Un viaje de novios 🚂💍 | Emilia Pardo Bazán | Viaje, Romance y Reflexión
Welcome to Now for Stories. Today we bring you a fascinating work of Spanish literature, ‘A Honeymoon Trip’ by Emilia Pardo Bazán. Through this novel, the author immerses us in the reflections and experiences of a young couple during their journey through Spain and France. With a unique style, Pardo Bazán combines realism and social analysis, while reflecting on the customs and life of her time. Join us as we enjoy this humorous story filled with reflection on society and love. Chapter 1. That the wedding was not for the people of the great world was obvious at first glance. There is no doubt that the newlyweds could mingle with the most select society, at least based on their outward appearance; but the majority of the accompaniment, the chorus, belonged to the middle class, to the point where they almost blended into the popular masses. There were curious groups worthy of examination, with the León station platform offering a very interesting view for a painter of genre and customs. No more and no less than in the countries along the range whose mythological paintings depict weddings, it was noticeable there that the bride’s retinue was composed of women, and only members of the stronger sex formed the groom’s. A great difference was also noted between the social status of the two groups. The bride’s escort, much larger, resembled an anthill: old women and young women wore the sacramental black wool dress, a kind of ceremonial uniform for lower-class women, not without, however, aristocratic trimmings. The common people still retain the privilege of dressing in cheerful colors for joyful and festive occasions. Among those human ants were those of a young age and of good looks, some smiling and excited about the wedding, others plaintive, their eyes burning with tears at the farewell. Half a dozen mature duennas authorized them, poking their noses out from under the veil of their mantles and turning their pupils full of experience and malice in every direction. The whole group of friends crowded around the new bride, displaying the childish and avid curiosity that the spectacle of the supreme situations of existence arouses in crowds . They were devouring with their eyes the one they had seen a thousand times, the one they already knew by heart: the bride, who in her traveling dress seemed to them to be another woman, very different from the one they had known until then. The heroine of the party must have been about eighteen years old: she appeared younger, judging by the childish pout of her mouth and the rounded contours of her cheeks, and older, considering the already flourishing curves of her figure, and the plenitude of robustness and life in her entire person. No high, narrow shoulders, no improbable hips like those seen in figurine prints, which bring to mind the doll stuffed with sawdust and straw; but a woman conforming not to the conventional type of the fashion of an era, but to the eternal type of the feminine form, as nature and art intended her. Perhaps this physical superiority somewhat impaired the effect of the girl’s whimsical traveling attire: perhaps a flatter body, harder lines in the arms and neck, were required to carry with appropriate casualness the semi-masculine brown cloth dress and the coarse straw cap, on whose helmet perched , wings spread, an iridescent hummingbird, on a nest of feathers. It was clear that such unusual attire was new to the bride, and that the tight, pleated skirt and the formal gown that perfectly shaped her bust were a nuisance, just as the bare neckline often nuisances maidens at their first dance: for in every strange fashion there is something immodest for a woman of modest morals. Furthermore, the mold was too narrow to enclose the beautiful statue, which threatened to break at every moment, not precisely with its volume, but rather with the freedom and ease of its youthful movements. The appearance of the sturdy and powerful old man, the father who stood there erect, without taking his eyes off his daughter, was not contradicted by such a splendid example . The old man, tall, straight, and firm, like a telegraph pole, and a short, middle-aged Jesuit, They were the only men who stood out among the usual female anthill. The groom was surrounded by up to half a dozen friends: and if the bride’s entourage was the link that unites the middle class and the common people, the groom’s retinue touched on that border, in Spain as indeterminate as it is vast, that connects the mesocracy with the upper echelons. A certain official gravity, a withered complexion as if smoked by the street lights, some inexplicable tinge of optimistic satisfaction, a ripening age—these were signs that denoted men who had reached the goal of human aspirations in decadent countries: entry into the offices of State. One of them led the way, and the others showed him singular deference in their gestures. A playful joviality animated that group, restrained by bureaucratic packaging: curiosity also simmered there, less naive and shameless, but more acute and epigrammatic than in the anthill of female friends. There were discreet whispers, coffee-table familiarities indicated by a movement or a nudge, instantly suppressed laughter, airs of intelligence, cigar ends thrown to the floor with martial skill, arms clasped as if in tacit confidence. The light stain on the groom’s gray greatcoat stood out among the black frock coats, and his towering height also dominated those of those present. Half a century less a lustrum, victoriously fought by a tailor, and much care and attention to detail; the shoulders wanting to arch a little without their owner’s permission; a face of night-sick pallor, on which the lines of the waxed mustache were outlined with the crudeness of ink lines ; hair whose rarity was still visible beneath the smooth brim of the ash-colored felt bowler hat; the skin of the dark circles under its eyes, withered, baggy, and sagging; His eyelids were earthy, his pupils leaden, but his bearing was still gallant, and the imposing remains of what had once been a handsome young man were carefully preserved—this was evident in the bridegroom. Perhaps the very elegance of his suit helped to demonstrate his maturity: the long overcoat clung too tightly to his waist, which was no longer very slender; the felt, gently tilted, cried out for the cheeks and temples of a youth. But even so, among that collection of vulgar provincial figures, the groom had something of a courtly whiff, a certain nonchalance of a man accustomed to the easy, easy life of the great centers, and the ease of one who knows no scruples, who doesn’t hold back when his own interest is at stake. He even stood out from his group of friends by the good-natured reserve with which he greeted the insinuations and sotto voce jokes so appropriate to the mesocratic nature of the wedding. The engine was already announcing the next gear with a whistling sound; the movement that preceded it was accelerating on the platform, and the ground trembled under the heaviness of the rolling trucks loaded with bundles of luggage. Finally, the sacramental shout of the employees was heard. Until then, the people at the farewell had conversed in low, confidential voices, in pairs: the approaching outcome seemed to revive them, disenchant them, changing the scene in a second. The bride ran to her father, arms wide open, and the old man and the girl merged in a long, genuine, communal embrace, an embrace in which bones creaked and breath caught in their throats. From their mouths, almost joined, came intertwined and rapid phrases. “Write… be careful, my name is… every day, okay? Don’t drink cold water when you’re sweating… Your husband has money… ask for more if he runs out. ” –Don’t worry, sir…. I’ll do my best to return soon…. Take good care of yourself, for God’s sake… take care of your asthma… Go see Mr. de Rada from time to time… If you have something, a telegram flying… Word of honor? Then came the hugs, the kisses, the pouts of the female companion, and the last order, and the last wish… –God make you happy… like patriarchs… –Saint Raphael go with you, daughter. –Who like you, girl! To France on a flight! –Don’t forget my coat…. Do stockings go in the world? Will you confuse the threads? —See that the embroidered strips are not buttonholes, for there are already some of those around here. —Open those big eyes wide, look at everything, and then you can tell us everything ! —Father Urtazu, —said the bride, approaching the man whom his black sash declared to be a Jesuit, and, taking his hand, upon which her lips and two tears, clear as water, fell simultaneously, —pray to God for me. —And coming closer, she added in a low voice: —If Papa has anything, you let me know, won’t you? I’ll send you the addresses of all the places we stop. —Don’t neglect me; will you go from time to time to see how he’s doing? The poor thing is left all alone…. The Jesuit raised his head and fixed his slightly squinted eyes on the girl, the kind of eyes of those accustomed to concentrating and holding their gaze. And
with the vague, distracted smile of thoughtful people, and in the same confidential tone: “Go in peace, and may Our Lord God be with you, for He is a good companion,” he replied. “I have already prayed for your itinerary, so that we may return safe and sound… Remember what I warned you, child; now we are, so to speak, married and respectable women ; and although it seems to us that everything is going to be all roses and honey in the new state, and we set off into the world to let our hair down and have fun… careful, careful! Perhaps the hare will jump out of nowhere, and we’ll have tantrums, and little tests and chores we didn’t have as children… Then don’t be a fool… okay?” We already know that He who walks up there moving those precious stars is the only one who understands us and comforts us when it seems to Him… Look, instead of all the rags you’ve packed in your suitcases, put in patience, little one! Put in patience. It’s even better than arnica and poultices…; if someone so grown up needed it to bear that cross, you who are tiny… The homily, accompanied by gentle taps on the shoulders, would have lasted longer if it hadn’t been interrupted by the jolt of the train, abrupt as reality. Momentary confusion ensued. The groom hurried to say goodbye to everyone with a certain cordial simplicity, where experienced eyes could detect nuances of affectation and protective superiority. He embraced his father-in-law with a single hug and rested his hand, neatly shod with a bronze-colored beaver glove, on his shoulder. “Write to us if the girl falls ill,” the old man pleaded with paternal anguish, his eyes filled with tears. “Don’t worry, Señor Joaquín… there’s no need to worry, come on! You’ll be in good health… Goodbye, Mendoya, goodbye, Santián… Thank you, thank you. Governor of the province, on my return, I’ll claim those offered bottles of Pedro Jiménez… Don’t act so forgetful! Lucía, we have to get on: the train will be leaving soon, and the ladies can’t make it… And with a courteous and discreet gesture, he helped his fiancée get on, pushing her lightly by the waist. Then he jumped off, barely resting on the step, first throwing away his half-smoked cigar. The iron snake was already swinging when he entered the apartment, closing the door behind him. The rhythmic roll accelerated, and the entire train crossed before the people saying goodbye, leaving in their confused eyes a whirlwind of lines, colors, and numbers, the rapid vision of heads peering out of every window. For a time, Lucía’s face, flushed and bathed in tears, and her waving handkerchief could be made out, and her voice could be heard saying: Goodbye, Papa… Father Urtazu, goodbye, goodbye… Rosario… Carmen… bored… Finally, everything was lost in the distance; the scaly serpent of the train was revealed in the distance by a dark patch, then by a scraggly plume of turbid vapor, which soon dissipated as well in the air. Beyond the platform, now strangely silent, the clear sky shone , a steely blue; the endless countryside stretched out monotonously ; The rails stood out like wrinkles on the arid face of the earth. A great silence weighed on the station. They remained motionless The attendants, as if overcome by the dizziness of absence. The groom’s friends were the first to move and speak. They said goodbye to the priest with quick handshakes and trivial social phrases, somewhat careless in their delivery, as if directed from superior to inferior; after which, the entire platoon headed toward the city, resuming the joking and merriment. For its part, the bride’s entourage also began to liven up, and after a few sighs and wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs and even the back of their hands, the groups of black ants began to stir, eager to leave the platform. The incontrovertible force of events was driving them back to real life. Even the priest shook his head, shrugged his shoulders with eloquent resignation, and was the first to walk. At his side was the Jesuit, who stretched his short stature to speak to him, unable, despite his laudable efforts, to get the band of his crown to pass beyond the athletic shoulders of the afflicted old man. “Well, Señor Joaquín,” said Father Urtazu, ” that Good Friday face looks good now! It seems as if the girl was stolen away and that you are not pleased with the marriage! Well, we’re in good shape, man! Weren’t you yourself, wretch, the one who decided this marriage? What’s all the whining about? ” “What if I were sure of the rightness in everything I do!” uttered Señor Joaquín in a choked voice, swinging his bull’s neck. “That’s something you’d think of before… but we were in such a hurry… such a hurry, I don’t know what those white hairs and those years we’ve been carrying on our backs are for !” We were exactly the same as the boys in my class when I offered to tell them something, their curiosity piqued… and they couldn’t contain their impatience. By Alonso’s faith, you looked like the bride… I mean, no; because the bride, damn the rush that… “Oh, Father! Could you have been right? You wanted to postpone the wedding… ” “No, little by little; quiet little brushes, my friend: I wanted not to do it. I’m very clear. ” Señor Joaquín became even more gloomy. “By the life of the Constitution! What a predicament and what a commitment it is for a father!” “Having daughters,” the Jesuit concluded with his vague smile, his soft lip extending in a grimace of benevolent disdain. And he added: “The worst predicament is to be more stubborn than a mule, pardon the saying, and to believe that poor Father Urtazu only understands his stones and his stars and his microscope, and is a fool, a simpleton, when it comes to giving advice on life… ” “Don’t worry me any more, Father. I’ll have enough not seeing Lucía for who knows how long. All I need is for things to go wrong too, and for her to suffer… ” “Well, well. Let’s leave that alone: what’s done is done. This business of marriages can only be tied and untied by those above. And who knows if it will turn out very well, despite all my omens and my foolishness? Because who am I but blind, short-sighted? Bah! This is like what happens with a microscope. You look at a drop of water with the naked eye and it seems so clear! In fact, it makes you want to drink it.” But apply those little lenses and… boom, boom! You’ve already found yourself with the bugs and bacteria dancing inside a rigodon… Well, the one who walks over there, high above the clouds, also sees things that seem so simple to us fools over here… and for him they have their _quid_…. Bah, bah! He’ll take care of sorting things out for us… not even if we try. “You’re right… God above all,” Mr. Joaquín approved, drawing a sorrowful sigh from the vast cavity of his chest. Tonight, with this bad time, that damned asthma is going to give me something to do… I find my breath very short now . I’ll sleep, if I sleep at all, almost sitting up. “Call, call that idiot Rada… he’s quite right,” murmured the Jesuit, considering with compassion, in the slanting light of the autumn sun, the old man’s reddish complexion and swollen eyes. While the retinue filed, with the slowness of mourning, through the badly paved streets of León, the train ran on, running, leaving behind the endless poplar groves that look like a musical staff wherever they go. the light green notes against the crude reddish hue of the plains. Lucía curled up in a ball in the corner of the apartment, sobbing without bitterness, with the occasional hiccup, with the vehement cry of an inconsolable child. Her fiancé understood well that it was his turn to say something, to show affection, to share that first pain, to put an end to it; but there are special situations in life , cases in which simple people do not stumble or become embarrassed , and in which perhaps a man of the world and experience becomes a scholar. Sometimes an ounce of heart is preferable to an acre of skill; where empty formulas fail, sentiment wins, with its spontaneous eloquence. After breaking his hooves trying to think of a way to restart the dialogue with his wife, the fiancé decided to take advantage of an insignificant circumstance. “Lucía,” he said in a somewhat troubled voice, “move to the window, my daughter, move over here.” There the