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Other documents randomly have
different content
name of everything.... The Calle de Mucho Trigo, where there used to be
warehouses for wheat, today specializes in making taffy. How absurd,
Señor! How absurd! And they call that progress! Nowadays men are
endeavouring to wipe out the memory of a whole civilization, of a whole
history.”
“What good does that memory do you?” asked the man with the black
beard.
“What good does it do me!” cried Don Gil in astonishment.
“Yes, what good does it do you?”
“Merely to show us that we are decadent. Not comparing the Cordova of
today with that of the Arabian epoch, but comparing it with that of the
eighteenth century, one sees an enormous difference. There were hundreds
of looms here then, and factories where they made paper, and buttons, and
swords, and leather, and guitars. Today ... nothing. Factories, shops, even
mansions have been closed.”
“That may be true; but, Don Gil, why do you want to know these
calamities?”
“Why do I want to know them, Escobedo?” cried Don Gil, who was
stupefied by the questions of the man with the black beard.
“Yes; I cannot see what good that knowledge does. If Cordova
disappears, why, another city will appear. It’s all the same!” Escobedo
continued—“Would that we could wipe out history, and with it all the
memories that sadden and wither the lives of men and multitudes! One
generation should accept from the preceding one that which is useful, that
is,—mere knowledge; for example: sugar is refined in this manner, ...
potatoes are fried thusly.... Forget the rest. Why should we need them to
say: ‘this love you feel, this pain you suffer, this heroic deed you have
witnessed, is nothing new at all; five or six thousand other men, exactly like
you, felt it, suffered it, and witnessed it.’ What do we gain by that? Will you
tell me?”
The archæologist shrugged his shoulders.
“I believe you are right,” said Quentin.
“History, like everything else we have to learn, ages us,” Escobedo
proceeded. “Knowledge is the enemy of felicity. This state of peace, of
tranquillity, which the Greeks called with relation to the organism,
euphoria, and with relation to the soul, ataraxia, cannot be attained in any
other way than by ignorance. Thus at the beginning of life, at the age of
twenty, when one sees the world superficially and falsely, things appear
brilliant and worth coveting. The theatre is relatively fine, the music
agreeable, the play amusing; but the evil instinct of learning will make one
some day peer from the wings and commence to make discoveries and
become disillusioned. One sees that the actresses are ugly....”
“Thanks!” interrupted María Lucena, dryly.
“He doesn’t mean you,” Springer assured her.
“And that besides being ugly, they are sad, and daubed with paint,”
continued Escobedo, heedless of the interruption. “The comedians are
stupid, dull, coarse; the scenery, seen near to, is badly painted. One sees that
all is shabby, rickety.... Women seem angels at first, then one thinks them
demons, and little by little one begins to understand that they are females,
like mares, and cows.... A little worse, perhaps, on account of the human
element in them.”
“That’s true,” agreed Quentin.
“You are very indecent,” said María Lucena, rising with an expression of
contempt and anger upon her lips. “Adiós! We’re going.”
The three women left the café.
“And the worst of it is,” continued Escobedo, “that they deceive us
miserably. They speak to us of the efficacy of strength; they tell us that we
must struggle with will and tenacity, in order to attain triumph; and then we
find that there are no struggles, nor triumphs, nor anything; that Fate
shuffles our destinies, and that the essence of felicity is in our own natures.”
“You see everything very black,” said the Swiss, smiling.
“I think he sees it all as it is,” replied Quentin.
“Then one would find out,” said Escobedo, “that some of the exalted,
beautiful things are not as sublime as the poets say they are—love, for
instance; and that other humbler and more modest things, which ought to be
profoundly real, are not so at all.
“Friendship! There is no such thing as friendship except when two
friends sacrifice themselves for each other. Sincerity! That, too, is
impossible. I do not believe that one can be sincere even in solitude. Great
and small, illustrious and humble, every individual who gazes into a mirror
will always see in the glass the reflection of a pretender.”
“I’m with you,” said Quentin.
“I believe,” declared the Swiss, “that you only look upon the dark side of
things.”
“I force myself to see both sides,” responded Escobedo—“the bright as
well as the dark. I believe that in every deed, in every man, there is both
light and darkness; also that there is almost always one side that is serious
and tragic, and another that is mocking and grotesque.”
“And what good does that do you?” asked Don Gil.
“A whole lot. From a funereal and lachrymose individual, I am
metamorphosing myself into a jolly misanthrope. By the time I reach old
age, I expect to be as jolly as a pair of castanets.”
“Greek philosophy!” said Don Gil contemptuously.
“Señor Sabadía,” replied Escobedo, “you have the right to bother us all
with your talk about the signs on the streets of Cordova, and about the
customs of our respectable ancestors. Kindly grant us permission to
comment upon life in our own fashion.”
“Risum teneatis,” said Don Gil.
“Do you see?” continued Escobedo—“That’s another thing that bothers
me. Why does Don Gil have to thrust at us a quotation so common that even
the waiters in the café know it?”
The archæologist, not deigning to notice this remark, commenced to
recite an ancient Cordovese romance that went:

Jueves, era jueves,

día de mercado,
y en Santa Marina
tocaban rebato.

(Thursday, it was Thursday, Market Day, and in the Church of Santa

Marina they rang the call to arms.)
Escobedo went on philosophising; a waiter in the café began to pile the
chairs upon the tables; another put out the gas, and the customers went out
into the street.
 CHAPTER XXI

