and all the girls were wild with delight, talking all together, without waiting for the wall to repeat their cries and shouts of laughter. On another afternoon he showed them a curious lake regarding which innumerable fables were told in the country—that it had no bottom, that it reached to the center of the earth, that submerged cities could be seen under its surface, that strange woods floated and unknown flowers grew in its waters. The so-called lake was in reality a large excavation, probably a Roman mine that had been flooded with water, which, imprisoned within the chain of hillocks of argillaceous tophus heaped up around it by the miners' shovels,presented a sepulchral and fantastic aspect, the weird effect of the scene being heightened by the somber character of the marsh vegetation which covered the surface of the immense pool. When it began to grow dark the children declared that this lugubrious scene made them horribly afraid; the girls confessed to the same feeling, and started for the highroad running at the top of their speed, leaving Segundo and Nieves behind. This was the first time they had found themselves alone together, for the poet avoided such occasions. Nieves looked around uneasily and then, meeting Segundo's eyes fixed, ardent and questioning upon hers, lowered her gaze. Then the gloom of the landscape and the solemnity of the hour gave her a contraction of the heart, and without knowing what she was doing she began to run as the girls had done. She heard Segundo's footsteps behind her, and when she at last stopped, at a little distance from the highroad, she saw him smile and could not help smiling herself at her own folly.
"Heavens! What a silly fright!" she cried, "I have made myself ridiculous. I am as bad as the children! But that blessed pool is enough to make one afraid. Tell me, how is it that they have not taken views of it? It is very curious and picturesque."
They returned by the highroad; it was now quite dark and Nieves, as if wishing to efface the impression made by her childish terror, showed herself gay and friendly with Segundo; two or three times her eyes encountered his and, doubtless through absent-mindedness, she did not turn them aside. They spoke of the walk of the following day; it must be along the banks of the river, which was more cheerful than the pond; the scenery there was beautiful, not gloomy like that of the pool.
In effect the road they followed on the next day was beautiful, although it was obstructed by the osier plantations and canebrakes and the intricate growth of the birches and the young poplars, which at times impeded their progress. Every now and then Segundo had to give his hand to Nieves and put aside the flexible young branches that struck against her face. Notwithstanding all his care, he was unable to save her from wetting her feet and leaving some fragments of the lace of her hat among the branches of a poplar. They stopped at a spot where the river, dividing, formed a sort of islet covered with cats-tails and gladioli. A rivulet running down the mountain-side mingled its waters silently and meekly with the waters of Avieiro. At the river's edge grew plants with dentated leaves and avariety of ferns and graceful aquatic plants. Segundo knelt down on the wet ground and began to gather some flowers.
"Take them, Nieves," he said.
She approached and, kneeling on one knee, he handed her a bunch of flowers of a pale turquoise blue, with slender stems, flowers of which she had hitherto seen only imitations, as adornments for hats, and that she had fancied had only a mythical existence; flowers of romance, that she had thought grew only on the banks of the Rhine, which is the home of everything romantic; flowers that have so beautiful a name—Forget-me-not.
Nieves was what is called an exemplary wife, without a dark page in her history, without a thought of disloyalty to her husband, a coquette only in her dress and in the adornment of her person, and even in these practicing no alluring arts, content to obey slavishly the dictates of fashion.
Her ideal, if she had any, was to lead a comfortable, elegant existence, enjoying the consideration of the world. She had married when she was very young, Don Victoriano settling on her some thousands of dollars, and on the wedding-day her father had called her into his magisterial office and, keeping her standing before him as if she were a criminal, had charged her to respect and obey the husband she had chosen. She obeyed and respected him.
And her obedience and respect were a torture to Don Victoriano, who sought in marriage a compensation for the long years he had spent in his law office; years of loneliness during which his arduous labors and confinement to business had prevented him from forming any tender tie or cultivating gentleaffections, permitting him at the most some hasty pleasure, some reckless and exciting adventure, which did not satisfy his heart. He fancied that the beautiful daughter of the President of the Court would requite him for all the tender joys he had missed and he found with vain and bitter disappointment that Nieves saw in him only the grave husband who is accepted with docility, without repugnance, nothing more. Respecting against his will the peace of this superficial being, he neither could nor dared disturb it, and he fretted his soul with unavailing longings, hastening to the crisis of maturity and multiplying the white patches that streaked his black hair.