sun shines directly on you, and it’s so unhealthy… Lucia rose with automatic rigidity, went to the opposite side of the apartment, and suddenly sinking down, covered her face again with her fine handkerchief, and her sobs and the yearning of her youthful breast could be heard again . The groom frowned slightly, for it was not in vain that he had spent forty-odd years of life surrounded by people of festive humor and easy dealings, fleeing from scenes of tears, pity, and displeasure that strangely altered the equilibrium of his nerves, disliking him as people of average intellectual level do the sublime horror of tragedy. The gesture with which she expressed her impatience was followed by a shrug of her shoulders that clearly meant: “Let the shower fall, for the water also dries up, and after the rain comes the good weather.” Having resolved to wait for the cloud to clear, he began a minute examination of his traveling belongings, checking whether the buckles on his blanket’s straps were properly fastened, and whether his walking stick and umbrella were properly and conveniently tied to Lucia’s parasol. He also made sure that a Russian leather wallet with silver trim, which he carried hanging from a strap at his side, opened and closed easily with the small steel key, which he replaced with the utmost care in his waistcoat pocket. Then he took the Railway Indicator from the deep pockets of his greatcoat and, with his index finger, he marked the stations on his travel itinerary. Chapter 2. It is essential to know from whose mouth came the breath that lit the torch of that wedding. A young man in his prime, strong as a bull and hard-working as a gentle ox, Señor Joaquín, then known simply as Joaquín, left his homeland. Placed in Madrid at the gatehouse of a magnate who owned a manor in León, he dedicated himself to being a broker, business agent , and confidant of all the honorable individuals of the Maragatería region. He found them lodgings, provided them with safe storage for their cargo, dealt with merchants, and was, in short, the providence of the land of Astorga. His great honesty, punctuality, and zeal earned him such credit that commissions rained down, orders poured in, and reales, pesos duros, and doblillas fell into the purse like a heavy hail, in sufficient quantities that, fifteen years after arriving at court, Joaquín was able to forge eternal ties with a fellow countrywoman, a maid to the magnate’s wife and, for some time, the beloved thoughts of the doorkeeper. Once the marriage was established, he was able to establish a well-stocked grocery store, fronted by a sign in gilded letters that read: “El Leonés. Ultramarinos.” From a broker, he then became a businessman for Maragatos; he bought their wares in bulk and sold them in detail. Anyone in Madrid who wanted aromatic hand-ground chocolate or fluffy mantecadas, the kind that only Astorgan women know how to make to perfection, was forced to turn to him . It became fashionable to have breakfast with Caracas and baked goods from Leonés; the magnate, his former master, began giving him his parish, and after him came the high-class people. with a crest, enticed by the ancient gift of a delicacy worthy of the tables of Charles IV and Godoy. And it was remarkable how Señor Joaquín, broadening the horizons of his trade, monopolized all the national culinary specialties : tender chickpeas from Fuentesaúco, thick chorizos from Candelario, cured hams from Caldelas, sweet Extremaduran acorns, olives from the Seville olive groves, sweet dates from Almería, and golden oranges that treasure the sun of Valencia in their skin. In this way and with such industry, Joaquín earned, fairly if not noblely, reasonable sums of money; and although he earned them, he later knew how to secure them in lands and houses in León; for which purpose he made frequent trips to his hometown. Eight years into his sterile marriage, a large and beautiful daughter was born to him, an event that delighted him as the birth of a crown princess would a monarch; but his stalwart mother, from León, could not bear the crisis of her late fertility, and, always ill, dragged out her life for several months, until she reluctantly gave it up . With the loss of his wife, Señor Joaquín lost his skillful hand, and the pride with which he dominated the counter, displaying his gigantic stature and reaching the crates of raisins from the highest shelf by merely stretching out his powerful arm and slightly raising his broad feet, began to wane. He would spend hours enraptured, his gaze mechanically fixed on the bunches of grapes dangling from the ceiling, or on the sacks of coffee piled in the darkest corner of the market, on which the deceased had been accustomed to sit while knitting. In short, he fell into such melancholy that he became almost indifferent even to the honest and legitimate gain he owed to his industry. And when the doctors prescribed the healthy air of his home and a change of lifestyle and diet, he left the market and, with magnanimity not unworthy of an ancient sage, retired to his village, satisfied with what he had already achieved, and unmotivated by thirsty greed for greater gain. He took with him the little girl Lucía, the only prize dear to his heart, who with childish charms was already beginning to enliven the shop, waging fierce and relentless war on the figs of Fraga and the sugared almonds of Alcoy, less white than the small teeth that bit them. The child grew like a luxuriant bush born in fertile soil: it was as if the entire life that the mother had lost for her sake was concentrated in her daughter’s body . She overcame the crises of childhood and puberty without any of those anonymous ailments that turn the cheeks pale and dull the vision of children. Nerves and blood were balanced in her rich organism, and a temperament emerged, one of those that are becoming scarce in our impoverished societies. Lucía’s spirit and body developed in parallel, like two traveling companions who join arms to climb hills and walk the wrong path. And a charming incident occurred: while the materialistic doctor, Vélez de Rada, who was treating Mr. Joaquín, delighted in looking at Lucía, considering how copiously life circulated through the limbs of young Cibeles, the wise Jesuit, Father Urtazu, in turn grew fond of her, finding her conscience as clear and diaphanous as the crystals of his microscope. Without realizing that perhaps both admired in the girl one and the same thing, seen from different angles, namely: perfect health. Señor Joaquín wanted, in his own way, to educate Lucía well; and in fact, he did everything possible to spoil his daughter’s superior nature, without success, she was so good. Driven, on the one hand, by the desire to give Lucía knowledge that would enhance her, and fearing, on the other, that it would be mockingly rumored in town that Uncle Joaquín aspired to a young lady, he educated her in a hybrid way, having her as a day -schooler, under the thumb of a very prim headmistress who claimed to know everything. There, Lucía was taught to smatter a little French and to type a little on the piano; serious ideas, forgive me for God’s sake; knowledge of society, zero; and as a feminine science, science far more complicated and vast than laymen imagine—some tedious and useless labor, as well as ugly; slipper cuts in poor taste, embroidered shirtfronts, beaded purses… Fortunately, Father Urtazu sowed a few grains of wheat among so much useless soil, and Lucía’s religious and moral instruction, though summary, was upright and solid, as futile as her college studies were. Father Urtazu was more of a practical moralist than an ascetic, and the girl took from him more useful documents for conduct than doctrine for devotion. So that, without ceasing to be a good Christian, she did not become a fervent one. The complete placidity of her temperament forbade any extreme enthusiasm from her soul: there was something in that girl of the Olympian repose of the Greek deities; neither the earthly nor the divine stirred the serene surface of her soul. Father Urtazu used to say, pushing out his lips with his usual sneer: “We’re asleep, asleep; but I know we’re not dead… and the day we wake up… will have something to do with it. God willing, it will be for the best.” They were the friends of Lucía Rosarito, the daughter of the innkeeper Doña Agustina; Carmen, the niece of the master; and several maidens of a similar position, many of whom dreamed of the gentle tranquility, the peaceful uniformity of convent life, and painted a tempting picture of the delights of the cloister, of the sweetest sentiment of profession day, when, crowned with flowers under their white veils, they would offer themselves to Christ, with the refined sweetness of adding: “forever, forever.” Lucía heard them without a single fiber of her being responding, vibrating, to that ideal. Active life called her with energetic and profound voices. However, she didn’t feel any desire to imitate them in her other classmates, whom she saw furtively hiding the little letter in their bodices or leaning out of the balcony, ready, blushing, and anxious. In her childhood, prolonged by innocence and radiant health, there were no greater pleasures than running through the avenues surrounding León , skipping with joy, like an adolescent nymph frolicking through the Hellenic valleys. Señor Joaquín wholeheartedly believed he had given his daughter a sufficient education, and he even thought the utter destruction of waltzes and fantasies that her unskillful fingers mercilessly played on the piano was perfect. However hidden he kept it in the farthest recesses of his mind, the Leonese native did not lack the aspiration, typical of every man who exercises humble jobs and earns his bread with sweat, that his offspring would benefit from such efforts, rising a step up the social ladder. He would do well to remain patiently Uncle Joachim as ever; he had no pretensions of being wealthy, and was extremely simple in character and manner; but if he renounced the lordship in his own person, it would not be so in that of his daughter; he seemed to hear a voice saying to him, like the witches to Banquo: “You shall not be a king, but you shall beget kings.” And struggling between the modest conviction of his absolute lack of rank and the moral certainty that Lucy was destined for great positions, he arrived at the reasonable conclusion that marriage would accomplish the longed-for metamorphosis from girl to lady. A pompous son-in-law was from then on the perennial desire of the former merchant. Nor were these the only weaknesses and manias of Señor Joachim. He had others, which we will uncover without any hesitation. Perhaps his greatest and longest-lasting fondness for coffee was his excessive love of coffee, a love he acquired in the grocery business, on sad winter mornings when the frost fogs the shop window, when feet freeze in the gray atmosphere of the solitary market, and the recently abandoned bed , still warm by chance, calls out with sweet voices to its sleepless occupant. Then, half-stunned, soliciting sleep due to the demands of his Herculean nature and his thick blood, Mr. Joaquín would take the razor, prime the tank with alcohol, light a fire, and soon out of the tin spout would come a black and steaming river of coffee, whose waves at the same time warmed and cleared his head and with the slightest The fever and the pleasant bitterness left the colossus fit to watch and work, to do his accounts, and to weigh and sell his wares. Once in León, and the arbiter of a sound sleep, Señor Joaquín did not abandon his acquired vice, but rather reinforced it with new ones: he got used to drinking the dark infusion in the nearest café to his home, and accompanying it with a glass of Kummel and reading a political newspaper, always the same, invariable one. On one occasion, the government decided to suspend the newspaper for twenty days, and Señor Joaquín was close to giving up coffee, out of sheer desperation. Because Señor Joaquín, being Spanish, it seems idle to me to note that he held his political opinions like the most distinguished, and that zeal for the public good consumed him, no more and no less than it devours us all. Señor Joaquín was a harmless example of the extinct progressive species: if we wanted to classify him scientifically, we would call him the progressive variety of printing. The unique adventure of his life as a party man was that one day, a celebrated political figure, exalted at the time and who, armed and armed, later defected to the Conservatives, entered his shop to ask for his vote for a deputy to the Cortes. From that supreme moment, my lord Joaquín was marked, defined, and branded; he was a progressive like Mr. So-and-so. In vain, years passed and events occurred, and political swallows migrated, always in search of more temperate zones. In vain did ill-intentioned people tell Mr. Joaquín that their leader and natural lord, the figure, was already as progressive as his grandmother; that there were no progressives left on the face of the earth, that they were as fossils as the megatherium and the plesiosaur; in vain did they show him the thousand patches mended onto the purple mantle of the national will by the same sinful hands of their idol. Mr. Joaquín, not even with that, stubborn and firmer than a post in his allegiance to Don So-and-so. Like those lovers who fix in their minds the image of their beloveds just as they appeared to them at a culminating and memorable hour, and, despite the insults of irreverent time, never again see them in any other way, Mr. Joaquín never once conceived that his dear nobleman could be any different from what he was at that instant, when, with a flushed countenance and with fiery and tribunician eloquence, he deigned to lean on the counter of the market, between a sugar cane and the scales, demanding suffrage. Having subscribed ever since to the newspaper of the well-known great man, he also bought a poor lithograph depicting him in the act of haranguing, and, adding the essential gilt frame, hung it in his bedroom between a daguerreotype of the deceased and a print of the Blessed Virgin Saint Lucy, who displayed two eyes like poached eggs on a plate. Señor Joaquín grew accustomed to judging political events according to the standards of his great man, whom he called, with complete confidence, by his first name. Things were getting worse in Cuba: bah! Don So-and-so says complete pacification is a matter of two months. That war games were running through the Basque provinces: don’t panic! Don So-and-so claims the absolutist party is dead, and the dead don’t rise. That there is a deep split in the liberal majority; that some are cheering X and others Z… Well, well; Don So-and-so will fix it, he’s a natural at that. What hunger… yes, Mr. So-and-so is sucking his finger! Right now the wells of public wealth are going to be opened… What taxes… Mr. So-and-so talked about economies! What socialism… nonsense! Dare to challenge Mr. So-and-so, and he’ll tell you how many are five! And so, without further doubts or misgivings, Mr. Joaquín crossed the revolutionary storm and entered the restoration, very satisfied because Mr. So-and-so was swimming, and his merits were appreciated, and he had the upper hand today as yesterday. Given such a cult lineage, let the pious reader judge what would be the joy, confusion, and astonishment of Mr. Joaquín, upon receiving one morning a grave and handsome individual, entrusted with greeting him on behalf of the very same Don So-and-So. The visitor’s name was Don Aurelio Miranda, and he held one of those positions in León that abound in Spain, not less well-rewarded by honorifics, and which, without imposing great inconvenience or vigils, open the doors to good society, lending a certain official importance: a kind of secular prebend, where the two things that the saying goes “can’t fit in one sack” come together. Miranda was of bureaucratic origin and family, in which high administrative positions were passed on and linked, thanks to special skill and people skills passed down from father to son, to some kind of feline skill in always landing on his feet, and to a certain delicate sobriety in thinking and expressing opinions. The Miranda lineage managed to take on muted, distinguished hues, against which a white insignia could thus be placed, like a red emblem; So, there was no situation that didn’t respect them, no radicalism that didn’t compromise with them, no rough or calm seas in which they didn’t fish with equal fortune. The young man Aurelio was practically born in the protective shadow of the office walls: before he had a mustache and beard, he had a position, obtained through his father’s influence, reinforced by that of the other Mirandas. At first, it was a minor position, which covered the expenses of the boy’s toilet and other trifles , a spendthrift by nature; soon more lucrative figs arrived, and Aurelio followed the path already trodden by his ancestors. With all this, it was clear that something was degenerating in him: a friend of pleasure, ostentation, and vanity, Aurelio lacked the exquisite tact of not deviating from the average in any respect, and he lacked the outward formality, the measured bearing that accredited past Mirandas as men of sense , experience, and political maturity. Understanding their shortcomings, Aurelio