JUAN TALKS

T
HE afternoon of the following day, Quentin went to the Calle del Sol
to see his grandfather, according to his promise to Rafaela. There was
a carriage at the door. Juan, with his hat in his hand, was talking to an
elegant lady with black eyes.
“Do you mean to say I cannot go in?” said she unpleasantly.
“The Señoritas have told me that they were not at home to any one.”
“Not even to me?”
“Those are my orders.”
“Very well. I shall wait until my husband comes.”
“It will be useless,” said Juan emphatically.
“Why?” asked she haughtily.
“Because the Señor Marqués told me that he does not wish to see you.”
The woman made no reply.
“Home!” she said to the coachman angrily.
Quentin went up to Juan.
“What’s up? May I not come in?” he asked.
“You may, of course,” replied the gardener, “but not that designing
hussy.”
“Who is she?”
“The Countess. After saying all sorts of monstrous things about Rafaela
and her grandfather, the hussy comes here to boast of her charity.”
“How is the Señor Marqués?”
“Very bad.”
“Has his illness been aggravated, or is it following its natural course?”
“It has been aggravated.... And meanwhile, the Count—do you know
what he’s doing? Well, he’s selling everything he can lay his hands on. He’s
even sold the lead pipes and the paving stones in the stable, which he tore
up with his own hands. I tell you it’s a shame....”
“Why don’t they stop him?”
“Who is there to do it? It’s very sad. While the master is in bed, the
second-hand men come and cart everything away. They’ve removed
tapestries, bronzes, the gilt writing-desks that were in the hall, the
sideboard, the dressing tables ... and that shrewd female, who knows all
about the business, wants to come and take part in the robbery. One can say
nothing to the Count; but to that wicked woman, it’s different. If you could
see her! I don’t see how she dares look at me after what has happened
between us.”
“Between whom? You and her?”
“Sí, Señor. Have they never told you?”
“No.”
“Well, you know I have a son, who, though not so much to look at now,
was several years ago a very beautiful child, whiter than snow, and with a
pair of cheeks just bursting with blood. Moreover, he was strong, healthy,
and very innocent. Well, pretty soon the lad began to get pale, and thin, and
black circles appeared under his eyes. His mother and I wondered what was
the matter with him, and what his trouble was. But it was useless; we were
unable to understand what was going on, until one night the coachman saw
him climbing about the roof. The man hid himself and found out
everything. At that time the Countess lived here with her husband, and my
son was on his way to her. When I told the Marquis what was happening, he
went and loaded a pistol, and was for shooting his daughter-in-law. But she,
the shrewd thing, came to me and said: ‘If you need anything for your son,
let me know.’—‘Señora,’ I answered, ‘you are a very vicious woman, and
my son shall never see you again.’ ”
“Whom is she living with now?”
“With Periquito Gálvez.”
“Who is he?”
“A rich farmer.”
“Young?”
“No; he’s over fifty. But she would take to any one. When he came to an
understanding with her, they say that one day he found one of the Countess’
garters, which had a little sign on it that read:

Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.

(Love is fearless; it conquers all obstacles.)

“Periquito had a pair of garters made just like it, with letters of diamonds
and pearls, which he gave to her.”
“How magnificent!”
“It certainly was.”
Quentin left Juan, and went up to see the sick man.
In a drawing-room near the bedroom, Rafaela and Remedios were
talking to a thin, graceful, very polished-looking gentleman. It was El Pollo
Real, brother of the Marquis and of Señora Patrocinio. From time to time
Colmenares, the hunchback, came out of the bedroom red-eyed, only to go
back again immediately.
“I am going to pray at the hermitage of La Fuensanta,” said Remedios to
Quentin. “Do you wish to come with me?”
Remedios, her young maid-servant, and Quentin left the house as
evening fell.
The two women said their prayers, and then Remedios and Quentin
returned chatting from the hermitage. Remedios told Quentin that some of
her stepmother’s invectives had reached Rafaela’s ears, and Quentin
promised the girl that he would silence the Countess. He thought of
dedicating a few stings to her in La Víbora which might mortify her. Then
Remedios spoke of her brother-in-law. She felt a strong antipathy for him,
and, while realizing that he was good and amiable, she could not bear him.
To prolong the conversation, they took the longest way home.
It was an autumn day with a deep blue sky.
In the west, long, narrow clouds tinged with red, floated one above the
other in several strata. They walked by the Church of San Lorenzo. The
square tower rose before them with its angel figure on the point of the roof;
the great rose-window, lit by the rosy hue of late afternoon, seemed some
ethereal, incorporeal thing, and above the rosette, a white figure of a saint
stood out against a vaulted niche.
 They returned by the Calle de Santa María de Gracia. Remedios read the
signs on the stores as she passed them, and the names of the streets. One of
these was called Puchinelas, another, Juan Palo, another El Verdugo....
A lot of questions suggested themselves to the child, to which Quentin
did not know how to reply.
They went along the Calle de Santa María. Overhead, the rosy sky
showed between the two broken lines of roofs; the water pipes stuck into
the air from the eaves like the gargoyles and cantilevers of a Gothic church;
the houses were bathed in a mysterious light....
Against the white walls of an ancient convent with tall Venetian blinds,
the scarlet splendour of the sky quivered gently; and in the distance, at the
end of the street, the hoary tower of a church, as it received the last rays of
the sun, shone like a red-hot coal.
When they reached the house, the sky was already beginning to lose its
blood-red colour; a veil of pale yellow opal invaded the whole celestial
vault; toward the west it was green, to the east, it was blue, an intense blue,
with great, purple bands....
 CHAPTER XXII

STICKS, SHOTS, AND STONES

T
HAT night, Quentin went to look for Cornejo at the print-shop where
La Víbora was published.
The shop was situated in a cellar, and contained a very antique
press, which took a whole day to print its fifteen hundred copies.
“For the next number,” said Quentin to the poet, “you’ve got to make up
a poisonous poem in the same style as those that have been published
against the Alguacil Ventosilla, Padre Tumbón, and La Garduña.”
“Good. Against whom is it to be?”
“La Aceitunera.”
“The Countess?”
“Yes.”
“The devil! Isn’t she a relative of yours?”
“Yes, on the left hand side.”
“Let’s have it. What must I say?”
“You already know that they call her La Aceitunera?”
“Yes.”
“And you also know that she has no morals to boast of?”
“Yes.”
“Well, with that you’ve got it all made. As a sort of refrain to your poem,
you may use the quotation she wears on her garters; it goes like this:

Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”

“Very good; but give me an idea.”

“Do you need still more? You can begin with a poetic invocation, asking
every crib in Cordova who the lady of such and such a description is; then
give hers; including the fact that she wears garters with this motto engraved
upon them:

Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”

“Good! For example: I’ll say that she has black eyes, and a wonderful
pair of hips, and—”
“An olive complexion.”
“And an olive complexion ... and I’ll finish up with:

Y ésta leyenda escrita en la ancha liga,

que tantos vieron con igual fatiga:

Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.

(And this legend written upon her broad garter, which so many men
have seen with the same feeling of fatigue: etc.)
“Eh? How’s that?”
“Very good.”
“All right, it won’t take a minute to finish it. What shall I call the
poem?”
“To La Aceitunera.”
“It’s done. How would you like me to begin like this?:

Casas de la Morería;
Trascastillo y Murallón,
ninfas, dueñas, y tarascas,
baratilleras de amor.