When the child was born Don Victoriano hoped to repay himself with interest in new and holy caresses, to take solace in a pure oasis of affection. But the requirements of his position, the hurry of business, the complex obligations and the implacable cares of his existence, interposed themselves between him and a father's joys. He saw his daughter only from a distance, barely succeeding, when the coffee was brought in, in having her for awhile on his knee. And then came the first warnings of his disease.
From the time in which his malady declared itselfwith all its afflicting symptoms, Nieves had still less of her husband's society than before; it seemed to her as if she had returned to the rosy days of her girlhood, when she flitted about like a butterfly and played at lovers with her companions, who wrote her fictitious love-letters of an innocent nature, which they put under her pillow.
She never had had much amusement since that time. A great deal of amusement was to be found in the routine of a methodical Madrid life! Yes, there was a period during which the Marquis de Cameros, a rich young client of Don Victoriano's, had come to the house with some frequency, and he had even been asked to dine with them three or four times, without ceremony. Nieves remembered that the Marquis had cast many furtive glances at her, and that they had always met him, by chance, at whatever theater they went to. It did not go beyond this.
Nieves was now in the bloom of her second youth—between twenty-nine and thirty—terrible epoch in a woman's life; and if it brought her no red passion flowers, at least she wished to adorn herself with the romantic forget-me-nots of the poet. It seemed to Nieves that in the porcelain vase of her existence a flower had been wanting, and the fragile blue spraycame to complete the beauty of the drawing-room toy. Bah! What harm was there in all this? It was a childish adventure. Those flowers, preserved between the leaves of a costly prayer-book, inspired her only with thoughts as pallid and sapless as the poor petals now pressed and dry.
She had fastened the blue spray in her bosom. How well it looked among the folds of the écru lace!
"Tell me, mamma," Victorina had said to her that night before going to bed, "did Segundo give you those pretty flowers?"
"Oh, I don't remember—yes, I think that García picked them for me."
"Will you give them to me to keep in my little satchel?"
"Go, child, go to bed quickly. Mademoiselle, see that she says her prayers!"
The proximity of the feasts put an end to long walks. The promenaders confined themselves to walks on the highroad, returning soon to the town, where the plaza was crowded with busy people. The promenaders included the young ladies of the Combist party, gayly attired, parish priests, ill-shaven, of sickly aspect and dejected looking, gamblers of doubtful appearance and strangers from the Border—all types which Agonde criticised with mordacity, to Nieves' great amusement.
"Do you see those women there? They are the Señoritas de Gondas, three old maids and a young lady, whom they call their niece, but as they have no brother——Those other two are the Molendes, from Cebre, very aristocratic people, God save the mark! The fat one thinks herself superior to Lucifer, and the other writes poetry, and what poetry! I tell Segundo García that he ought to propose to her; they would make an excellent pair. They are staying at Lamajosa's; there they are in their element, for Doña Mercedes Lamajosa, when any visitorcomes, in order that it may be known that they are noble, says to her daughters: 'Girls, let one of you bring me my knitting; it must be in the press, where the letters-patent of nobility are.' Those two handsome, well-dressed girls are the Caminos, daughters of the judge."
On the eve of the fair the musicians paraded the streets morning and afternoon, deafening everybody with the noise of their triumphal strains. The plaza in front of the townhall was dotted with booths, which made a gay confusion of brilliant and discordant colors. Before the townhall were erected some odd-looking objects which with equal probability might be taken for instruments of torture, children's toys, or scarecrows, but which were in reality fireworks—trees and wheels which were to burn that night, with magnificent pomp, favored by the stillness of the atmosphere. From the window of the building issued, like a Titanic arm, the pole on which was to be hoisted the gigantic balloon, and along the balustrade ran a series of colored glasses, forming the letters V. A. D. L. C.—a delicate compliment to the representative of the district.
It was already dark when Don Victoriano, accompanied by his wife and daughter, set out for the townhall to see the fireworks. It was with difficultythey made their way through the crowd which filled the plaza, where a thousand discordant noises filled the air—now the timbrel and castanets in some dance, now the buzz of thezanfona, now some slow and melancholy popularcopla, now the shout of some aggressive and quarrelsome drunkard. Agonde gave his arm to Nieves, made way for her among the crowd, and explained to her the programme of the night's entertainment.
"Never was there seen a balloon like this year's," he said; "it is the largest we have ever had here. The Romerists are furious."
"And how has my likeness turned out?" asked Don Victoriano with interest.