tried to skillfully benefit them, and more than one white and neat hand scribbled perfumed notes with effective recommendations for figures of very diverse stripes and classes. He also declared himself a great friend and accomplice of several prominent politicians, among them the “Don Fulano” we already know. He never spoke ten consecutive words about politics to them: he told them the news of the day, the latest scandal, the latest joke, and the most recent caricature; and in such a way, without compromising himself with any of them, he found himself favored and served by all. Like an inexperienced swimmer, he clung to the shoulders of such practiced divers—and here I dive, and there I float—he dodged the furious gales that lashed Spain, continuing the venerable tradition of the Mirandas. But influence also wears thin, and there came a time when, Aurelio’s influence waning, it was no longer enough to sustain him in the only place he found pleasing: Madrid, and he had to vegetate in León, between the civil government and the Cathedral, buildings that neither entertained him. What particularly embittered Aurelio was the realization that his administrative decline stemmed from another irreparable decline, namely, that of his personality. Having reached the age of forty, he was no longer entitled to commendations, or at least they weren’t as warm: in the offices of notables, his personality was becoming like just another piece of furniture, and even he felt his eloquence fading. Maturity was revealed in him by a backward leap; the seriousness of the Mirandas was gradually ingrained in him; and from a friendly scoundrel, he transformed into a man of weight. Not entirely foreign to such a metamorphosis must have been some persistent ailments, a protest of the liver against the unhealthy diet, half sedentary and half feverish, so long observed by Aurelio. So, taking advantage of her stay in León, and the knowledge and singular skill of Vélez de Rada, she dedicated herself to repairing the breaches in her dismantled organism; and her methodical life and the growing formality of her manners and appearance, which at court were detrimental to her, revealing that she was beginning to be a discarded and unused piece of junk, served as a passport in the timid people of León, gaining her sympathy and a reputation as a respectable, responsible, and trustworthy person. Miranda used to make, from time to time, a sort of escape route to Madrid, And in one of the latter, he found Mr. Joaquín’s Don So-and-So— whom we’ll call Colmenar out of respect for his incognito—angry and furious with another Don So-and-So who insisted on ruining all his schemes and destroying all his schemes. There was no way to get along with that devil of a man, who thus cut and mowed in the splendid field of the Colmenaristas’ devoted followers. Miranda’s fate , at that time, was in serious jeopardy. Upon hearing him, Miranda jumped up on the soft couch. “Nothing, man,” Colmenar continued, “just as I’m telling you. All it takes is for me to be interested in keeping someone, and he’ll sweep them away… It’s a given. And there’s no way around it. He hits without a grudge.” “Me,” Miranda replied, “if it all came down to leaving León… Because, truth be told, that town drives me crazy, even though it has its advantages… But if things go any further, I’ll be amazed. ” “No, because they probably will…. Fortune is the enemy of the elderly, and we are already becoming so… You’ve been pretty ruined for some time now. That hair… Do you remember what a famously gorgeous head of hair you had? Soon we’ll both be resorting to acorn oil, like a heroic remedy. ” “Well…” Miranda exclaimed, smoothing the locks at his temples with the same bellicose gesture of the past few days. “Anyone would think I’m bald. Well, I’m still doing very well. The suffering has me like this, a little… ” “Are you sick? Leaks, kid, leaks!” “A liver condition, complicated by… But in that old-fashioned town in León, I found a very modern doctor, a wise man,” Miranda hastened to add, seeing the bored expression of the distinguished man, who dreaded the story of his illness. “I assure you, Vélez de Rada is a prodigy… A staunch materialist, that’s true…” “Like all doctors…” And Colmenar shrugged his shoulders. “So… how are you? Are you making many conquests in León? Are the Leonese women soft-hearted ? ” “Bah! Prudent,” Miranda pronounced, allowing himself a touch of irreligion in confidence and reserve . “The Jesuits bring them in, enthralled with brotherhoods and novenas, and they go around devouring the saints… Little society ; each one in his own house and God in everyone’s.” It doesn’t fail, on the other hand, to suit me, since I need rest and method… Colmenar listened, looking down, counting the arabesques on the thick carpet. He finally raised his head and slapped his forehead. “I’ve got an unparalleled idea,” he said, repeating the famous phrase of the Portuguese minister. “Boy, why don’t you get married? ” “That’s not a bad idea! Yes, women are cheap these days… and what comes after! He who doesn’t want broth, a cup and a half: perhaps I’m going to be left without a destination, and you’re talking to me about marriage! ” “Fool, I’m not proposing a woman who will make you money, but one who will bring you money. ” And the nobleman celebrated his own pun with a long laugh. Miranda remained thoughtful, chewing the crumb of the proposition, the advantages of which quickly caught his eye. There was no more certain means to forestall the onslaught of ill fortune and secure the dubious future, as long as his already thinning hair didn’t completely disappear, and the veneer of gallantry that still polished his persona didn’t disappear. On the other hand, León was a city that involuntarily suggested matrimonial ideas. What could one do but marry where everything was calm and tedium, where bachelorhood inspired distrust, where the slightest fling provoked the furious barking of scandal? So he said aloud: “It’s true, kid; in León, one feels like getting married and living a holy life. ” “It’s just that for you,” Colmenar insisted, “consortium is already a necessity. Aside from the fact that you’re of age… here he smiled maliciously, and if you don’t want to call yourself a bachelor, you should think about marriage; your health demands it… and your pesetas. If you can’t support yourself, how will you manage? I suppose you won’t have any savings. ” “Save me!” “Au jour le jour,” said Miranda, pronouncing the little trans-Pyrenean phrase with some ease. “Well then, we must make an end,” replied Colmenar, very satisfied to be able to show off in turn. “The point is to find the woman, the phoenix,” Miranda murmured thoughtfully. “No, there’s no shortage of marriageable girls; but now I ‘ve lost my way here… You tell me…” “Girls from here! God save them! They’re more fearsome than cholera. Do you know the demands any of those little angels have? Do you know how they spend them?… ” “So… ” “The woman you need is in León itself. ” “In León!” “Yes, indeed, perhaps it’s easier there…” “But I don’t see… The ones from Arga already have a boyfriend; Concha Vivares is only rich in hopes; there’s an aunt who’s thinking of leaving her her inheritance: but between now and the time she kicks the bucket…” “The one from Hornillos… no; The one in Hornillos only has parchments, and that doesn’t go in the pot… “You’re going off on a tangent… the selection of young ladies is in bad shape: wait, I’m going to tell you…” Colmenar stood up, and opening a drawer in his desk, took out a strip of paper, stale and yellowish, covered in names that recalled the lists of proscriptions. And it was a list, indeed: there were listed in strict alphabetical order the vassals of the great Colmenarian personality, in the various provinces of the Peninsula; there were surnames that had a capital A at the bottom, which meant “addicted”; others marked with MA, “very addicted”; some had the added D, “dubious”. The distinguished man placed his index finger on one of the names honored with the MA.
“I propose to you,” said Miranda, “a girl of a few years old, who may reach, and even exceed, the two million capital.” Miranda opened wide, wide-eyed, and reached for the blessed list. “Just as it sounds!” he exclaimed. “But there’s no one like you for such discoveries. ” “Don’t you know the person listed here in León?” Colmenar continued, pointing with his fingernail at the line on the list. “A very handsome, sturdy old man, still very stiff, Joaquín González, _el Leonés_? ” “_El Leonés!_ If there’s nothing more I know. He came to the civil government of León on several occasions on business. Of course I know him. And now I remember; it’s true he has a girlfriend, but I never noticed her . You rarely see her. ” “They live a modest life. He’ll double his capital in ten years.” ” El Leonés_ is a great man to acquire!” A wretch, a simpleton in all other respects; in politics, the poor fellow, he doesn’t see beyond his nose; but he’s managed to create a fortune for himself. He has nothing but that little girl, and he adores her. —And do you think the little girl won’t have her love affairs yet? —Bah… she’s so young! With you showing up… with your good manners, and your practice in such matters… —She’ll be a fool, ugly to boot. —Her father was an arrogant young man, and her mother a comely brunette; why should the girl be ugly? There aren’t any ugly fifteen-year-olds. She’ll be in the process of roughing it, yes; but between you and a dressmaker… a matter of a month. Women are much more apt to civilize and polish themselves than men. Teach them the instinct to please that a hundred masters couldn’t. —And what will all my acquaintances say about me—especially in León— seeing me married to the daughter of the Leonés? —Bah, bah! That’s a matter of moving… When you get married, you ask underhand to be taken somewhere else… the old man stays over there looking after the income, and you and the girl stay where no one knows if she was fathered by an archduke or the executioner… For now, on your honeymoon, go out with your wife for a tour of Europe, and that way you’ll escape the gossip of the first season. And hurry, before that belly turns spherical, and that hair… Oh! And how time flies! We grow old, it’s a pain. Miranda contemplated the toe of his elegant pale-toed boot and scratched his forehead, pondering. “A way of introducing myself to that house,” he finally pronounced resolutely. ” They’re people of little use, and it’s necessary… I’m not going to parade the brat around the street, I suppose. ” “You’ll bring a visit from me. The old man will receive you better than the king!” And saying and doing, the great man sat down at the table crowded with Newspapers, letters, and books, and taking a sheet of stamped paper, he ran his hand over it, scribbling on the white sheet in his hurried, almost unintelligible handwriting, that of a man overwhelmed with business. He folded it, slipped it into an envelope, and without sealing it, handed it to his friend. As Miranda rose to say goodbye, he approached Colmenar and, speaking softly, almost in his ear, murmured: “You’re quite sure… quite certain about… the two million… ” “I fell short! You’ll just have to find out there. In all conscience, you owe me a bonus.” And as he said it, the politician laughed and slapped Miranda on the cheek, as if he were an eight-year-old boy. Miranda appeared at the peaceful residence of the Colmenar feudatory with such high patronage, and was indeed received as required by coming recommended by such a person. Naturally, he decided not to appear immediately as a candidate for Lucía’s hand. As well as indiscretion, it was a lack of tact; and Miranda, above all, intended to study the terrain he was treading on. He found everything the distinguished man had predicted to be true, and even more so regarding his fortune: he saw a house built in the old style, crude and popular in its customs, but honorable in every way, and a solid and secure fortune, daily increased by the zealous administration of Señor Joaquín and his simplicity and parsimony. It is true that the good Leonés seemed to Miranda a man of tedious company, vulgar and unhappy in every way, short-sighted, with a touch of the foolish, but he had to put up with it, and even accommodate himself to the old man’s ideas, so much so that the latter was unable to drink coffee or read El Progreso Nacional, the Colmenar newspaper, without the savory commentaries Miranda made on every issue, every article, and every gazette. Miranda knew the underside, the inner side of politics by heart , and he casually explained the sly allusions, the skillful reticences, the subtle satires that abound in every important newspaper and are an eternal logogriph for the candid provincial subscriber. So, from his intimacy with Miranda, Señor Joaquín enjoyed the profound pleasure of initiation and looked down on his fellow Leonese members, not admitted to the sanctuary of reserved politics. In addition to these pleasures, which he owed to his relationship with Miranda, the good old man— whose philosopher he was, we already know, was swelled when people found him face to face with such a well-behaved gentleman, a close friend of the governor and a familiar dinner guest of the city’s most eminent figures. Lucía saw the courteous and affable Miranda without displeasure, and with childish curiosity she observed his neatness, his immaculate footwear, his snowy collar, the whimsical charms on his watch and tie. Every woman, whether she understands it or not, is concerned with externalities and trifles of this kind. Furthermore, Miranda possessed—and displayed it—a skill that we might call pleasing for amusement. He brought the girl daily some trinket, unknown to her until then, either a card, a photograph, pretty flowers, issues of illustrated newspapers, or novels by Fernán Caballero or Alarcón. And the charming trinkets that entered the doors of the antiquated house, like particles of modern life, were so many appreciative mouths of the generous man. He managed to put himself on Lucía’s conversational level and showed himself very knowledgeable about feminine, or rather, childish, things. and the case arose when the girl consulted him about her hairstyle, her clothes, and Miranda, very seriously, suggested that she lower or raise her waist or her bun two centimeters. Such incidents somewhat varied the otherwise similar days of the young girl from León, lending attractiveness to the dealings of her dissembling suitor. In León, it was initially a great surprise that the currutaco Miranda chose as a friend a Señor Joaquín, a man on whose square shoulders his jacket seemed welded and riveted; but malice soon took the necessary path to arrive at a rational explanation of the phenomenon, and Lucía began to receive long jokes from her companions, who stunned her with their glossing over Señor Miranda’s passion, his attentions, his Gifts and favors. She received the message cheerfully and calmly, without blushing, without losing a minute of sleep, without her heart racing when Miranda, always at ease, rang the bell or entered clattering with his brand-new boots. Since no amorous advances from Miranda confirmed what people had said, Lucía was as careless and calm as ever . But Miranda, now determined to complete his undertaking, and considering his preparation sufficient, one day, after having had coffee and reading El Progreso Nacional with Señor Joaquín, he flatly asked for his daughter. The Leonese remained a fool, not knowing what to say or what face to put on. His dream was fully realized: Lucía’s entry into the noble sphere she had long coveted. But let’s be fair to Señor Joaquín: at those supreme moments, he did not lack a lucid perception of certain dark aspects of the marriage. He saw their different ages, Miranda’s unknown estate , and his daughter’s rich dowry clear and certain; in short, he had fleeting intuitions of the wicked calculation surrounding the suit. The plaintiff proved to be a skillful strategist, somewhat forestalling suspicion and anticipating the father’s thoughts. “I,” he said, “have no fortune; I have my career; Miranda had taken advantage of the early years of his youth by earning a law degree, as most Spaniards do, and if fate were to fail me, I have more than enough energy to work and open a law firm with a very distinguished clientele in Madrid. I wish my wife to enjoy a comfortable position, but for her, for her alone; nothing for me; I am sufficient unto myself . The difference in wealth delayed me for a long time from asking for Lucía; but the affection that such a precious and innocent creature inspires in me was stronger … Even so, if Colmenar hadn’t assured me that you are a disinterested person and of generous spirit, I would never have decided… “Señor Colmenar favors me more than I deserve,” responded the Leonese very hollowly; “but these things have to be thought about… Take a walk around there…” “In a fortnight I will come to know your decision,” replied Miranda discreetly, taking the hat. Pasolos given to Satan, because it was certainly ridiculous for a man of his pretensions and standing to ask for the daughter of a grocer, and have to wait, as they say, in the anteroom of the market, for them to deign to open the door for him. Meanwhile, Señor Joaquín, reading the newspaper alone and savoring his coffee alone, came