(Houses of La Morería, Trascastillo and Murallón; nymphs,

mistresses, and lewd women, second-hand dealers in love.)”
“You may begin as you wish. The idea is that the thing must hurt.”
“It’ll hurt, all right; never fear.”
Cornejo finished the poem; two days later the paper came out, and in
cafés and casinos, the only subject of conversation was the Countess’
garters, and everybody maliciously repeated the refrain:

Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.

The following night, Quentin was waiting for the poet in the Café del
Recreo. He had made an appointment with him for ten o’clock, but Cornejo
had failed to appear.
Quentin waited for him for over two hours, and finally, tired out, he
started to go home. As he left the café, a little man wrapped in a cloak came
up to him at the very door.
“Listen to me a second,” he said.
“Eh!”
“Be very careful, Don Quentin, they are following you.”
“Me?”
“Sí, Señor.”
“Who are you? Let’s hear first who you are.”
“I am Carrahola.”
“Aren’t you angry at me for what I did to you the other night?”
“No, Señor, you’re a brave fellow.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, Señor José has sent Cantarote, the gipsy, and me to go home with
you.”
“Bah! No one interferes with me.”
“Don’t say what you know nothing about. Take this club”—and he gave
him one which he had concealed under his cloak—“and walk on.”
“Aren’t you armed, Carrahola?”
“I?—Look!”—and lifting aside his cloak, he showed his sash, which was
filled with stones.
Quentin took the club, wrapped himself up to his eyes in his cloak, and
began to walk slowly along the middle of the street, looking carefully
before passing cross-streets and corners. When he reached one corner, he
saw two men standing in the doorway of a convent, and two others directly
opposite. No sooner had he perceived them, than he stopped, went to a
doorway, took off his cloak and wrapped it about his left arm, and grasped
the club with his right hand.
When the four men saw a man hiding himself, they supposed that it was
Quentin, and rushed toward him. Quentin parried two or three blows with
his left arm.
“Evohé! Evohé!” he cried; and an instant later began to rain blow after
blow about him with his club, with such vigour, that he forced his attackers
to retreat. In one of his flourishes, he struck an adversary on the head, and
his club flew to pieces. The man turned and fell headlong to the ground, like
a grain-sack.
Carrahola and Cantarote came running to the scene of the fray; one
throwing stones, the other waving a knife as long as a bayonet.
Carrahola hit one of the men in the face with a stone, and left him
bleeding profusely. Of the three who were left comparatively sound, two
took to their heels, while the strongest, the one who seemed to be the leader
of the gang, was engaged in a fist fight with Quentin. The latter, who was
an adept in the art of boxing, of which the other was totally ignorant, thrust
his fist between his adversary’s arms, and gave him such a blow upon the
chin, that he fell backward and would have broken his neck, had he not
stumbled against a wall. As the man fell, he drew a pistol from his pocket
and fired.
“Gentlemen,” said Quentin to Carrahola and Cantarote; “to your homes,
and let him save himself who can!”
Each began to run, and the three men escaped through the narrow
alleyways.
The next afternoon Quentin went to the Casino. The newspapers spoke
of the battle of the day before as an epic; a ruffian known as El Mochuelo,
had been found in the street with concussion of the brain, and a contusion
on his head; besides this, there were pools of blood in the street. According
to the newspaper reports, passions had been at a white heat. Immediately
after the description of the fight, followed the news that the notable poet
Cornejo had been a victim of an attack by persons unknown.
“They must have beaten him badly,” thought Quentin.
He went to Cornejo’s house and found him in bed, his head covered with
bandages, and smelling of arnica.
 “What’s the matter?” asked Quentin.
“Can’t you see? They gave me the devil of a beating!”
“They tried to do it to me yesterday, but I knocked a few of them down.”
“Well, don’t be overconfident.”
“No, I’m not; I carry a pistol in each pocket, and I can’t tell you what
would happen to the man who comes near me.”
“It’s a bad situation.”
“Ca, man! There’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“You can do as you like, but I’m not going out until I’m well; nor will I
write for La Víbora any more.”
“Very well. Do as you wish.”
“I’ve got to live.”
“Psh! I don’t see why,” replied Quentin contemptuously. Then he added,
“See here, my lad, if this business scares you, take up sewing on a machine.
Perhaps you’ll earn more.”... And leaving the poet, Quentin returned to the
Casino. He was the man of the hour; he related his adventure again and
again, and in order that the same thing might not be repeated that night, a
group of eight or ten of his friends accompanied him to his house.
 CHAPTER XXIII