"Oh! It is superb. Better than the likeness inLa Illustracion."
At the door of the townhall the difficulties increased, and it was necessary to trample down without mercy the country-people—who had installed themselves there, determined not to budge an inch lest they should lose their places—before they were able to pass in.
"See what asses they are," said Agonde. "It makes no difference whether you step over them or not, they won't rise. They have no place to sleep and they intend to pass the night here;to-morrow they will waken up and return to their villages."
They made their way as best they could over this motley heap in which men and women were crowded together, intertwined, entangled in repulsive promiscuity. Even on the steps of the stairs suspicious-looking groups were lying, or some drunken peasant snored, surfeited withpulpo, or some old woman sat counting her coppers in her lap. They entered the hall, which was illuminated only by the dim light shed by the colored glasses. Some young ladies already occupied the space in front of the windows, but the Alcalde, hat in hand, with innumerable apologies, made them draw their chairs closer together to make room for Nieves, Victorina, and Carmen Agonde, around whom an obsequious circle gathered; chairs were brought for the ladies, and the Alcalde took Don Victoriano to the Secretary's office, where a tray, with some bottles of Tostado and some atrocious cigars, awaited him. The young ladies and the children placed themselves in front, leaning on the railing of the balcony, running the risk of having some rocket fall upon them. Nieves remained a little behind, and drew her silver-woven Algerian shawl closer around her, for in this empty, gloomy hall the air was chill. At her side was an emptychair, which was suddenly occupied by a figure whose outlines were dimly distinguishable in the darkness.
"Why, García," she cried, "it is a cure for sore eyes. We haven't seen you for two days."
"You don't see me now, either, Nieves," said the poet, leaning toward her and speaking in a low voice. "It would be rather difficult to see one here."
"That is true," answered Nieves, confused by this simple remark. "Why have they not brought lights?"
"Because it would spoil the effect of the fireworks. Don't you prefer this species of semi-obscurity?" he added, smiling, before he uttered it, at the choice phrase.
Nieves was silent. Unconsciously she was fascinated by the situation, in which there was a delicate blending of danger and security which was not without a tinge of romance; she felt a sense of security in the proximity of the open window, the young girls crowded around it, the plaza, where the multitude swarmed like ants, and whence came noises like the roaring of the sea, and songs and confused cries full of tender melancholy; but at the same time the solitude and the darkness of the hall and the species of isolation in which she found herself with the Swanafforded one of those chance occasions which tempt women of weak principles, who are neither so imprudent as to throw themselves headlong into danger, nor so cautious as to fly from its shadow.
Nieves remained silent, feeling Segundo's breath fanning her cheek. Suddenly both started. The first rocket was streaking the sky with a long trail of light, and the noise of the explosion, deadened though it was by distance, drew a cheer from the crowd in the plaza. After this advanced guard came, one after another, at regular intervals, with measured, hollow, deafening sound, eight bombs, the signal announced in the programme of the feasts for the beginning of the display. The window shook with the report and Nieves did not venture to raise her eyes to the sky, fearing, doubtless, to see it coming down with the reverberation of the bombs. After this the noise of the flying fireworks, chasing one another through the solitudes of space, seemed to her soft and pleasant.
The first of these were ordinary rockets, without any novelty whatever—a trail of light, a dull report, and a shower of sparks. But soon came the surprises, novelties, and marvels of art. There were fireworks that exploded, separating into three or four cascades of light that vanished with fantastic swiftnessin the depths of space; from others fell with mysterious slowness and noiselessness violet, green, and red lights, as if the angels had overturned in the skies a casket of amethysts, emeralds, and rubies. The lights descended slowly, like tears, and before they reached the ground suddenly went out. The prettiest were the rockets which sent down a rain of gold, a fantastic shower of sparks, a stream of drops of light as quickly lighted as extinguished. The delight of the crowd in the plaza, however, was greatest at the fireworks of three explosions and a snake. These were not without beauty; they exploded like simple rockets, sending forth a fiery lizard, a reptile which ran through the sky in serpentine curves, and then plunged suddenly into darkness.
The scene was now wrapped in darkness, now flooded with light, when the plaza would seem to rise to a level with the window, with its swarm of people, the patches of color of the booths and the hundreds of human faces turned upward, beaming with delight at this favorite spectacle of the Galicians, a race which has preserved the Celtic love and admiration for pyrotechnic displays, for brilliantly illuminated nights in which they find a compensation for the cloudy horizon of the day.