to miss him very much , and the idea of marriage was taking root in his mind. Every day he considered Colmenar’s friend more suitable as a son-in-law. Nevertheless, he did what people who like to follow their inclinations without taking responsibility usually do: consult with a few people on the matter, hoping their approval would shield him. His attempt was ultimately frustrated. Father Urtazu, consulted first, exclaimed with his Navarrese frankness: “A cat is a tender rat. A sweet and polished gift is not lost. But don’t you see, wretch, don’t you see that that meringue could be Lucía’s father? God knows how many rabbits he’s run through in his life! Holy Virgin, what stories he’s got hidden in the pockets of his frock coat! ” “But you, what would you do in my case, Father Urtazu? ” “Me? Think about it, instead of two weeks, a year; and another year later, for all the fuss! ” “By the life of the Constitution! You, Father, haven’t noticed the merits of Señor Don Aurelio. ” “The merits… the merits… what merits! Damn, damn!” If it’s a merit to go all puffed up, and showing four inches of shirt cuff… and to act like a lad, being worse off than me, I have gray hair, but at least I’m not wasting my time! And Father Urtazu was vigorously pulling at the short, graying hair that grew at his temples, as strong as clumps of thistles. “What does the girl say to that?” he suddenly asked. “We haven’t spoken yet… ” “Well, that’s the first thing, you wretch! Oh, how our brains soften with age ! What is she waiting for?” Vélez de Rada was even more decisive and categorical. “Marry your daughter to Miranda!” he shouted, raising his eyebrows in anger and confusion. “You’re crazy! The best specimen of blood I’ve found in ten years! A girl with enough red blood cells to feed any anemic doll who walks around Madrid! Such a stature! Such a balance! Such diameters! And with Miranda, who… here professional discretion sealed the doctor’s lips, and silence reigned in the room. “Mr. Rada…” Mr. Joaquín dared to say, not quite understanding. “Do you know, do you know, what the duty of a father is who has a daughter like Lucía? Well, to look for, like another Diogenes, a man whose constitution and wealth of organism equals her, and unite them.” Do you think that with this carelessness in marriages, with the sacrilegious consortiums we so often witness between poor, corrupt, sick, and healthy natures, it’s possible that very soon, within three or four generations, the fatal decline of these European peoples will occur ? Or what? Can poison and pus, instead of blood, be passed on to our great-great-grandchildren with impunity? Señor Joaquín left the Esculapio’s office somewhat frightened, but even more confused, his only consolation being the thought that the misfortunes predicted for his lineage wouldn’t occur for another century at the earliest. And the last mishap that awaited him in his matrimonial consultations was with a very old sister of his, an ironer in her youth, now a pensioner and the help of her brother. The unfortunate woman, who, dragged along with her deceased dog’s life, exclaimed in a hoarse voice, raising her dry hands and shaking her trembling head: “Miranda? Miranda? He’s a scoundrel, a damned man: all men are damned! May a ra…” The Leonese man would hear no more and ended the consultations. The crux of the matter remained, Lucía’s opinion. The father was racking his brains for a diplomatic way to find out, when the girl herself provided him with one. “Father,” he inquired one day with the best faith in the world, “is Señor de Miranda ill? He hasn’t been here for days.” Señor Joaquín seized the opportunity and explained Miranda’s plans . Lucía listened attentively, surprise evident in her shining eyes. “Look here,” she finally said. Well, Rosarito and Carmela were right when they assured me that Señor de Miranda came to this house for me. But who would have thought it! “Come on, my dear; what do I answer that gentleman?” the Leonese asked eagerly. “Father… what do I know? I never thought he would want to marry me. ” “But you… do you like Señor de Miranda? ” “Yes, I do. He’s still very handsome,” Lucía declared naturally. “And his temperament… and his manners…? ” “Very obsequious, very kind.” “Does the idea of him living here always… with us repel you? ” “Not at all. On the contrary. He really amuses me when he comes. ” “Well… by the life of the Constitution! You too are in love with Señor de Miranda! ” “Look here… that certainly seems to me not to be the case! I haven’t thought about these things carefully, nor do I know what it’s like to fall in love; “But I imagine it must be like this… more uproar, and it will come… come on, faster and harder. ” “But such uproarious loves, what is needed to be good married couples? ” “I suppose none. To be good married couples, Father Urtazu says that what is needed is the grace of God… and patience, a lot of patience. ” The father patted him on the cheek with his broad right hand. ” You talk like a book… by the life of the Constitution… so, according to that, I am going to give Señor de Miranda a good time? ” “Oh, Father! The matter deserves some thought: do me the favor of thinking it over for me! What do I understand about weddings, or about…” “Well, look, you’re already big enough… You’re too simple-minded. ” “No,” exclaimed Lucía, fixing her clear gaze on the old man, “if it’s not that I’m simple, it’s that I don’t want to understand; do you hear? Because if I begin “I’m brooding over these things, I end up not eating, not playing, not sleeping… I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink tonight… and then Señor de Rada says, in Latin, that I’m sick in body and that I’ll come to be sick in soul… I don’t want to remember anything but my games and my lessons; not that, Father, because my mind is getting thinner and thinner, and I spend hours on end with my hands crossed, sitting like a pillar… The fact is that when I get into that mood, it seems to me that not all the men in the world put together are worth what a boyfriend like I pretend to be with mine… who ‘s not in the world either, believe me! He’s over there in some palaces and in some very remote gardens… Anyway, I don’t know how to explain myself; do you understand? ” “They’ve put it into your head to be a nun, like Águeda, the headmistress’s daughter !” cried Señor Joaquín angrily. “Oh!… no, sir,” murmured Lucía, whose lively and flaming complexion seemed like a fresh rose. “I wouldn’t be a nun for the sake of an empire… God isn’t calling me that way. ” “It’s clear,” thought Señor Joaquín to his cloak, “the pot is boiling; this girl must be married off.” And out loud: well, if that’s the case, girl, I don’t think you should offend Señor de Miranda. He’s quite a gentleman… and in politics, come on, he has quite a nose for it! Don’t you dislike him? ” “I’ve already said no,” replied Lucía, in a calmer tone. That same afternoon, El Leonés went to take the satisfactory reply to Miranda in person . Colmenar wrote Señor Joaquín a letter, which he had to read. And not many days later, Miranda said to the presumed father-in-law, in a satisfied and confidential tone: “Our friend Colmenar is the godfather; he delegates it to you and sends this for the bride.” And from its satin case, he took a mother-of-pearl fan, its delicate Brussels lace border trembling under his breath like sea foam in a breeze. To describe how plump Señor Joaquín had become would be an undertaking beyond human strength. It seemed to him that the pro-Hombric personality of the illustrious party leader had suddenly and sleight of hand merged with his own; he believed himself metamorphosed, identical with his idol, and he couldn’t fit in with his own skin, and the misgivings he sometimes felt even when thinking about his impending marriage were erased. Eager not to be outdone by Colmenar in generosity, in addition to providing Lucía with generous provisions, he gave her a generous sum to invest in their honeymoon, an itinerary for which Miranda planned, including Paris and certain beneficial mineral waters, prescribed long ago by Rada as a supreme remedy for hepatic diathesis. The idea of the trip never ceased to seem strange to Señor Joaquín. When he married, he made no longer excursions than the journey from the gatehouse to the market. But considering that his daughter was entering a higher rank, he had to accept the customs of the new category, however unusual they might be. Miranda portrayed it this way, and Señor Joaquín agreed: average intelligences always yield to the aplomb that fascinates them. Anyone who knows provincial cities a bit will easily imagine how much comment, how much open or covert gossip, was provoked in León by the marriage of the important Miranda to the obscure heiress of the former marketeer. The talk was without tact or restraint; who could blame the old man’s vanity, who, finally fed up with tearing up coats, wanted to give his daughter the appearance and tone of a _marquise_? Miranda seemed to many people the classic type of the marquis. Who sunk their teeth into the groom, a hungry Madrid native, with much pomp and without a penny, who had come there to get out of trouble with Señor Joaquín’s ounces? Who satirically described the strange figure of young Lucía, when she debuted a hat, parasol, and long train. But these murmurs shattered into the proud satisfaction of Señor Joaquín, the childish frivolity of the bride, and the courteous and worldly reserve of the groom. Lucía, faithful to her plan of not thinking about the wedding itself, thought about the wedding accessories and joyfully told her friends about the planned trip, repeating the euphonious names of towns that she considered enchanting regions: Paris, Lyon, Marseille, where the Little girls imagined that the sky would be a different color and the sun would shine differently than in their hometown. Miranda, on account of a loan she negotiated, expecting to repay it later at the expense of her generous father-in-law, had beautiful finery brought from the court, a jewel of brilliants, a chest full of splendid finery, and a shipment from a renowned ladies’ tailor. Lucia, after all, a woman, and new to such refinements, more than once, like Margaret in Faust, hung the precious pendants in front of a mirror, taking pleasure in shaking her head so that the sparkle of the earrings and the jeweled flowers sprinkled in her dark hair would sparkle. This is what women find pleasure in when they are little girls, and still for a long time after they are no longer little girls. But Lucia was not a little girl forever. Chapter 3. The train kept running, and the bride no longer cried. There were hardly any traces of tears on her face, nor were her eyelids reddened. Such is the case with the tears we shed during the first trials of life: tears without bitterness, a light dew that refreshes rather than scorches. The seasons and the people who peered curiously at the door, peering into the apartment, were beginning to entertain her. Questions rained down on Miranda, who gave details of everything, taking pains to amuse her, and interspersing a certain tenderness with the explanations , which the girl listened to without embarrassment, finding it perfectly natural that a husband should show affection to his wife, without the slightest swaying of her bodice betraying the sweet confusion that love awakens. Miranda was now at her best, her crying having ceased , and her good humor and normal temper having reappeared. Pleased with this outcome, he even inwardly blessed one of his causes, a little old woman who, carrying an enormous basket on her arm, sneaked into the apartment a few stations before Palencia, and whose grotesque appearance helped bring a smile to Lucía’s lips. Upon arriving in Palencia, the old woman left them and a serious, decently dressed, silent man got on. “He looks like Papa,” Lucía said in a low voice to Miranda. “Poor thing!” And this time, only a sigh paid the debt of filial love. Night was already falling; the train moved slowly, as if trembling with fear at trusting the rails, and Miranda noticed that it was noticeably late. “We’ll arrive at Venta de Baños,” she pronounced, turning the page of the Indicator, “much later than usual.” “And in Venta de Baños…” Lucía asked. “We can have dinner… if they give us time.” Under ordinary circumstances, we not only have dinner, but we even rest for a while, waiting for the other train, the express, the one that will take us to France. “To France!” Lucía clapped her hands as if she had heard unexpected and very pleasant news. After reflecting, she added in a deep voice, “Well, I’m looking forward to dinner.” “We’ll have dinner, we’ll have dinner: at least I hope we’ll have enough time for dinner during the stop…. Are you hungry, eh? The thing is… you haven’t had almost anything today… ” “What with the rush and the shortness of breath… and seeing that the chocolates were served properly… and the pain of leaving poor Papa, and seeing him so glum… and also… ” “What else?” “And off we go!” “Getting married doesn’t happen every day… and it’s only natural that it’s a bit upsetting… it’s a serious matter, a very serious one, Father Urtazu already warned me… and so it was that last night I didn’t sleep a wink, and I counted all the hours, the halves, and the quarters that the cuckoo in the antechamber struck… with each chime I heard… tam, tam!” I exclaimed, “you damned thing! Wait, I’m going to cover my face with the sheets and call for sleep, and you won’t be up to your tricks again… but not even then. Now, since it’s over, it’s the same as when you have to jump over a very wide ditch: you jump, bang! and you don’t think about it again. It’s over!” Miranda laughed, sitting next to his fiancée, looking at her closely and finding her very pretty, almost transformed by the traveling headdress and the animation that lit up her cheeks and flushed her fresh complexion. Lucia was also beginning to regain her old familiarity with Miranda, something interrupted recently by the novelty of their respective situations . “Don’t laugh at my nonsense, Señor de Miranda,” the girl murmured. “Do me the favor of not mistaking it, daughter… my name is Aurelio, and you must address me informally as I address you… you know?” This entire dialogue took place in a discreet tone, in a low voice, both interlocutors leaning toward each other, with a mysterious and almost loving syllabification. The eyewitness, silent, leaning in a corner, imposed on the spouses’ conversation, a plain and ordinary conversation, a certain intimacy and secrecy that increased its attractiveness, giving it the appearance of a tender conversation. The same things, said aloud, would be indifferent and too simple. It usually happens that the words themselves are not important, but rather the tone in which they are pronounced and the place in which they are placed, like tiny pebbles that, conveniently embedded in mosaic work, draw now a tree, now a house, now a face. The train finally stopped at Venta de Baños, and the lights of the station showed their flaming pupils through the light mist of a calm autumn night. “Is this it? Is this where we get off and have dinner?” asked Lucía, whose first experience of dinner at the station whetted both her appetite and her curiosity. “Here,” Miranda replied in a much less joyful tone. “Now, change trains! I’d do away with them all! There’s nothing more uncomfortable. Get your luggage so they don’t take it to Madrid… get rid of all that paraphernalia…” Saying this, she took a blanket, a sleeping bag, and a bundle of umbrellas from the net; But Lucía, with her youthful vigor and her village manners, snatched the heaviest object from his hand: the sack, and, leaping light as a bird , ran to the ground toward the inn. They sat down at the table set for the travelers, a trivial table, sealed by the vulgar promiscuity that reigned there at all hours; very long and covered with oilcloth, and surrounded, like a hen by her chicks, by other small tables with tea, coffee, and hot chocolate services. The cups, upside down on their saucers, seemed to be patiently awaiting the compassionate hand that would restore them to their natural position; the sugar cubes piled on the metal trays resembled building materials, blocks of white marble hewn for some Lilliputian palace. The teapots displayed their gleaming bellies, and the milk jugs poked out their snouts like ill- bred children. The monotony of the long room was overwhelming. Rates, maps, and advertisements, hanging from the walls, lent the place the appearance of an office. The back of the room was occupied by a high counter piled with stacks of plates, groups of freshly washed glassware, and fruit bowls where pyramids of apples and pears smoldered against the deep green of the moss. On the main table, in two blue porcelain vases , limp flowers had just wilted: late roses, odorless sunflowers. The travelers were arriving and taking their places, their faces drawn with boredom and sleep, the men’s travel caps pulled down to their eyebrows, the women wrapped in worsted shawls, their graceful waistlines hidden by long gray raincoats, their hair disheveled, their cuffs and collars threadbare. Lucía, smiling, in her tight-fitting dress coat, her natural, rosy complexion, stood out among them all, and it seemed as if the harsh, yellowish light from the gas lamps was concentrated, projecting