PURSUIT AND ESCAPE

Q
UENTIN was worried, and in spite of his two pistols and the sword-
cane that he carried, he feared that the first chance they got, they
would set a trap for him and leave him in the same condition as they
had left Cornejo.
He was very mistrustful of María Lucena, because she was beginning to
hate him and was capable of doing him almost any ill turn.
Some two weeks after the nocturnal attack, Quentin went to the Café del
Recreo. As he was learning to be very cautious, before entering he looked
through a window and saw María Lucena talking to an elegantly-dressed
gentleman. He waited a moment, and when a waiter went by, he said to
him:
“See here, who is that gentleman there?”
“The clean-shaven one dressed in black?”
“Yes.”
“Señor Gálvez.”
“Periquito Gálvez?”
“Sí, Señor.”
Quentin entered the café and pretended not to see the fellow. He noticed
that María Lucena was more pleasant to him than ever before.
“There’s something up,” he said to himself. “They are getting something
ready for me.”
Quentin was not jealous, he was already very tired of María Lucena, and
if any one had made off with her, he would have thanked him rather than
otherwise.
“Between the two of them,” thought Quentin, referring to Gálvez and
María, “they are plotting something against me.”
Presently, Quentin got up, and left the café without even nodding to
María.
 “I’m going to see Pacheco,” he murmured.
He was going along the Calle del Arco Real, when he looked back and
saw two men following him.
“Devil take you,” he remarked, seizing a pistol.
He raised the muffler of his cloak, and began to walk very rapidly. It was
a cold, disagreeable night; the crescent moon shone fitfully from behind the
huge clouds that were passing over it. Quentin tried to shake off his
pursuers by gliding rapidly through tortuous alleyways, but the two men
were doubtless well acquainted with the twists and turns of the city, for if he
happened to lose them for an instant, he soon saw them behind him again.
After a half-hour’s chase, Quentin noticed that there were no longer only
two pursuers, but four of them, and that with them was a watchman.
Presently there were six of them.
He sought safety in his legs, and began to run like a deer. He came out
opposite the Mosque, went down by the Triunfo Column, through the
Puerta Romana, and along the bridge until he reached the foot of the tower
of La Calahorra. Everywhere he heard the whistles of the watchmen.
At the exit of the bridge, there were a couple of guardias civiles. Perhaps
they were not warned of his flight; but suppose they were?
Quentin retreated. From the bridge he could see the Cathedral, and the
black wall of the Mosque, whose battlements were outlined against the sky.
A vapour arose from the river; below him the dark water was boiling
against the arches of the bridge; in the distance it looked like quicksilver,
and the houses on the Calle de la Ribera were reflected trembling on its
surface.
As he turned toward the city, Quentin saw his pursuers at the bridge
entrance.
“They’ve trapped me!” he exclaimed in a rage.
They were evidently reconnoitering the bridge on both sides, for the
watchman’s lantern oscillated from left to right, and from right to left.
Quentin crept toward one of the vaulted niches in the middle of the
bridge.
“Shall I get in there? They will find that easier than anything else. What
shall I do?”
 To throw himself into the river was too dangerous. To attack his pursuers
was absurd.
As if to add to his misfortunes, the moon was coming from behind the
cloud that had hidden it, and was shedding its light over the bridge. Quentin
climbed into the niche.
What irritated him most was being made prisoner in such a stupid way.
He did not fear prison, but rather the loss of prestige with the people. Those
who had been enthusiastic over his deeds, when they learned that he had
been made prisoner, would begin to look upon him as a common, everyday
person, and that did not suit him in the least.
“I must do something ... anything. What can I do?”
To face his pursuers with his pistol from the niche would be gallant, but
it would mean exposing himself to death, or going to prison.
Turning about in the niche, Quentin stumbled over a huge rock.
“Let me see. We’ll try a little fake.”
He removed his cloak and wrapped the stone in it, making a sort of
dummy. Then he took the bundle in his arms and stepped to the railing of
the bridge.
“There he is! There he is!” shouted his pursuers.
Quentin tipped the dummy toward the river.
“He’s going to jump!”
Quentin gave a loud shout, and pushed the stone wrapped in the cloak
into the water, where it splashed noisily. This done, he jumped back; and
then, on hands and knees, returned quickly to his niche, climbed into it, and
pressed himself against the inside wall.
His pursuers ran by the niches without looking into either of them.
“How awful!” said one of the men.
“I can’t see him.”
“I think I can.”
“Let’s go to the mill at El Medio,” said one who appeared to be the
leader. “There ought to be a boat there. Watchman, you stay here.”
Quentin heard this conversation, trembling in his hole; he listened to
their footsteps, and when they grew fainter in the distance, he got up and
looked through a narrow loophole that was cut in the niche. The watchman
had placed his lamp upon the railing of the bridge, and was looking into the
river.
“I have no time to lose,” murmured Quentin.
Quickly he took off his tie and his kerchief, jumped to the bridge without
making the slightest noise, and crept toward the watchman. Simultaneously
one hand fell upon the watcher’s neck, and the other upon his mouth.
“If you call out, I’ll throw you into the river,” said Quentin in a low
voice.
The man scarcely breathed from fright. Quentin gagged him with the
handkerchief, then tied his hands behind him, took off his cap, placed his
own hat upon the watchman’s head, and carrying him like a baby, thrust
him into the niche.
“If you try to get out of there, you’re a dead man,” said Quentin.
This done, he put on the watchman’s hat, seized his pike and lantern, and
walked slowly toward the bridge gate.
There were two men there, members of the guardia civil.
“There! There he goes,” Quentin said to them, pointing toward the
meadow of El Corregidor.
The two men began to run in the indicated direction. Quentin went
through the bridge gate, threw the lantern and the pike to the ground, and
began to run desperately. He kept hearing the whistles of the watchmen;
when he saw a lantern, he slipped through some alley and fairly flew along.
At last he was able to reach El Cuervo’s tavern, where he knocked
frantically upon the door.
“Who is it?” came from within.
“I, Quentin. They’re chasing me.”
El Cuervo opened the door, and lifted his lantern to Quentin’s face to
make sure of his identity.
“All right. Come in. Take the light.”
Quentin took the lantern, and the innkeeper slid a couple of formidable-
looking bolts into place.
“Now give me the lantern, and follow me.”
El Cuervo crossed the tavern, came out into a dirty courtyard, opened a
little door, and, followed by Quentin, began to climb a narrow stairway
which was decorated with cobwebs. They must have reached the height of
the second story when the innkeeper stopped, fastened the lantern to a beam
on the wall, and holding on to some beam ends that were sticking from the
wall, climbed up to a high garret.
“Let me have the lantern,” said El Cuervo.
“Here it is.”
“Now, you come up.”
The garret was littered with laths and rubbish. El Cuervo, crouching low,
went to one end of it, where he put out the light, slid between two beams
that scarcely looked as if they would permit the passage of a man, and
disappeared. Quentin, not without a great effort, did the same, and found
himself upon the ridge of a roof.
“Do you see that garret?” said El Cuervo.
“Yes.”
“Well, go over to it, keeping always on this side; push the window,
which will give way, and enter; go down four or five steps; find a door;
open it with this key, and you will be in your room—safer than the King of
Spain.”
“How about getting out?”
“You will be notified.”
“And eating?”
“Your meals will be sent to you. When Señor José gets back, he’ll come
to see you.”
“Good; give me the key.”
“Here it is. Adiós, and good luck.”
The innkeeper disappeared whence he had come. Quentin, following the