Nieves, too, was pleased by the sudden alternations of light and darkness, a faithful image of the ambiguous condition of her soul. When the firmament was lighted up she watched with admiration the bright luminaries that gave a Venetian coloring to these pleasant moments. When everything was again enveloped in darkness she ventured to look at the poet, without seeing him, however, for her eyes, dazzled by the fireworks, were unable to distinguish the outlines of his face. The poet, on his side, kept his eyes fixed persistently on Nieves, and he saw her flooded with light, with that rare and beautiful moonlight glow produced by fireworks, and which adds a hundredfold to the softness and freshness of the features. He felt a keen impulse to condense in one ardent phrase all that the time had now come for saying, and he bent toward her—and at last he pronounced her name!
"Nieves!"
"Well?"
"Had you ever seen fireworks like these before?"
"No; it is a specialty of this province. I like them greatly. If I were a poet like you I would say pretty things about them. Come, invent something, you."
"Like them happiness brightens our existence, fora few brief moments, Nieves—but while it brightens, while we feel it——"
Segundo inwardly cursed the high-sounding phrase that he found himself unable to finish. What nonsense he was talking! Would it not be better to bend down a little lower and touch with his lips——But what if she should scream? She would not scream, he would venture to swear. Courage!
In the balcony a great commotion was heard. Carmen Agonde called to Nieves:
"Nieves, come, come! The first tree—a wheel of fire——"
Nieves rose hastily and went and leaned over the balustrade, thinking that it would not do to attract attention sitting all the evening chatting with Segundo. The tree began to burn at one end, not without difficulty, apparently, spitting forth an occasional red spark; but suddenly the whole piece took fire—a flaming wheel, an enormous wafer of red and green light, which turned round and round, expanding and shaking out its fiery locks and making the air resound with a noise like the report of fire-arms. It was silent for a few brief instants and seemed on the point of going out, a cloud of rosy smoke enveloped it, through which shone a point of light, a golden sun, which soon began to turn withdizzying rapidity, opening and spreading out into an aureole of rays. These went out one by one, and the sun, diminishing in size until it was no larger than a coal, lazily gave a few languid turns, and, sighing, expired.
As Nieves was returning to her seat she felt a pair of arms thrown around her neck. They were those of Victorina who, intoxicated with delight at the spectacle of the fireworks, cried in her thin voice:
"Mamma, mamma! How lovely! How beautiful! And Carmen says they are going to set off more trees and a wheel——"
She stopped, seeing Segundo standing beside Nieves' chair. She hung her head, ashamed of her childish enthusiasm, and, instead of returning to the window, she remained beside her mother, lavishing caresses upon her to disguise the shyness and timidity which always took possession of her when Segundo looked at her. Two other pieces were burning at two of the corners of the plaza, a pin-wheel and a vase, that sent forth showers of light, first golden, then blue. The child, notwithstanding her admiration for the fireworks, did not appear to have any intention of going to the window to see them, leaving Nieves and Segundo alone. The latter remained seated for some ten minutes longer, butseeing that the child did not leave her mother's side, he rose quickly, seized by a sudden frenzy, and walked up and down the dimly-lighted hall with hasty steps, conscious that for the moment he was not sufficiently master of himself to maintain outward calmness.
By Heaven, he was well employed! Why had he been fool enough to let slip so favorable an opportunity! Nieves had encouraged him; he had not dreamed it; no; glances, smiles, slight but significant indications of liking and good-will; all these there had been, and they all counseled him to end so ambiguous and doubtful a situation. Ah! If this woman only loved him! And she should love him, and not in jest and as a pastime, but madly! Segundo would not be satisfied with less. His ambitious soul scorned easy and ephemeral triumphs—all or nothing. If the Madridlenian thought of flirting with him she would find herself mistaken; he would seize her by her butterfly wings and, even at the cost of breaking them, he would hold her fast; if one wished to retain a butterfly in his possession he must pierce it through the heart or press it to death. Segundo had done this a thousand times when he was a boy; he would do it now again; he was resolved upon it; whenever a light or mockinglaugh, a reserved attitude or a tranquil look, showed Segundo that Señora de Comba maintained her self-possession, his heart swelled with rage that threatened to suffocate him; and when he saw the child beside her mother, who was keeping up an animated conversation with the little girl, as if she were keeping her there as a protection, he determined that he would not let the night pass without knowing what were her feelings toward him.