only on her head and leaving the other diners’ lights in a murky half-tone. They were brought the usual fare from the inns: herb soup, grilled chops, dry chicken wings, some reheated fish, cold ham in very thin slices, cheese, and fruit. Miranda spared little of the delicacies, scorning everything served to him, and imperatively and quite loudly asking for a bottle of sherry and another of Bordeaux, which he poured for Lucía, explaining the special qualities of each wine. Lucía ate voraciously, giving free rein to his impetuous appetite, like a child on a day off. With each new dish, he renewed the joy that unspoiled stomachs accustomed to simple food find in the slightest culinary novelty. He savored the Bordeaux, his tongue touching the roof of his mouth, and swore it smelled and tasted like the violets Vélez de Rada sometimes brought him. He held up the topaz liquid of the sherry to the light and closed his eyes as he drank it, affirming that it tickled his throat. But his great orgy, his forbidden fruit, was coffee. We, the most scrupulous chroniclers of Señor Joaquín the Leonese, will never be able to guess what the secret and most potent reason was that led him to always forbid his daughter from drinking coffee, as if it were a poisoned drug or a pernicious filter: a case all the more strange since we already know the excessive fondness, the love that our good beekeeper professed for coffee. Lucía, deprived of the taste of the black infusion, and not ignorant of the gulps her father took of it every day, began to believe that the concoction was nectar itself, the very ambrosia of the gods, and it would sometimes happen to her to say to Rosarito or Carmela: “Leave it alone, when I get married, I’ll have coffee. ” No way! The coffee from the Venta de Baños inn was neither very genuine nor very aromatic; And yet, upon first introducing the teaspoon to her lips, upon feeling the slight bitterness and the warm vapor that penetrated it, Lucía experienced a deep shudder, something like an expansion of her being, as if her senses were opening simultaneously, like the buds of a bush that all bloomed at once. The glass of chartreuse, drunk slowly, left a penetrating and strengthening aroma on her tongue and teeth , a pleasant, very light thirst quenched by the last sips of coffee, saturated with the fine dust that slowly eddied and settled at the bottom of the cup. “If Papa came now,” she murmured, “what would he say!” Miranda and Lucía were the last to rise from the table. The remaining passengers were already scattering along the platform to take seats on the express train, which had just arrived and stopped, still vibrating from its rapid progress, at the station. “Come on,” Miranda warned, “come on, the train is about to leave… I don’t know if we’ll find an unoccupied compartment.” They began their pilgrimage, walking along the line of cars in search of the empty compartment. They found it, finally, not without difficulty, and took possession of it, throwing their bundles onto the cushions. The opaque light of the lantern filtering through the blue taffeta curtain; the uniform, matte gray of the lining, which looked like whitish drapery; the silence, the restful atmosphere, succeeding the brutal clarity and the confused din of the dining room, were inviting them to peaceful sleep and rest. Lucía undid the elastic of her hat, placing it on the net. “I’m dizzy,” she said, running her hand over her forehead. “My head is a little heavy; I’m hot.” “The liquors… The drinks,” Miranda responded cheerfully. ” Rest for a moment while I check in the luggage.” It’s a necessary formality here…. Saying this, she lifted one of the carriage cushions; tucked her rolled-up blanket underneath it to form a headboard, raised the arm of the chair that divided the two cushions, and added: “A perfect bed! ” Lucía took a carefully folded silk handkerchief from her pocket, spread it delicately over the cushion, and lay down, reclining her head where the handkerchief prevented it from rubbing against the threadbare fabric of the upholstery. “If I fall asleep,” she warned Miranda, “wake me when something worth seeing happens. ” “Don’t worry,” Miranda replied, laughing. “I’ll be back soon.” Lucía remained alone, her eyes now closed, her faculties overcome by a pleasant slumber. Whether it was the movement of the train, the insomnia of the wedding eve, the habit of going to bed in León at that same hour of ten thirty at night, or all of these things together, sleep fell upon her like a leaden blanket. Her taut nerves relaxed, and that inexplicable feeling of rhythmic warmth, announcing that the blood flow is regularizing and that rest is beginning. Lucia made the sign of the cross between two yawns, murmured an Our Father and a Hail Mary, and began a prayer she had learned from her prayer book and written in detestable verse, which begins: ” Give me sleep, just and merciful God , to the tender, candid, and innocent infant …” All these operations, if they were intended to ward off drowsiness, attracted it more and more. A soft sigh came from Lucia’s mouth; her hand fell inert, and the child was buried in the most peaceful and profound sleep, as if she were enjoying it between soft sheets. Meanwhile, Miranda devoted herself to the important task of checking in her considerable luggage, which consisted of two trunks, a hat box, and a special cloth and leather box, suitable for protecting her ironed dress shirts from wrinkles. It was necessary to wait patiently for their turn to receive packages labeled AM in front of the large counter, where a respectable line of suitcases, boxes, and crates of every kind were lined up, carried on the shoulders of the station porters, exhausted, the veins in their necks bulging. When they reached the counter, they hurriedly unloaded the load with brutal movements, making the wood of the trunks creak and the iron rings securing them groan and grind . Miranda finally managed to get his turn, and with his check in his pocket, he jumped from the platform to the triple track looking for his department. It took him some effort, and he opened several doors in vain before finding it ; when he opened them, a head would usually peek out, and a gruff voice would say: “It’s full.” In other departments, he saw confused shapes, people huddled in corners or lying on cushions. Finally, he got it right; he recognized his place. Lucía’s body, lying on the improvised bed, was a complement to the peace and stillness of that movable bedroom. Miranda considered his bride for a moment, without any of the sentimental and poetic thoughts the situation seemed to suggest. “This girl is truly beautiful,” thought the mature and experienced man. ” Above all, her complexion has the downy quality of apricot trees when they haven’t been touched and are still hanging from the branch. That devil Colmenar seems to divine everything… another would have given me millions to some forty-year-old virgin and martyr… But this is the icing on the cake, as they say. ” As he thus praised his happiness, Miranda took off his hat and searched the pockets of his greatcoat for his red and black quarter-paneled traveling cap. There are movements that instinctively remind us of others when we perform them. Miranda’s forearm, as it descended, felt a void, the lack of something that had previously hindered him. And the owner of the forearm, noticing this, gave a sudden jump and began to look himself up and down, and his trembling hands ran over and felt his chest and waist without finding anything; and his mouth, impatient and angry, uttered in a muffled voice curses, suits, and rounded vows; and his closed fist struck his forgetful forehead, as if evoking memory with that expressive slap: thus summoned , memory came finally; at dinner, he had taken off his wallet, which was in the way while he ate, and placed it beside him on an empty chair. It must have been there. He had to pick it up. But what about the train that was about to leave! The chimneys were already snoring, snorting like bristling cats, and two or three sharp whistles heralded their departure. Miranda hesitated for a second . “Lucia,” he said aloud. And the only answer was the girl’s even, heavy breathing, indicating a deep, stubborn sleep. Then he quickly decided, and with the agility of a twenty-year-old boy, he jumped onto the track and started running towards the inn. A wallet like that, stuffed with money in its most varied and tempting forms: gold, silver, banknotes, bills, was not for losing. He was rushing. With most of the lighting in the inn already extinguished, only one bulb burned in each quadruple burner; the waiters sat chatting on the benches. corners, or lazily led obelisks of greasy, dirty plates and piles of wrinkled napkins to the kitchen . On the large, almost empty table, tall flower vases stood alone, and the dim light cast a gloomy white stain on the enormous tablecloth, resembling a shroud. On the counter, a kerosene lamp cast a circle of concrete, orange light around it, and the owner of the establishment—using the marble tablet as a desk—was writing figures in a large diary. Miranda, startled, approached him, leaning very close, almost touching him: “Sir…” he asked in a yearning voice, “have you seen over there… have the waiters packed up?” The owner raised his face, his frank, whiskered, and vulgar face. “A wallet? Yes, sir. ” Colmenar’s friend breathed deeply. “Is it yours?” the innkeeper asked suspiciously. “Mine, yes! Give it to me without delay: the train is about to leave… ” “Be so good as to give me a deposit… ” “Dark red… Russian fur… silver clasps…” “Enough, enough,” said the innkeeper, taking the precious article from a drawer in the counter and honorably handing it over to its rightful owner. The latter, without pausing to recognize it, hung it up in the twinkling of an eye, buried his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and taking out a handful of silver coins, scattered them on the marble, exclaiming: “For the waiters.” The action was so rapid that some of them rolled down, and after dancing on the smooth surface, came to a rest with a resounding clang. The silvery ringing was still going on, and Miranda was already flying. In his confusion, he couldn’t find the door. “The train is leaving, sir,” the porters shouted to him. “This way… this way…” He flung himself madly onto the platform: the train, with the treacherous slowness of a reptile, began to slide gently along the rails. Miranda bared his fists, and a feeling of impotent, cold rage seized his spirit. Thus he lost a second, a precious second. The train’s pace accelerated, like a swing that, beginning to oscillate, describes sharper curves with each step and flies with greater vigor through the air. Precipitously and without looking down, Miranda jumped onto the track to reach the first-class cars, which at that moment were parading before his eyes, as if mocking him. He tried to throw himself onto the step, but upon touching it, he was thrown violently onto the track and fell, feeling a sharp and sudden pain in his right foot. He remained on the ground, half- recumbent, uttering one of those imprecations that the most distinguished and elegant men in Spain do not hesitate to borrow from the gallows language of criminals. The train, roaring, majestic, and swift, crossed before him, the black engine sending forth flashes of fire, resembling fantastic spirits dancing in the night’s darkness. A few moments after Miranda got out to pick up his briefcase, the door of the apartment where Lucía lay asleep had opened, and a man entered. He was carrying a briefcase, which he dropped beside him on the cushions. Closing the door, he sat down in a corner, his forehead pressed against the glass, cold as ice and fogged by the night dew. Nothing could be seen but the darkness outside, which barely contrasted with the hazy gloom of the platform, the guard’s lantern patrolling it, and the dull streetlights scattered here and there. When the train started moving, a few sparks, quick as exhalations, passed before the glass against which the newcomer leaned his face . Chapter 4. To which it did not fail to seem strange and unusual—so, ceasing to gaze into the darkness, he turned his gaze to the interior of the apartment—that the woman, who slept so comfortably, had gone inside instead of going to a ladies’ private room. And this reflection was followed by an idea that made him frown and contract his lips in a disdainful smile. Nevertheless, the second glance he fixed on Lucia inspired him with different and more charitable thoughts. The light from the streetlight, whose blue curtain she drew back to better examine the sleeper, struck her full. But as the train swayed, it wavered, and as it retreated, it left her in shadow, it also made her emerge radiantly from the darkness. Naturally, the light was concentrated on the most prominent and clear points of her face and body. Her forehead, white as jasmine, her rosy cheekbones, her round chin, her half-open lips that gave way to the soft breath, revealing her pearly teeth, shone when the strong, raw light touched them. She held her head with one arm, like the Bacchantes of old, and her hand stood out among the darkness of her hair, while the other hung, lost in sleep, also bare of glove, her wedding ring on her little finger, her veins slightly swollen because the position condensed the blood there. Every time Lucia’s body entered the luminous zone, the chiseled metal buttons emitted a golden gleam , igniting against the brown cloth of her frock coat. A glimpse of the lace petticoat, along with the exquisite bronzed leather shoe with its curved heel, could be seen in patches of the swirling skirt, trimmed with a tiny pleat. An inexplicable aroma of purity and freshness emanated from the sleeping girl’s entire person , a whiff of honesty that reached for miles. She was no daring adventuress, no low-flying butterfly seeking a candle to burn her wings. And the traveler, saying this to himself, was astonished at such a confident sleep, at this creature resting peacefully, alone, exposed to brutal flirtation, to all kinds of unpleasant adventures. and he remembered a picture he had seen in a magnificent edition of illustrated fables, which represented Fortune awakening the improvident child who had been dozing at the edge of the well. A hypothesis suddenly occurred to him: perhaps the traveler was an English or American miss, equipped with a staff and a page carrying a six-shooter in his pocket . But although Lucía was as fresh and womanly as Niobe, a very common type among Yankee young ladies, she showed so clearly in certain details her Spanish origin that the one who considered her had to say to himself : “She doesn’t have the slightest trace of a foreigner.” He looked at her for a long time, as if searching in her appearance for the solution to the enigma; until finally , shrugging his shoulders slightly, as if exclaiming: “What does it matter to me, anyway?” he took a book from his satchel and tried to read; But the flickering glare that, with each jolt of the carriage , played at confusing the characters on the white page, prevented him from doing so . The traveler then leaned back against the icy glass and remained there, motionless and meditative. The train continued its journey, trembling, accelerating and sometimes lurching, stopping only for a minute at stations whose names were sung in the guttural, melancholic voices of the attendants. After each stop , it returned, as if rested, and with greater vigor, like a steed urged on, to devour the road. The difference in temperature between the outside and inside of the carriage clouded the surface of the glass with a veil of gray tulle; and the traveler, perhaps tired of blending it with his breath, once again devoted himself to considering the sleeping woman, and yielding to an involuntary feeling, which seemed ridiculous to him, as the lazy hours of the night passed, he grew more and more impatient, almost to the point of driving him mad, with the regal placidity of that insolent sleep, and he wished, in spite of himself, that the traveler would wake up, if only to hear something that would spur his curiosity. Perhaps a good deal of envy was mixed with such impatience. How desirable and delightful sleep! What beneficial calm! It was the relaxed repose of youth, of candid maidenhood , of a serene conscience, of a rich and happy temperament, of health. Far from decomposing, from acquiring that cadaverous sinking, that contraction of the corners of the mouth, that kind of general disorder that shows itself in the face, no longer careful to adjust its muscles to an artificial expression, the gnawing care of wakefulness, Lucia’s features shone with the peace that so captivates and enchants the countenance of sleeping children. Nevertheless, she sighed softly, shuddering. The chill of the night penetrated through the cracks, even with the windows closed. The traveler got up and, without noticing that there was a bundle of blankets on the grate, opened his own satchel and took out a hairy Scottish shawl of the finest wool, which he delicately spread over the feet and thighs of the sleeping woman. She turned a little without waking, and her head was wrapped in shadow. Outside, the telegraph poles looked like a row of specters; the trees shook their disheveled heads, waving branches like arms outstretched