example of a cat, went tearing across the tiles.
From that height he could see the city, caressed by the silver light of the
moon. Through the silence of the night came the murmuring of the river. In
the background, far above the roofs of the town, he could make out the dark
shadow of Sierra Morena, with its white orchards bathed in the bluish light,
its great bulk silhouetted against the sky, and veiled by a light mist.
Quentin reached the attic, pushed open the window, descended the stairs
as he had been told, opened the door, lit a match, and had scarcely done so
when he heard a shriek of terror. Quentin dropped the match in his fright.
There was some one in the garret!
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Oh, sir,” replied a cracked voice, “for God’s sake don’t harm me.”
When Quentin saw that he was being begged for help, he realized that
there was no danger, so he lit another match, and with it, a lamp. By the
light of this, he saw a woman sitting up in a bed, her head covered with
curlpapers.
“Have no fear, Señora,” said Quentin; “I must have made a mistake and
entered the wrong room.”
“Well, if that is the case, why don’t you go?”
“The fact is, I’m surprised that it should be so. This was the only garret
in the roof. Would you like an explanation? El Cuervo, the landlord of
yonder corner tavern, told me to come here; that this was his garret.”
“Well, I came here because José Pacheco brought me.”
“Pacheco?”
“Yes.”
“Then, this is the right garret.”
“Do you know Pacheco?” asked the woman.
“He is a good friend of mine. Do you know him too?”
“Yes, sir. He is my lover,” sighed the woman. Quentin felt an
overpowering desire to laugh.
“Then, my lady,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I am pursued by the
police, and cannot leave this place.”
“Nor can I, my good sir, permit you to remain in my bedroom.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go and sleep outside.”
“Where? Upon the roof? You don’t know what kind of a night it is.”
“You are not very gallant, Señor.”
“Pneumonia would be less gallant with me, Señora.”
“Do you think that I am going to allow you to remain in this room all
night?”
 “See here, Señora, I’m not by any means trying to violate you. Allow me
to take a mattress, and stretch out upon the floor.”
“Impossible.”
“If you are afraid, leave the lamp lit. Furthermore, for your better
tranquillity, and as a means of defence for your honour, I hand you these
two pistols. They are loaded,” said Quentin, as he cautiously unloaded
them.
“Very well, then; I agree,” replied the woman.
Quentin took a mattress, spread it upon the floor, and threw himself upon
it.
“Woe unto you, Señor,” said the woman in a terrible voice, “if you dare
to take any undue liberties.”
Quentin, who was tired, began in a very few minutes to snore like a
water-carrier. The woman sat up in bed and scrutinized him closely.
“Oh! What an unpoetic person!” she murmured.
When Quentin awoke and found himself in the room, where a ray of
light poured in through a high, closed window, he got up to open it. The
poetic woman at that moment was snoring, with a pistol clasped in her
fingers.
Quentin opened the window, and as he did so, he discovered that a cord
was attached to the window lock. He jerked it, found that it was heavy, and
pulled it toward him until a covered basket appeared.
“Here’s breakfast,” announced Quentin.
And sure enough; inside was a roast chicken, bread, a bottle of wine, and
rolled in the napkin, a paper upon which was written in huge letters:
“Do not come out; they are still hanging around the street.”
Quentin threw the basket out of the window, and lowered it the full
length of the string. He was preparing to eat his breakfast with a good
appetite, when the woman opened her eyes.
“Good morning, Señora,” said Quentin. “They have sent me my
breakfast. I’ll treat if you wish. I’ll go out for a stroll on the roof, and
meanwhile, you can be dressing yourself. Then, if you would like to heat
the food....”
“Oh, no. No cooking,” replied she. “I feel very ill.”
 “Well, then; we’ll eat the chicken cold.”
Quentin went out on the roof. He took out his pencil and notebook, and
busied himself writing an article for La Víbora.
When he had finished, he went back to the garret.
“I’m not dressed yet,” said the woman.
Quentin returned to the roof; wrote two selections for the paper, one
insulting the Government and the other the Mayor; then he crawled about
the roof. On an azotea some distance away, a girl was arranging some
flower pots. Probably she was pretty.... Quentin drew near to watch her.
He was surprised in this espionage by Pacheco, who came on all fours
along the ridge pole.
“Good day, comrade,” said Pacheco.
“Hello, my friend.”
“I must congratulate you, comrade; what you did yesterday is one of the
funniest things I ever heard of.”
“Who told you about it?”
“Why, they talk of nothing else in the whole town! This morning, some
were still betting that your corpse was at the bottom of the river, and they
went out in boats; but instead of the fish they expected to catch, they pulled
out a rock wrapped in a cloak. All Cordova is laughing at the affair. You
certainly were a good one.”
“But listen, comrade,” said Quentin, pointing to the garret, “what kind of
a lark have you in that cage?”
“Ah! That’s true! It’s a crazy woman. She says she’s in love with me,
and in order to get rid of her, I brought her to this place, where she can’t
bother me.”
“How did she get here? Along the roofs, too?”
“Yes; disguised as a man. In her pantaloons she had a look about her that
was enough to make you want to kick her in the stomach and throw her into
the courtyard.”
“Very well, then; let’s go to the garret, where breakfast is waiting. The
thing I hate about this, comrade, is not being able to get out.”
“Well, it’s impossible now; the police have their eyes peeled.”
“And haven’t they tried to arrest you, my friend?”
 “Me? They can’t do it.... I have a pack of bloodhounds that can smell
from here everything that goes on in the other end of Cordova. Just give one
of them a message, and he tears through the atmosphere faster than a
greyhound.”
They knocked at the garret.
“I’m not dressed yet,” came from within.
“Come, Señora,” exclaimed Quentin. “You are abusing my appetite. If
you don’t want to open the door, give me the basket. I warn you, Pacheco is
here.”
When she heard this, the woman opened the door and threw herself into
the arms of the bandit. She had her hair crimped, covered with little bow
knots, and was wearing a white wrapper.
Quentin took the basket.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you two alone if you wish.”
“No!” exclaimed Pacheco in terror; then turning to the woman, he
added: “This gentleman and I have some important matters to discuss. We
are gambling with life.”
“First we’ll eat a little,” said Quentin. “That’s an idea for you.”
“An alimentary one.”
They divided the chicken.
“And do they say in town who it was that ordered them to pursue me?”
asked Quentin.
“Everybody knows that it was La Aceitunera,” answered Pacheco. “You
insisted upon discrediting her, but she grew strong under the punishment,
and wants no more stings from La Víbora. Then, so they say, as she seemed
no mere stack of straw to the Governor, she allowed herself to be flirted
with, and begged him to throw you into jail, and to stop your paper.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“It will be done. He does what he wants here,” replied the bandit. “You
already know what they say in Cordova: ‘Charity in El Potro, Health in the
cemetery, and Truth in the fields.’ ”
“Then we’ll go into the fields to look for it,” said Quentin.
“Not that”—answered Pacheco. “I won’t allow you to lose out; but if
you want to give that woman a good scare....”
 “Have you thought of some way?”
“Not yet; are you capable of doing something on a large scale?”
“I am capable of anything, comrade.”
“Good. Wait for me until tonight.”
“Very well,” said Quentin. “Will you take these papers to the printer for
me?”
“What are they?”
“Poison for La Víbora, or articles, if you like that better.”
“Give them to me. I’ll be here at seven.” Then the bandit, turning to the
woman, said: “Adiós, my soul!”
“Won’t you stay a little while, José?” she asked.
“No. Life is too short,” he answered gruffly, and went out through the
attic window.
 CHAPTER XXIV

THE VICTIM OF A FEUILLETON

T
HE woman and Quentin were left alone.
“If you don’t want me to stay here,” said Quentin—“tell me so.”
“Do you hate me so much for last night?” she said.
“I? No, Señora; but since this chamber is so narrow that one can scarcely
move in it, you must let me know if I’m in your way.”
“No; you’re not in my way.”
Quentin seated himself upon a chair, took out his note book and pencil,
and made up his mind to attempt one of the most disagreeable and difficult
things in the world for him—making verses. Not by any chance did a
consonance occur to him, nor did a single verse come out with the right
number of feet, unless he counted them upon his fingers.
The good woman, with her crimped hair covered with little bow-knots,
and her white wrapper, was contemplating the roof of the garret with
desperate weariness.
Thus they remained for a long time. Suddenly the woman exclaimed in a
choked voice:
“Señor!”
“What is it, Señora?”
“I seem very ridiculous in your eyes, do I not?”
“No, Señora,—why?” asked Quentin, and mumbled to himself: “nude,
crude, stewed, conclude—No, they don’t seem to come very easily.”
“I am very unhappy, Señor.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Señora?” and Quentin went on mumbling:
“rude, gratitude, fortitude.... No, they do not come easily.”
“Will you listen to me, my good sir? At present you alone can advise
me.”
“Speak, Señora, I am all ears,” answered Quentin, shutting his note
book, and putting away his pencil.
 The woman heaved a deep sigh, and began as follows:
“I, my good sir, am called Gumersinda Monleón. My father was a
soldier, and I spent my childhood in Seville. I was an only child, and very
much spoiled. My parents satisfied every caprice of mine that was within
their means. It was ‘Sinda’ here, and ‘Sinda’ there—as they had abbreviated
my name.... As I imagined myself at that time to be a somewhat exceptional
person, and believed that I was out of my proper sphere in the modest home
of my parents, I took up reading romantic novels, and I think I was by way
of having my head turned by them.
“I lived with all the personages of my books; it seemed to me that all I
had to do was to reach Paris and ask the first gendarme for Guillaboara, and
he would immediately give me her address, or at least, that of her father,
Prince Rudolf of Gerolstein.
“With my head full of mysteries, bandits, and black doctors, a suitor
came to me—a rich young man who was owner of a fan-making
establishment. I dismissed him several times, but he came back, and, with
the influence of my parents, he succeeded in getting me to marry him. He
was a saint, a veritable saint; I know it now; but I considered him a
commonplace person, incapable of lifting himself to higher spheres above
the prosaic details of the store.
“After we had been married two years, he died, and I became a widow of
some thirty-odd years and a considerable fortune; not to mention the fan-
making establishment which I inherited from my husband. A young widow
with money, and not at all bad looking, I had many suitors, from among
whom I chose an army captain, because he wrote me such charming letters.
Later I found out that he had copied them from a novel by Alfonso Karr that
was appearing in the feuilleton of Las Novedades. Handsome, with a fine
appearance, my second husband’s name was Miguel Estirado. But, my God,
what a life he led me! Then I learned to realize what my poor Monleón had
been to me.
“Estirado had a perfectly devilish humor. If we made a call upon any
one, and the maid asked us who we were, he would say: ‘Señor Estirado
and his wife,’ and if the girl smiled, he would insult her in the coarsest way.
“After six months of married life, my husband quit the active service and
retired to take care of the store. Estirado had no military spirit; he sold the
gold braid from his uniform, and put his sword away in a corner. One day
the servant girl used it to clean out the closet, and after doing so, left it
there. When I saw it, I felt like weeping. I grasped the sword by the hilt,
which was the only place I could take hold of it, and showing it to my
husband, said: ‘Look at the condition your sword is in that you used in
defence of your country.’ He insulted me, clutching his nose cynically, and
told me to get out; that he cared nothing for his sword, nor for his country,
and for me to leave him in peace. From that day I realized that all was over
between us.
“Shortly after that Estirado dismissed an old clerk who used to work in
the store, and hired two sisters in his place: Asunción and Natividad.
“Six months later, Asunción had to leave and spend a few months at a
small village. She came back with a little baby. Not long after her return the
trip was repeated.
“They talked of nothing else in the whole neighbourhood. On account of
the attitude of the two sisters toward me, I dared not go down to the store,
and they did just about as they pleased.
“One day, after six years, my husband disappeared, taking Natividad, the
younger sister, with him. The other girl, Asunción, brought this news to me
with her four children hanging on her arm; and she told me a romantic tale
about her mother, who was a drunkard, and about her sweetheart. She
reminded me of Fleur de Marie, in ‘The Mysteries of Paris,’ and of Fantine,
in ‘Les Miserables;’ so I comforted her as best I could—what else was I to
do? Time passed, and Estirado began to write and ask me for money; then
the letters ceased, and after half a year my husband wrote a letter saying
that Natividad had run away from him, that he was seriously ill in a
boarding house in Madrid, and for Asunción and me to come to take care of
him. I realized that it was not honourable, nor Christian, nor right, but at the
same time I gave in, and we, his wife and sweetheart, went and took care of
him until he died. At his death I granted a pension to the girl, left Seville,
and came to live in Cordova. That is the story of my life.”
“Señora, I think you were a saint,” said Quentin. “What astounds me is
how, after such an apprenticeship, you managed to get mixed up in this
adventure.”
“Well, you see I did not learn by experience. I met Pacheco one day in
the country, when he entered my farm. He reminded me of a novel by
Fernández y Gonzáles. We spoke together; his life fascinated me; I wrote to
him; he answered my letter, assuredly through civility; my head was filled
with madness, even to the point of disguising myself as a man and
following him.”
“Fortunately, Señora, you have encountered extremely trustworthy
persons,” said Quentin, “who will not abuse your faith.”
“What advice do you give me?”
“Why something very simple. Tonight Pacheco and I shall probably
leave here. You must come with us; we’ll leave you at your house; and that
will be an end to the adventure.”
“That’s true. It’s the best thing.”
“Now let’s see,” said Quentin, “if El Cuervo has put any ballast in the
basket.”
He climbed upon a chair and opened the window.
“It’s heavy,” said he, jerking the cord; “ergo, there are provisions. Cheer
up, Doña Sinda,” he added, “and get the table ready.”
 CHAPTER XXV