in despair, crying for help; a whitish house rose from time to time, isolated in the landscape like the monstrous head of a granite sphinx; Everything was confused, vague, contourless, floating and fleeting, imitating the swirling smoke from the engine, which enveloped the train like the fiery breath of an angry dragon envelops its prey. Inside the car, there was a religious silence; it seemed like an enchanted place. The traveler lowered the transparent blue light, covering the lamp; he leaned back in a corner with his eyes closed, and, stretching out his legs, rested them on the opposite seat. Season after season passed. He dozed a little, and then, astonished by Lucia’s silence and prolonged slumber, he got up, fearful that she had been overcome by fainting. He would go to her, bending down, and then return to his corner, having perceived the measured rhythm of the child’s peaceful breathing . A diffuse, pale light was beginning to spread over the landscape. The shapes of mountains, trees, and huts could already be discerned; The night was retreating, sweeping away the trembling stars, like a sultana gathering her veil sprinkled with silver arabesques. The narrow circular segment of the waning moon was fading and vanishing in the sky, which passed from dark to a shade of opaque porcelain blue. A chilly sensation ran through the traveler’s veins, who turned up the collar of his jacket and instinctively reached for the still-warm radiator, in whose metal bosom the water danced, producing a sound similar to that heard in the holds of ships. Suddenly, the door of the apartment abruptly opened , and a scowling man jumped in, his cap with gold braid pulled down, holding a kind of steel tongs or punch. “The tickets, gentlemen!” he shouted in a dry, imperious voice. The traveler reached for his waistcoat and handed over a piece of yellow cardboard. “One is missing! The lady’s ticket.” “Hey, madam! Madam! The ticket!” Lucía was already stirring in her seat, and, throwing down her Scottish shawl and sitting up, she rubbed her eyes in astonishment with her knuckles, after the manner of a sleepy child. Her hair was disheveled and flat, and the side of her face on which it lay was very red; a loose braid fell over her shoulder and, unraveling at the end, waved in three strands. Her white petticoat, wrinkled, was insubordinate beneath her cloth dress; a shoe lace had come untied, floating down and covering the instep of her foot. Lucía looked around with vague, uncertain eyes; she was serious and astonished. “The ticket, madam! Your ticket!” the clerk continued shouting to her, in a not very affable tone. “The ticket…” she repeated. And once again she cast her gaze around, without entirely managing to shake off the stupor of sleep. “Yes, ma’am, the ticket,” the clerk repeated even more unpleasantly. “Miranda… Miranda!” Lucía finally exclaimed, linking her scattered memories of the previous day. And she scanned the entire apartment, stupefied not to see Miranda there. “Mr. Miranda will have my ticket,” she said, addressing the clerk, as if he must necessarily know Miranda. The clerk, bewildered, turned to the traveler, his right hand outstretched. “My name is not Miranda,” he murmured. And when she saw the furious employee, ready to question Lucía with a rude gesture, she added: “Was someone with you, madam? ” “Yes, sir,” Lucía replied, already distressed. “Of course he was… Don Aurelio Miranda, my husband, was coming…” And as she said this, she smiled involuntarily, at how new and strange such an expression seemed to her. “She seems too young to be married,” the traveler thought; but remembering the ring he had seen on her little finger, he added aloud: “Where did you come from? ” “From León. But what, isn’t it there? Holy Virgin! Sir… tell me … allow me…” And forgetting that the train was moving, she was about to open the door quickly, when the employee stopped her by grabbing her arm vigorously. “Hey, madam,” he said in a rude voice, “can’t you see, you’ll die! We can’t get out now.” “Are you crazy? Let’s get this over with. I need the ticket. ” “I don’t have it; what can I do if I don’t have it!” Lucía said , distressed, her eyes filling with tears. “You’ll have to take it at the first station and pay a fine. ” And the attendant growled even louder. “Don’t bother the lady anymore,” said the traveler, intervening just in time, as tears the size of hazelnuts were already beginning to roll down Lucía’s cheeks . “You inattentive fellow!” he continued angrily, “don’t you see that something has happened to this lady that she couldn’t have foreseen? Come on, go yourself, or in my name… ” “You see, sir, we have our obligation… our responsibility… ” “Go away, you fool. Take the lady’s ticket.” Saying this, he thrust his right hand into his coat pocket and took out some greasy, greenish papers, the sight of which immediately cleared the clerk’s dog-like brow. Upon receiving the bill, he lowered the pitch of his gruff voice two or three notches. “Pardon me,” he said as he took it and put it in his dirty, disheveled wallet. “Your word was enough. At first, I didn’t recognize him; but now I remember your features very well, and I realize that I know you very well, and I also knew your father, Mr. Artegui. ” “Well, if you know me,” the traveler replied sternly, “you’ll know that I waste few idle words.” And, pushing the importunate man out, he closed the door in his face. But suddenly she opened it again, and lisping to the attendant, who was now running with unprecedented agility along the narrow platform of the steps, she called out in a resounding voice: “Psit… psit… hey! If there’s a gentleman from Miranda in those cars, tell him his wife is here.” Having done this, she sat down in the corner and, lowering the window, breathed in the invigorating freshness of the morning with eagerness. Lucía, drying her eyes from the second cry shed in the course of so few hours, felt extraordinary restlessness on one side, and inexplicable contentment on the other. The traveler’s action caused her the intimate joy that generous features usually bring to those not yet worn out. She was dying to thank him, but didn’t dare . He, meanwhile, watched the dawn with the same attention as if it were the newest and most entertaining spectacle in the world. At last, the girl decided to take the plunge, and with a stammering lip, she uttered the most foolish thing she could possibly say in that situation, as is often the case with those who think a lot and prepare a dialogue in advance. “Sir… it’s just that I won’t be able to pay you what I owe you until we find Miranda. He was carrying the funds… ” “I don’t lend money, madam,” the traveler replied placidly, without turning his face or taking his eyes off the dawn, which was breaking across the sky wrapped in light vapors of pink and mother-of-pearl. “Fine… but it’s not fair that you, like this, without knowing me…” The traveler didn’t reply. “And tell me, for God’s sake,” added Lucía with childlike inflections in her pure voice, “what will become of Miranda? What do you think of my situation? What do I do now?” The traveler turned in his seat and stood in front of Lucia, looking like a man who is forced to occupy himself with things that do not concern him and who She resigned herself to it. The crisp timbre of Lucía’s voice suggested the same reflection as before. “It seems impossible that she’s married. Anyone would think she’s just graduated from high school.” And she asked abruptly: “Let’s see, madam; where did you leave your husband? Do you remember him? ” “What do I know? I fell asleep… ” “And where did you fall asleep? You don’t know either? ” “At the station where we had dinner… At Venta de Baños.” Miranda got off to check in my luggage, and told me to rest a while, to try to get some sleep… ” “And you’ve tried hard!” the traveler murmured with a half smile . “You’ve been sleeping from back there… five hours straight, at a stretch… ” “But… I got up so early yesterday…” She was exhausted. And Lucía rubbed her eyes, as if she felt the itch of sleep in them once again. Then she searched her bun for two or three hairpins, using them to secure her unruly braid. “Did you tell me,” the traveler asked, “that you were coming from León? ” “Yes, sir… The wedding was at eleven in the morning; but I had to get up early to arrange the refreshments…” Lucía said with the simplicity of a child not accustomed to socializing. “It was three-thirty when we left León…” The traveler looked at her, beginning to understand the enigma. The girl gave him the woman’s clue. “I should have guessed,” he said self-consciously. “Did you make it as far as Venta de Baños together?” he asked Lucía afterward. “Yes, yes… we had dinner there. Miranda was undoubtedly left checking in… ” “It can’t be…” The checking in process always ends in enough time for the travelers to catch the train… Some unforeseen incident, some mishap must have happened to her.” “Don’t you think… be frank… that she did it on purpose, leaving me?” Lucía’s face revealed such childish yet sincere anguish as she said this that the traveler’s serious mouth had to smile again. “Look here!” she added, shaking her head gravely and thoughtfully. “And I thought that a woman, when she got married, had someone to accompany and defend her! Someone to give her protection and shelter! Well, if this happens after a not-quite-full twenty-four hours… Not-quite-full. We’re in good shape! ” “Surely… surely your husband is more upset by what happened than you are. Do you believe something is going on that we don’t know about, and that it will explain the behavior of that gentleman… Miranda. Or do you have some background, some reason to suspect that… that he wanted to abandon her? ” “Reason! No way! None. If Mr. Miranda is a proper person. ” “Do you call him _Mr. Miranda_?” “No… he already warned me yesterday to call him Aurelio… But since I still haven’t gained confidence… and he’s older… Anyway, it didn’t come to my mind.” The traveler dammed up a tide of indiscreet questions that rose to his lips and turned toward the window so as not to miss the beautiful decoration that Nature offered him. The sun, appearing over the summit of a nearby mountain, dissipated the morning mist, which descended into the valley in shreds of gray lace, and, shining in a very clear blue space, illuminated with a fresh, soft, and nascent light. A foaming torrent ran down the granite flanks of the mountain, strewn with glittering mica; and among the somber hue of the oaks , a small meadow appeared, the pale shades of early grass, where a flock of sheep were grazing, their white bodies constellating the green carpet like enormous cotton balls. Through the deafening noise of the train, it seemed as if the distant chirping of birds and the silvery ringing of bells could be heard on that picturesque sunny side. When the traveler had gazed long and hard at the beautiful landscape, which was now fading into the distance, he sank, like a weary man, into the corner, his exhausted arms hanging at his sides, while a soft sigh escaped from his chest, which sounded more like weariness than regret. The sun was rising and its rays were beginning to pierce the windows of the carriage, and on the foreheads of the two who sat inside, as if inviting them to look at each other. They measured each other, in fact, instinctively, with their eyes, taking care that their mutual curiosity was not noticed, from which resulted a silent and expressive scene, acted by her with childish ease, and by him with frowning reserve. The traveler was a man in the strength of age and in the age of strength. Twenty-eight, thirty, or thirty-two years might have flowed over him, without it being possible to say whether he represented them. His faded countenance was even paler around the cheekbones, where those called roses in verse are usually found. Despite all this, he did not appear to be in poor health, and his body was well-proportioned. His beard was black and handsome, his hair unruly to the barber’s art, supple and free, waving here and there, without symmetry or rhythm, but not without a certain unique placement that characterized and beautified his head. His features were well-arranged, but clouded by clouds of melancholy and suffering—not the physical suffering that destroys the organism, sticks the skin to the bones, dryens the flesh, and clouds or glazes the eyeball, but rather the moral, or rather, intellectual, suffering that only slightly deepens the dark circles under the eyes, deepens the forehead, pales the temples, and condenses the gaze, communicating at the same time a carelessness and abandonment to bodily movements. This last was what was most noticeable in the traveler. All his attitudes and gestures were like those of a man exhausted and exhausted. Something had broken and snapped in that noble mechanism, some spring of those that, when triggered, interrupt the functions of intimate life. Even in his clothing, one perceived the languor and despondency so clearly revealed by his physiognomy. It wasn’t negligence, it was indifference and a low spirit that was manifested by that dark denim suit, that gold chain, unsuitable for a trip, that carelessly tied and falling tie, those new gloves, made of fine Swedish leather, a delicate color, that wouldn’t last clean for even ten minutes. The traveler lacked the exquisite and intelligent elegance that attends to details, that makes the science of the toilet; one saw in him a man who is superior to elegance itself because he doesn’t ignore it, but disdains it: a degree of culture through which one enters a higher sphere than good manners, which, after all, is a social category, and whoever rises above good manners also exempts himself from categories. Miranda wore the livery of good taste, and so, before noticing Miranda, people focused on her clothes, while what attracted attention in Artegui was Artegui himself. The irregularity of his dress didn’t conceal, but rather, it revealed, the distinction of his person: every garment that made up his attire was rich in its kind: the cloth was English, the shirt was Holland , the shoes and gloves were first-class. Lucía noticed all this more with instinct than with understanding, because, inexperienced and inexperienced, she hadn’t yet mastered the philosophy of dress, in which women are so adept. In turn, Artegui considered her like someone who, returning from snowy and deserted countries, looks at a cheerful little valley that he happens to find along the way. She had never seen so much youth, robustness, and freshness combined in anyone. Despite the night spent on the train, Lucía’s face was fresher than St. John’s wort, and her disheveled hair, now flattened for some time, gave her the appearance of a nymph emerging from the bath, bareheaded and damp. Her eyes and all her features smiled, and the sun, the indiscreet chronicler of withered complexions, played fearlessly among the imperceptible golden hair that covered the girl’s cheeks, tinting them with warm hues of rancid marble. Lucía waited for someone to speak to her, and her gaze demanded it. But as the traveler didn’t seem inclined to fulfill her hopes, she resolved , after a while, to return to the charge, exclaiming: “Well, what am I to do? You haven’t told me how I’m going to get out of this situation.” “Where were you going, madam, with your husband?” “We were going to France… to the waters of Vichy, which the doctors had prescribed. ” “To Vichy directly? Weren’t you thinking of stopping somewhere? ” “Yes, in Bayonne. We would rest there. ” “Are you absolutely sure? ” “Absolutely sure. Señor de Miranda explained it to me a hundred times. ” “Well, in that case, I’ll tell you what I think. Undoubtedly, your husband , detained by some circumstance that is irrelevant , remained in Venta de Baños last night. As a precaution, we will send him, if you like, a telegram from Hendaye; but what I suppose is that he will take the first train he sees leaving for France, running in search of you. If we turn back, you risk crossing paths with him on the way, wasting time, and causing further trouble. If you stay at the first station we find, to wait for him there…” “Yes, that would be the best thing. ” “No, because since he doesn’t know, and since hours have passed and he’ll probably be walking to join you, and we won’t be able to warn him, and the train stops for very brief moments at those stations… it doesn’t seem wise to me. Besides, you’d both have to stay at a shabby station, waiting for another train… That’s not an acceptable option. ” “Then you can think of something,” said the girl with determination and confidence, encouraged by the traveler’s “if we go back…”, who implicitly promised her assistance and aid. “Continue to Bayonne, madam: that’s the only thing to do. I believe your husband will head there immediately. We arrive on the afternoon train, and he on the evening one. When he hasn’t telegraphed to warn you to turn back, which he could have done, he’s continuing.” Lucia didn’t object. Ignorant of the route, she felt a singular pleasure in indulging in someone else’s experience. Silent, she leaned out of the window and followed the rugged line of the mountain range, which stood out against the clear sky. The train was moving slower and slower: they were approaching a station. “What’s this?” she said, turning to her companion. “Miranda de Ebro,” he replied laconically. “I’m so thirsty!” Lucía murmured. “I’d give for a glass of water…” “Let’s get off: you can have a drink at the inn,” Artegui responded, whom the unexpected event was beginning to bring out of his abstraction. And jumping up first, he offered his arm to Lucía, who leaned on it without ceremony, and driven by thirst, began to run toward the bar, where some half-open bottles, half-squeezed oranges, jars of horchata and syrup, and small orange blossom vials were vying for a zinc-covered counter and some yellow-painted shelves. They served him water, and without giving the ice cream time to dissolve, he drank it quickly in sips ; he shook out his wet fingers, then wiped them with his handkerchief. Artegui paid. “Thank you very much,” she said, looking at her taciturn companion. “This tasted wonderful. When you’re thirsty… Thank you very much, sir… What’s your name? ” “Ignacio Artegui,” he said with a hint of surprise. Ingenuity often resembles impudence, and only the candor of those limpid eyes fixed on him could make the traveler distinguish between the two. “Don’t you want something else?” she murmured. “Breakfast? Coffee or hot chocolate?” “No, no… for now, I’m not hungry. ” “Then wait for me in the carriage. I’ll sort out the matter of your ticket for you.” He returned shortly, and the train began its journey again, which seemed dizzying at night and tiring during the day. The sun was rising to its zenith, and the heat was announced by warm, heavy gusts, breaths of fire that lit the atmosphere. Light coal dust, coming from the engine, entered through the windows, settling on the whitish cushions and the calico veil that protected the backs of the seats. Sometimes, contrasting with the penetrating smell of coal , came a whiff of the wild perfume of the oak groves and meadows, stretching out on either side of the train. The country had a lot of character: it was the Basque Country, rugged and beautiful. Everywhere, threatening heights dominated the road, crowned with sturdy casemates or strong castles recently built there to dominate those indomitable hills. On the mountain flanks, wide trenches or lines of redoubts could be seen, like scars on a veteran’s face. Tall and elegant poplars surrounded the well-cultivated plains, green and even, like an emerald necklace. Among the clean, white houses, the bell towers stood out. Lucía winced at the sight of them. As she passed Vitoria, a memory came to her. It was brought back by the long avenues that adorn and surround the city. “They look like the trees of León,” she murmured, sighing. And she added in a lower voice, as if speaking to herself: “What will poor Papa do now? ” “Has your father stayed in León?” Artegui asked. “Yes, in León… If he knew what was going on, he’d be terribly upset. He, who gave me so many hundreds of orders and warnings! To be careful of thieves… of illness… of not sunbathing… of not getting wet… Come on, when I think about it… ” “Is your father old? ” “Very old, very old… but very handsome and well preserved, more beautiful than gold in my eyes. I was lucky enough to have the best father in all of Spain… the poor man can only see through my eyes. ” “Are you unique, perhaps? ” “Yes, sir… and motherless ever since I was like that,” Lucía explained, lowering her outstretched hand and placing it at the level of her knees. “What! I was still breastfeeding when my mother died! And look, that was the only misfortune I had; because, for the rest, there may be happy people, but happier than I was…” Artegui fixed his domineering, profound eyes on her. “You were happy!” she repeated, like an echo of the girl’s thoughts. “Well! Yes, I was. Father Urtazu would sometimes tell me: ‘Be careful, child; look, God is paying you everything in advance, and then, when you die, do you know what he’s going to say? That he doesn’t owe you anything. ‘” “So you,” Artegui asked, “missed nothing in your quiet existence in León? Didn’t you long for anything? ” “You did, yes… sometimes, without knowing what. Now I think that this was what you longed for: to get out, to change your life a bit. But I wasn’t impatient, because it seemed to me that, sooner or later, I would achieve it; wasn’t that true? Father Urtazu used to laugh at me, exclaiming: ‘Patience, every autumn brings its fruit. ‘” “Father Urtazu… is he a Jesuit? ” “A Jesuit… and wiser! He understands everything God created.” I sometimes, to exasperate Doña Romualda, the headmistress of my school, would say: “I would rather learn with Father Urtazu than with you. ” “And now,” Artegui pronounced, with the brutal curiosity of fingers forcing open a flower bud, “you would be happier than ever! I mean! Getting married, no less!” Lucía did not perceive the ironic tone that her companion’s lips gave to that phrase , and she responded sincerely: “I’ll tell you… I always wanted to marry the old man to his liking, and not afflict him with those love affairs and those follies with which other girls unsettle their parents… My friends, I mean some of them, would see an officer of the garrison pass by their window… bang! They were all melted, and letter goes and letter comes… I was astonished at falling in love like that, seeing a man pass by… And since in the end I cared nothing about those who passed by on the street, and I already knew Señor de Miranda , and Father liked him so much… I calculated: All the better! This way I’ll be free of worries, isn’t it? I close my eyes, say yes, and that’s it… Father is very happy, and so am I. Artegui stared at her so fixedly that Lucía felt, let’s say , the weight and heat of those eyes on her cheeks, and she blushed all over, murmuring: “I’ll tell you all kinds of nonsense! Since we have nothing to talk about…” He continued to scrutinize her frank, youthful countenance with his eyes, like a steel blade searching living flesh. He knew full well that freedom and ease perhaps reveal more absence of malice than cautious reserve; but for all that, he marveled at the extreme simplicity of that creature. To understand her, it was necessary to observe that the powerful health of her body had preserved the purity of her spirit. Never did fever weaken those blue-cornered eyes; never did the fever that consumes girls in the difficult period from ten to fifteen dry those fresh lips. The most appropriate image to represent Lucia was that of a tightly closed, very gallant rosebud, protected by pompous green leaves, erect on a sturdy trunk. The heat was oppressive, increasingly suffocating. Upon arriving in Alsasua, Lucía complained of thirst again, and Artegui, offering her his arm, led her to the inn’s dining room, reminding her that it was only right to have something to eat, since so many hours had passed since dinner. “Two lunches,” he shouted to the waiter, clapping his hands for help. The waiter approached, napkin over his shoulder; he had a tanned, military face that clashed with his patent leather slippers and his hair styled with a mandolin, the livery the public imposes on their servants in such places. He was made even more martial by a wide scar, which originated at the left end of his mustache and disappeared into his neck. The waiter stared at Artegui, his eyes wide open, until, with a cry, or rather a sort of joyful dog’s throbbing, he exclaimed: “Him or the devil in his figure! Señorito Ignacio!” “Blessed are the eyes!” “You this way, Sardiola?” Artegui murmured calmly. “We’ll have a good lunch, because you’ll take care to serve us. ” “Yes, sir, I’ll do it this way…” “Later,” he said, emphasizing the phrase and lowering his voice, “since I found everything of mine destroyed… the house in ashes, and the land lost… I earned a living as best I could… And you, sir… Are you going on to France? ” “I’m going to France; but with all your chatter, we’re going to go without eating. ” “Of course not…” Sardiola spoke a few words in Basque to one of his napkin companions , bristling with z’s, ka’s, and te’s. Artegui and Lucía were served immediately , while the waiter leaned on the back of the former’s chair. “So, to France! And Doña Armanda? Is she all right?” “Not very well,” replied Ignacio, his brow clouding more than usual. “She’s suffering greatly… When I left her, however, she was much better. ” “Now that you’ve come back, she’s quite well.” And looking at Lucía and giving himself a reasonable slap on the forehead, Sardiola suddenly cried out: “All the more so, that… What a fool! Of course Señora Doña Armanda is going to recover when she sees the joy that’s pouring in through the doors. Oh, how nice to see you married, young master! And with such a pretty girl! For the best! ” “You fool,” said Ignacio, gruff and unpleasant; “this lady is not my wife. ” “Well, it’s a shame,” replied the Basque, while Lucía looked at him smiling. “You two would make a couple, you know, you… not a match for anyone.” Only , Miss… “Just finish,” Lucía begged, amused to the extreme and busy removing a tangerine from its tissue paper cover. “Shall I say so, Señorito Ignacio?” Artegui shrugged. Sardiola, believing himself authorized, elaborated. “The young lady looks as if she’s always in a good mood… and you… You’re always like that, as if you’ve been beaten up! That’s not a good match for you. ” Lucía burst out laughing and looked at Artegui, who was smiling complacently, which encouraged her to laugh even more. Lunch continued in the same cordial tone, enlivened by Sardiola’s chatter and Lucía’s childish joy. The waiter followed them right to the door of the apartment when they returned to their carriage; had Lucía been the mistress of Artegui’s arms, she would have thrown them around Sardiola’s neck, as he repeated, with half-closed eyes and in the tone one uses to pray, if one truly prays: “May the Virgin of Begoña go with you, young master… may you find Doña Armanda well… Send me as if I were a dog, your dog… Look, I’m here… ” “Fine, fine,” said Artegui, now back to his nonchalant reserve. The train began to move, and Sardiola remained standing on the platform, waving his napkin in farewell, without changing his attitude until the smoke from the chimney disappeared on the horizon. Lucía looked at Artegui, and questions boiled on her lips. “That poor man loves you very much,” she murmured at last. “I had the misfortune of doing you a favor,” replied Ignacio, “and since then… ” “Listen! Is that what you call misfortune? Well, you’ve been very unhappy since this morning, because you’ve already done me a hundred favors.” Artegui smiled again and looked at the girl. “The misfortune,” he said, “doesn’t consist in doing a favor, but in being so grateful.” “Well, I also suffer from Sardiola’s ailment… that’s quite an honor!” Lucía declared; “you’ll see! ” “Bah!… All that’s missing is for me to also receive grateful people without cause!” Artegui responded in the same festive tone. “It comes even when there’s a reason, like with that unfortunate Sardiola… ” “What did you do for him?” Lucía asked, unable to seal her inquisitive lips. “It was nothing: treating a wound, a rather serious one. ” “That scar he has across his jaw? ” “Exactly. ” “Are you a doctor? ” “As a hobby… And by chance.” Artegui fell silent, and Lucía didn’t dare inquire further. The heat was increasing, getting stickier every time. The stifling autumn day seemed like a summer day, and the coal dust, dissolved in the hot atmosphere, was suffocating. The country became more intricate, becoming ever more mountainous and rugged. From time to time they entered a tunnel, and then the darkness, the loud creaking of the train, and the humid underground air seeping into the apartment provided some solace from the torrid temperature. Lucía fanned herself with a newspaper arranged by Artegui in the shape of a clamshell, and light, transparent droplets of sweat splashed the pink nape of her neck, her temples, and her chin. From time to time she dabbed them with her handkerchief; the limp strands of her hair stuck to her forehead. She unbuttoned her starched collar, took off her tie, which was strangling her, and leaned back, showing signs of great weakness, in the corner. In order to cool the interior a little, Artegui drew all the curtains in front of the low windows, and a vague and mysterious, bluish light, a serene atmosphere, formed there, something like an underwater grotto, adding to the illusion the noise of the train, not unlike the roar of the ocean. Unfazed by the warm day, Artegui raised the curtain a little, leaned out, looked at the country, the oak groves, the mountains, the deep valleys. Once he managed to see a picturesque pilgrimage. The scene was quick and fleeting, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the people following the narrow path, scapulars around their necks, on foot or in oxcarts, the men covered with red or blue berets, the women wearing white headscarves. The procession looked like the descent of shepherds at a Nativity scene; the clear sun, fully illuminating the figures, gave them the crude tones of painted clay figures. Artegui called Lucía, who, raising the curtain in turn, threw the body out, until a twist in the road and the speed of the train erased the scene. It happened that the rogues in the tunnels took pleasure in deliberately blocking the best views of the route. A smiling hill appeared, a group of leafy trees, a pleasant meadow, bang! the tunnel. And they remained motionless in front of the glass, not daring to speak or move, as if they had suddenly entered a church. Lucía, now somewhat familiar with the heat, was very interested in the landscape that stretched out on either side of the train. She liked the match factories, tall, plastered, clean, with their large sign in front; and Hernani clapped her hands as she spotted a magnificent English park to the left , with its flowerbeds standing out against the green lawn, and its elegant conifers, with symmetrical and pendulous branches. In Pasajes, after the tiresome monotony of the mountains, her eyes finally rested, watching the blue sea stretch out, slightly rippled, while the ships, anchored in the bay, swayed with an imperceptible oscillation, and a sea breeze, acrid and salty, shook the taffeta curtains of the carriage, blowing away the sweat from the foreheads of the weary travelers. Lucía was transfixed by the ocean, a sight she had never seen before, and when the tunnel—suddenly and without asking permission—covered the spectacle with a black veil, she remained with her elbows on the window, absorbed, her pupils dilated, her lips parted in admiration. As the hours passed and the day progressed, Artegui lost some of his statuesque coldness and became increasingly communicative, explaining to Lucía the sights of that shifting panorama. The girl listened with the kind of attention that so pleases and captivates teachers: that of a student who is both enthusiastic and submissive. Artegui was eloquent when he decided to speak; he detailed the country’s customs, recounting details of the small towns, even the hamlets he glimpsed along the way. His voice was answered by fixed and attentive pupils, a face that listened completely, changing its expression as the narrator desired. It was so that, upon getting off in Irún and hearing the first syllables spoken in a foreign language, Lucía murmured as if in pain: “But what? Have we arrived yet?” “Almost in France,” Artegui responded; “but we still have a fair stretch to Bayonne. Luggage is checked here: it’s the Irún customs office.” They won’t bother us much: those who come from France to Spain are victims of the carabinieri; no one supposes that we, who go from Spain to France, are carrying contraband, or new clothes… “Well, I am,” Lucía exclaimed. “My finery… Do you see that large globe they’ve put on the counter? It’s mine… and that other one, Miranda’s… and the hatbox… ” “Give me the receipt and the keys so they can search. ” “What? You mean the receipt and the keys? Miranda had it all with him ! I have none of that. ” “In that case, you have no luggage. You’ll have to stay here until your husband picks it up.” Lucía looked at Artegui, her face somewhat saddened, and almost instantly burst out laughing. “No luggage!” she repeated. And she redoubled the arpeggio of her laughter, finding it a most amusing incident to be left without any luggage at all. She was, then, like a child lost in the street, rescued out of charity until her address was discovered. Adventure complete. A child as she was, Lucía was able to take her tears as laughter; she took them as laughter because she was cheerful, and the burst of good humor that filled the department continued until Hendaye . In Hendaye, the meal prolonged that moment of perfect cordiality. The elegant dining room at Hendaye station, furnished with the special taste and care that the French display to entertain, attract, and captivate their customers, invited intimacy , with its high and discreet curtains of muted colors, its dark wood paneling, its enormous bronze and marble fireplace, its splendid sideboard, dominated by a pair of wide, pot-bellied Japanese jars, adorned with exotic plants and birds; resplendent with Ruolz silverware, and laden with piles of opaque china dishes. Artegui and Lucía chose a small table for two, where they could speak face to face, in low voices, so as not to emit the harsh, short sound of Spanish syllables amidst the confused and linked symphony of French inflections that rose from the general conversation