AN ABDUCTION IS PREPARED

A
T nightfall Quentin went out on the roof, stretched his spine along the
ridge, and waited for Pacheco. The Cathedral clock was striking
eight, when the bandit appeared, making his way toward the garret on
all fours.
“Hey!” called Quentin.
“What is it? Is it you?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you waiting outside for me?”
“So we can talk without that woman hearing what we say. I have
persuaded her to go home peaceably.”
“Very good. But listen, comrade; I’ve got a plan ready for something
worth while.”
“I’m with you in everything. What have you thought of?”
“Of kidnapping La Aceitunera tonight.”
“But can it be done?”
“Absolutely. The Countess is going to the theatre. She will go in her
carriage as usual, and if Cabra Periquito Gálvez doesn’t show up to
accompany her, she will go home alone in her carriage. If Periquito does
show up, and does go with her, we won’t do a thing; if she is alone, why,
we’ll steal her away.”
“That’s all very well; but how?”
“First of all, I’ll see to it that the coachman gets drunk so I can take his
place; meanwhile, you go to the theatre, make sure that she is alone, then
station yourself on the sidewalk opposite the lobby, and stay there quietly; if
she comes out escorted, you light a match as if you were about to smoke—
understand?”
“Where will you be then?”
 “On the box. If the Countess is escorted, why, I’ll take her home, and
we’ll leave the matter for another day. If she is alone, I’ll trot the horses as
far as the Campo de la Merced, where I’ll stop; you get on—and away we
go!”
“Very good. You’re a wonder, comrade! But let’s look coldly at the
inconveniences.”
“Out with them.”
“First of all, the departure from this place. They are still hanging around
the street, according to El Cuervo.”
“Ah, but do you think I am such an idiot as to go out through El
Cuervo’s tavern? Ca, man!”
“No?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, where, then?”
“You’ll see.”
“Good. That solves the first problem: second, I have to go to the theatre
to see if the Countess is alone, and people know me; if one of the police....”
“Nothing will happen. Take this ticket. Steal in when the performance
has begun, and go upstairs, open one of the top boxes which are usually
empty, and if the usher comes in, give him a peseta. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Good. Now we’ll tell the woman, and be on our way. Shall we have
supper first?” asked Quentin.
“No; we must have clear heads. We’ll have supper at the El Pino farm, or
—in jail.”
“You’ve spoken like a man. Let’s go.”
They entered the garret.
“Doña Sinda,” said Quentin, “we are going to crawl about the roof a
bit.”
“Wait a moment, comrade,” said Pacheco. “They won’t do anything to
me; but if they see you, they’ll tie you up,” and as he spoke, he opened a
wardrobe, took out a grey cloak, a kerchief, and a broad-brimmed hat.
“Who’s that for?”
“For you.”
Pacheco made a bundle of the things, and said:
 “Hurry! I’ll go first, then the Señora, and then you, Quentin.”
They formed themselves in single file and began to move. The night was
dark, threatening a storm; distant flashes of lightning illuminated the
heavens from time to time.
Doña Sinda moved slowly and painfully.
“Come, Señora, come,” said Quentin; “we are near you.”
“My hands and knees hurt me,” she murmured. “If I could only walk on
my feet.”
“You can’t do it,” said Pacheco. “You would fall into a courtyard.”
“Ay, dear me! I’m not going a step farther.”
“We’re going as far as that azotea.”
Doña Sinda yielded; they crawled along the ridge of a long roof, and
came out upon the azotea. They leaped the balustrade.
“Oh, dear! I’m going to stay here!” exclaimed Doña Sinda.
“But my dear woman, it’s only a little farther,” said Quentin.
“Well, I won’t budge.”
“Very well then, we’ll go on alone,” said Pacheco.
“Are we going to leave her here?” asked Quentin.
The bandit shrugged his shoulders, and without more ado, leaped over
the balustrade again. Quentin followed him, and the two men rapidly
covered a great distance.
“Now be careful,” warned Pacheco. “We’ve got to go around this
cornice until we reach that window.”
It was a stone border about half a metre wide. At the end of it they could
see a little illuminated balcony window, which as it threw the light against
the wall, made the cornice look as if it were on the brink of a deep abyss.
They went along very carefully on all fours, one behind the other. As they
reached the balcony, Pacheco seized the balustrade and jumped upon the
stairway. Quentin followed his example.
“Do you know, comrade,” remarked Quentin, “that this is scary
business?”
“Then too, that light is enough to drive you crazy. In the daytime it
doesn’t scare you at all to come over it. Now then, put on your cloak and
the other tackle.”
 Quentin tied his kerchief about his head, put on the hat, wrapped himself
in the cloak and the two men descended the stairs into a garden. Crossing
this, they came out upon the street.
“What is this building?” asked Quentin.
“It is a convent,” replied the bandit. “Now, we mustn’t go together any
more. You come along about twenty or thirty paces behind me.”
Quentin followed him at a distance, and after traversing several intricate
alleys, they came out upon the Plaza de Séneca, and from there upon the
Calle de Ambrosio de Morales, where the theatre was. A gas light
illuminated the door, scarcely lessening the shadows of the street. The play
had not yet begun. Pacheco entered a near-by shop, and Quentin followed
him.
“You stay here,” said the bandit, “and when everybody has gone in, you
follow. I’m going to the Countess’ house.”
People were crowding into the theatre; two or three carriages drove up;
several whole families came along, with a sprinkling of artisans. When he
no longer saw anyone in the lobby, Quentin left the little shop, entered the
theatre, relinquished his ticket, climbed the stairs with long strides until he
reached the top floor, and when he saw the usher, handed him a peseta.
The usher opened the door of a box.
“How is Señor José?” he asked.
“Well.”
“He’s a fine fellow.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’ve known him for a long time; not that I am from Ecija exactly, for I
come from a little village near Montilla; I don’t know if you’ve heard its
name....”
“See here,” said Quentin, “I came here because I am a relative of the
actor who takes old men’s parts, and I am interested in hearing the
performance and seeing how he acts; if you talk to me, I won’t be able to
hear anything.”
“Gonzáles? Are you a relative of Gonzáles?”
“Of Gonzáles, or Martínez, or the devil! Take another peseta, and leave
me alone, for I’m going to see what kind of an actor my relative makes.”
 “He’s a good comedian.”
“Very well, very well,” said Quentin, and pushing the garrulous usher
into the aisle, he closed the door.
As there was scarcely any light up there, no one could recognize
Quentin. The theatre was almost empty; they were giving a lachrymose
melodrama in which appeared an angelic priest, a colonel who kept
shouting “By a thousand bombs!” a traitor money-lender with crooked eyes
who confessed his evil intentions in asides, a heroine, a hero, and a
company of sailors and sailoresses, policemen, magistrates, and others of
the proletariat....
While Quentin was being bored in his heights, Pacheco, leaning against
the wall of La Aceitunera’s house, was awaiting the return of her carriage
from the theatre.
He did not have long to wait. The horses stopped before the gate, and
before it could be opened, the bandit approached the coachman and said:
“Hello, Señor Antonio!”
“Hello, Señor José!”
“I want to talk with you a moment.”
“What about?”
“About some horses I am ordered to buy, and as you know so much....”
“I’ll be right out.”
The house gate opened, the coachman drove his carriage inside, and in a
few moments rejoined Pacheco.
He was a talkative and gay little man.
“Let’s go somewhere and have a little wine with our talk,” suggested the
bandit. “You’ve got time?”
“I’m free until eleven-thirty.”
“It’s nine, now.”
They went into a tavern where Pacheco explained to his friend how the
horses must be. The matter must have been arduous and difficult, for the
coachman lost himself in a labyrinth of endless equinal considerations. The
bandit kept filling and refilling his glass for him as he drank.
“Man,” said Pacheco, “today I was taken to a tavern where there was a
superior wine that you can’t find anywhere else.”
 “Really?”
“I should say so. Would you like to go and see if we can find it?”
“Well, you see I’ve got to go at eleven-thirty.”
“There’s more than time enough.”
“All right; let me know when it’s eleven o’clock.”
“Certainly, don’t you worry. Do you have to go back and get the
Señora?”
“Yes.”
“And harness up the horses again?”
“No. I left them harnessed. When I get back from the theatre, I go
through the gate, turn the carriage around in the patio, and leave it in the
entryway facing the street,—see? Then I go, open the gate, and I’m off.”
Pacheco conducted the coachman through side streets to El Cuervo’s
tavern.
“But where is that tavern, my friend?” asked the little old man.
“Right here.”
They went into the tavern.
“Bring me wine—the best you have,” said Pacheco, winking at El
Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought a large jar and filled the glasses. The coachman
smelled the wine, tasted it slowly, relished it; then he smacked his lips, and
emptied the glass in one gulp.
“What wine!” he murmured.
“Don’t you think it’s a little bit strong?”
“Well, that’s a good kind of a fault to have, comrade!”
Pacheco got up and said to El Cuervo:
“You’ve got to keep this fellow interested.”
El Mochuelo and Cantarote, the gipsy, came over to Pacheco’s table with
the pretext that there was no light where they had been sitting, and began to
play cards.
“Would you like to play?” said Cantarote to Pacheco.
“No, thanks.”
“And you?” the gipsy asked of the coachman.
 “I? To tell the truth, I’ve got something to do. What time is it?”
“A quarter past ten,” said El Cuervo.
“All right, I’ll play a hand.”
“After all, what have you got to do?” asked Pacheco. “Just knock till
they open the gate, and then climb up on the box....”
“No, I’ve got the key to the gate here,” remarked the coachman, patting
his vest pocket.
Pacheco looked at Cantarote, and made a gesture with his hand as if he
were picking up something. Cantarote lowered his eyelids as a sign that he
had understood, and with the utmost neatness put his hand into the old
man’s vest, took out the key, and, holding his cards in his left hand, handed
it to Pacheco behind the coachman’s back.
The bandit got up.
“Let me have a cap,” he said to El Cuervo.
The innkeeper brought one.
“Keep him busy for an hour.”
This said, Pacheco hurried to the Countess’ house, opened wide the gate,
climbed to the box, and drove the carriage outside; then he closed the gate,
climbed back again, and took his place near the theatre.
From his hiding-place, Quentin had discovered something curious and
worthy of note. In one of the boxes near the curtain was the Countess,
alone, with her back to the stage, and gazing at some one through her
glasses. Quentin followed her look, and by bending low and leaning his
body over the box, he discovered that the box at which she was directing
her glances was occupied by the Governor and two other persons; but the
Countess also looked elsewhere: toward a parquette where there were a
toreador and several young gentlemen.
“Which is she looking at?” Quentin asked himself. “Is it the Governor,
or the toreador?”
The Countess rested her opera glasses absently upon the railing of the
box.
“Perhaps she isn’t looking at any one,” thought Quentin.
On the stage, they were spilling an ocean of tears: the priest, with his
snow-white hair, saying, “My children” everywhere he went, was busy
making his fellows happy.
The Countess cast an absent-minded glance at the stage, picked up her
glasses, and took aim.
“It’s the Governor,” said Quentin.
The woman’s glasses were lowered a bit, and he had to correct himself.
“It’s the toreador,” he remarked.
After many vacillations, Quentin realized that the Countess was playing
with two stacks of cards, and was dividing her glances between the First
Authority of the province, and the young toreador, so recently arrived in
cultured society from a butcher shop in the district of El Matadero.
The Governor, very serious, very much be-gloved, looked at the woman;
the little toreador, with his foot on the parquette rail, preened himself and
smiled, showing the white teeth of a healthy animal.
At the beginning of the last act, the toreador, who had been concealed
behind the curtains of the parquette, appeared with a square piece of paper
that looked like a note in his hand; he showed it cautiously, and twisted it
about his fingers.
Presently the woman, looking at the stage, nodded her head in the
affirmative.
The play was about to come to an end; every one on the stage, from the
priest and the two turtle-doves to the colonel—by a thousand bombs!—was
happy; only, he of the crooked eyes had been seized by the police at the
height of his evil machinations. Quentin opened his box, descended the
stairs by leaps and bounds, and took up his post opposite the entrance to the
theatre. Fat drops of rain commenced to fall, and the thunder kept
grumbling overhead. There were two carriages at the door of the theatre.
Pacheco was not in the first, and Quentin could not tell whether he was in
the second one or not.
The audience began to come out of the theatre; when they saw the heavy
rain drops that spattered the sidewalk, some hesitated to leave, then they
made up their minds and began to hurry along, pressing close to the walls of
the houses.
A fat lady with her escort entered the first carriage, and drove off toward
the Plaza de Séneca. The second carriage drew up. Pacheco was on the box.
He and Quentin glanced at each other. Everything was going splendidly.
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