at the large table. Artegui, acting as steward and cupbearer, named the dishes, poured and carved, anticipating Lucía’s childish whims, shelling the almonds, peeling the apples and dipping them in the A cut-glass bowl filled with water, the golden grapes. A veil of mist seemed to have been lifted from her animated countenance, and her movements, although calm and poised, were not as tired and stiff as before. When they boarded the train, evening was falling, and the sun was setting with the rapidity of an autumn twilight. They closed the windows on one side, and the rays of the west were reflected for a moment on the roof of the apartment, then retreated like children who had just played a trick. The mountains were blackening, the most distant clouds were the color of embers; then they faded one after the other like a fiery rose shedding its burning petals. The conversation between Artegui and Lucía languished, and both remained silent and withered, he with his usual look of fatigue, she immersed in deep contemplation, dominated by the melancholy of dusk. The shadows grew longer , and from one of the cars, overcoming the noise of the slow train’s movement, a passionate and sad chorus in a foreign language emerged, a zortzico, intoned at the top of their voices by a multitude of young Vacos, who, together, were going to Bayonne. At times, a cascade of ironic and laughing notes interrupted the song; then the verse returned, tender, deep, like a moan, rising to the heavens, now black as ink. Lucía listened, and the train, slowly, played the bass, supporting the singers’ voices with its deep trepidation. The arrival in Bayonne surprised Artegui and Lucía like awakening from a long sleep. Artegui quickly withdrew his hand from the glass handle where he had been resting it, and the girl looked around in astonishment. She noticed it was cool, and she buttoned her collar and knotted her tie. Men in berets, young women with their scarves tied behind their buns, a sea of travelers of diverse appearance and social standing jostled, jostled, and swarmed in the wide station. Artegui gave his arm to his companion so as not to lose her in the whirlwind. “Had your husband chosen a hotel in Bayonne?” he asked her. “I think,” Lucía murmured, remembering, “that I heard him speak of an inn dedicated to Saint Stephen. I noticed because I have a very pretty image of that saint in my mass book. ” “Saint Etienne,” Artegui said to the bus driver, who, from the box seat, turned his head, awaited the order. The horses started off at their ponderous Percheron trot and rolled along the well-paved streets until they stopped in front of a narrow doorway, with its pots of stunted plants, its marble steps, and its bright gas lamps. A tall, clean, blond woman with an ironed cap at her side came to the door promptly, hastening to give Artegui’s briefcase to a porter. “The gentlemen will want one room,” she murmured in French in her sweet, accommodating voice. “Two,” Artegui replied laconically. “Two,” she repeated in Spanish, albeit with a trans-Pyrenean accent. “And how many do the gentlemen want? ” “Completely independent. ” “Tout a fait… They will be served.” The landlady called a chambermaid, no less neat and helpful than she, and taking two keys from the numbered board on which all the hotel’s keys hung, she led the way up the polished stairs, followed by Artegui and Lucía. On the third floor, he stopped, not without some gasp, and opening the doors of two adjoining but separate closets, he lit the candles placed on the mantelpiece with straws and left. Artegui and Lucía remained silent for a few seconds, standing in the doorway of the rooms. Finally, he said: “It’s natural that you want to wash and dust yourself off, and rest a while. I’ll leave you to it. Call the chambermaid if you need anything; everyone here speaks a little Spanish. ” “See you later,” she answered mechanically. As soon as the slamming of the door announced to Lucía that she was completely alone, and as her eyes fixed on the unfamiliar room, dimly lit by the candles, the kind of seasickness from the trip vanished. She remembered her little room in León, simple but exquisite like a silver cup, with its sink, its saints, its mignonette bushes, its sewing box, and its cedar closet, monumental and crammed with clean linen. Her father, Carmela, Rosarito, and all her sweet past also came back to her. Then she felt sad, very sad; indefinable but extremely strong fears and terrors assailed her ; her situation seemed strange and dangerous, the present fraught with threats, the future dark. She sank into an armchair and fixed on the lights the fixed, empty gaze of those absorbed in painful meditation. Chapter 5. It must have been an hour, or perhaps an hour and a half, when Lucía heard a knock on her chamber door, and opening it, she found herself face to face with her companion and protector, who, in his white cuffs and in some slight alterations in his dress, bore witness to having exercised that thorough cleanliness which is one of the sacraments of our century. He entered, and without sitting down, handed Lucía a purse, stuffed with pure stuffing. “Here,” he said, “is enough money for anything you might think of, until your husband arrives. As trains are usually so late these days, I don’t think he’ll be back until dawn; but in any case, even if he doesn’t arrive for ten days or a month, it’s enough for you to wait. ” Lucía looked at him as if she didn’t understand, and didn’t reach out for the purse. He slipped it into the hollow of his cuff. “I have to go now on some business… Then I’ll take the first train that leaves.” “Goodbye, madam,” he added ceremoniously, and took two steps toward the door. Then the girl, now understanding, and pale and distraught, seized him by the sleeve of his coat, exclaiming: “But what… how? What does this mean about the train? ” “It’s only natural, madam,” the traveler pronounced with his weary gesture. “I ‘m continuing on my way; I’m going to Paris. ” “And you leave me like this… alone! Alone here, in France!” Lucía moaned, with the greatest grief in the world. “Madam… this is no desert, nor are you in the slightest danger. You have money, that’s all you need on French soil; you’ll be very well served and looked after, I’ll give you that on trust… ” “But… Jesus, alone, alone!” she repeated, without letting go of Artegui’s sleeve . “In a few hours, your husband will be here. ” “And if he doesn’t come? ” “Why shouldn’t he come?” “Where do you get the idea that he won’t come?” “I’m not saying that,” Lucía stammered, “I’m only saying that if I take a long time… ” “Anyway,” Artegui murmured, “I have my own things to do too… I must go.” Lucía didn’t reply; instead, she let him go and, sinking back into the armchair, hid her face in her hands. Artegui approached her and saw that her breast was rising at uneven intervals, as if she were sobbing. Droplets of water jumped between her fingers, as they jump from a sponge when you squeeze it. “Lift up your face,” Artegui ordered. Lucía straightened her flushed and damp face, and despite herself, smiled as she did so. “You’re a child,” he pronounced in a grave tone, “a child who has no obligation to know what’s going on in the world. I, who have seen it… more than I would like, would be unforgivable if I didn’t disabuse her.” The world is a collection of eyes, ears, and mouths, which close for the good and open for the bad with great pleasure. My company now does you more harm than good. If your husband doesn’t have exceptional judgment —and there’s no reason for him to have it—he’d be damned if he found you in such good company. “Oh, my God! And why? What would have become of me if I hadn’t found you so early? Perhaps that barbaric clerk would have thrown me in jail. I don’t know what Señor de Miranda will do; but what a poor papa he is… he’d kiss where you step. I’m sure of it.” And Lucía, with a movement of passionate and popular gratitude, made a gesture of bowing to Artegui. “A husband is not a father,” he replied. “What is rational, what is sensible, Madam, I must go. I’ve already telegraphed Miranda de Ebro so that, in case your husband is there, they can tell him that you are here in Bayonne waiting for him. But he will definitely be on his way. ” “Go, then.” And Lucía turned her back on Artegui, leaning on her elbows by the window. Artegui remained for a moment, indecisive, standing in the middle of the room, looking at the little girl, who was undoubtedly silently sniffing back her tears. Finally, he approached her and, speaking almost in her ear: “After all,” he murmured, “there’s no need to worry so much. Save your tears, for if you live, they will have time and opportunity to flow!” Lowering her deep voice even further, she added: “I’m staying.” Lucía turned around with the swiftness of a spring-loaded doll and, clapping her hands, shouted like a madwoman: “Thank you very much, thank you very much, Señor de Artegui. Oh! Are you really staying ?” I’m beside myself with joy. How nice, my God! But…—she said suddenly, reflecting—can you stay? Doesn’t it cost you any sacrifice? Doesn’t it bother you? —”No,” Artegui responded with a somber expression. “That lady… that Doña Armanda who is waiting for you in Paris… will she need you too? ” “She’s my mother,” Artegui pronounced. And the answer seemed satisfactory to Lucía, even if it didn’t really resolve the doubt she had just expressed. Artegui, meanwhile, rolling an armchair until it touched the table, sat down, and, leaning his elbows on the tapestry, hid his face in his hands, thoughtful. Lucía, from the hollow of the window, watched his movements. When he saw that for as many as ten minutes had passed without Artegui giving any sign of moving or speaking, he approached quietly, and in a timid, pleading voice, he stammered: “Mr. Artegui… ” He raised his face. The veil of fog once again covered his features. “What do you want?” he said hoarsely. “What’s the matter with you? It seems to me that you’ve become like this… very dejected and very sad… I suppose it’s because… of what happened before… Look , if you must be so distressed… I think I’d prefer you to go, yes, sir. I’m not distressed, I’m… as I usually am. Ah! Since you hardly know me, you’ll regain my character.” And seeing Lucía who remained standing with a contrite air, he pointed to the other armchair. Lucía dragged it over until it was opposite Artegui’s and sat down. “Talk about something,” Artegui continued, “let’s talk… We need to distract ourselves, to chat… like this afternoon. ” “Ah! You were in such a good mood this afternoon! ” “And you? ” “The heat was overwhelming me. Our house in León is very cool: I’m much more sensitive to heat than to cold. ” “You must have been happy to take up the washbasin and the basins… It seems you revive when you wash after a trip. ” “Yes, but…” Lucía interrupted herself. “I was missing something very essential. ” “What? Cologne, for sure… I forgot to bring you my toiletry bag! ” “No, sir… the trunk, where the linen comes… I couldn’t change. ” Artegui stood up. “Why didn’t you say so before? We’re right in the town where Spanish brides get their clothes ready! I’ll be back soon. ” “But… where are you going?” “To bring you a couple of changes of clothes… You must be on a rack in those clothes. ” “Mr. Artegui, for God’s sake, I’m taking advantage of you; wait… ” “Why don’t you come with me to choose them?” And Artegui presented her headdress to Lucía. The girl’s scruples flew away like a flock of frightened quails, and somewhat embarrassed, but happier, she quickly clung to Artegui’s arm. “We’ll see the streets, won’t we?” she exclaimed enthusiastically. And as she slowly descended the slippery, waxed steps, she said with a trace of modesty and provincial meticulousness: “Of course, Mr. Artegui, my husband will pay you all these expenses…” Artegui, smiling, held her more firmly in his arm, and they began to walk along Bayonne, as cordial as if they’d never done anything else their entire lives. The night was worthy of the day: the stars twinkled brightly and clearly in the velvety blue sky; the gas from the countless shops with which Bayonne exploited the vanity of wealthy, nomadic Spaniards lit the dark blocks of houses, and the shop windows displayed, in every hue of the chromatic scale, rich fabrics, whimsical porcelain and bronzes, and opulent jewels. The couple walked silently, at an equal and rhythmic pace, Artegui measuring his long, manly stride by Lucía’s shorter stride. In the streets, people moved quickly and animatedly, like someone going to something that interests them: not with the slowness of Spaniards who stroll for fresh air and to kill time. Outside the cafés, the outdoor tables were crowded with customers, because the warm atmosphere allowed it; And under the bright glare of the streetlights, waiters bustled about, serving beer, coffee, or hot chocolate bavarois. The cigar smoke, the rustle of unfolding newspapers, conversations, and the dry sound of dominoes hitting the marble filled that stretch of sidewalk with life. Suddenly, Artegui, turning a corner, ducked into a narrow shop, its window almost entirely occupied by two long dressing gowns, one adorned with cascades of lace and ribbon bows, one blue, the other pink. Inside, it was a display of all the objects that make up the intimate attire of children and women. The shirts flirtatiously displayed their ornate necklines, concealing the smooth skirts; the trousers stretched, symmetrically and tightly, one leg after the other; the jackets extended their arms, the dressing gowns inclined the body with graceful laxity. The soft, ivory white of the lace contrasted with the plaster-like candor of the madapolan. A morning cap, perched on a turned wooden base, cast a touch of vivid colors, silk, and gold, among the whites that covered the room like a layer of snow. The shop owner spoke Spanish, similar in this respect to most of the merchants in Bayonne; and when Lucía asked her for two sets of linen , she took advantage of her knowledge of the language of Cervantes to try to lure her into more purchases. Taking Lucía and Artegui for newlyweds, she became flattering, insinuating, and tiresome, and insisted on showing them a complete, inexpensive, and most distinguished outfit; she threw armfuls of garments onto the counter, a sea of lace, embroidery, ribbons, and batiste. Not content with that, and seeing that Lucía, half-swallowed in waves of linen, was making negative signs with her head and hands, she touched another spring and brought out enormous cardboard boxes, which, when uncovered, revealed microscopic caps, finely scalloped flannel diapers, merino and piqué capes, incredibly long skirts, and other trifles that made Lucía’s face itch. Artegui put an end to the attack by paying for the chosen games and giving the hotel address so they could be sent. Now free, they left; but Lucía, enamored by the beauty and tranquility of the night, was eager to prolong the walk a little longer. They crossed again in front of the illuminated cafés, skirted the theater, and headed toward the bridge, almost deserted at that hour. The city lights were reflected tremulously in the sleeping bosom of the Adour. “How the stars shine!” Lucía exclaimed. And suddenly tugging at Artegui’s arm to stop him, he asked, “Which is that one that shines so brightly?” “It’s called Jupiter. It’s a planet in our system. ” “How beautiful and how resplendent! Some seem cold, they tremble as they shine, and others remain still, as if looking at us. ” “They are, indeed, the fixed stars… Do you see that band of light that crosses the sky? ” “That thing that looks like a very wide ribbon of silver gauze? ” “It’s the Milky Way: a collection of stars, so many in number that the imagination cannot even conceive them. Our sun is an ant in that anthill, one of those stars.” “The sun… is it a star?” the girl asked, astonished. “A fixed star. We fly around it like crazy. ” “Oh, how nice it is to know all this! At school they don’t teach us a jot of these things, and Doña Romualda laughed at me when I told her I was going to ask Father Urtazu, who is always looking at the sky with a very long telescope, what the stars, the sun, and the moon are. ” Artegui turned right, following the seawall, while he explained to Lucía these elementary astronomical notions, which seem like a celestial novel, a fantastic tale written in flaming letters on sapphire leaves. The girl, entranced, looked as soon at her companion as at the peaceful firmament. Above all, the magnitude and number of the stars confused her. “How vast the sky is! Holy God of goodness; If this is the material, the visible, what will the Empyrean be like, where the Virgin, the angels, and the saints are! Artegui shook his head, and leaning toward Lucía, murmured: “What do you think of the appearance of those stars? Anyone would say they are sad. Isn’t it true that their twinkling makes them very similar to a pupil shedding tears? ” “They are not sad,” Lucía responded; “they are pensive, which is a very different thing. They meditate, and they have plenty of things to do! Not to go any further, but on God, who created them. ” “Meditate! They meditate just as much as that bridge or those ships. The privilege of meditation”—Artegui bitterly emphasized the word “privilege”—”is reserved for man, king of beings. And if in those stars there exist—as it cannot be otherwise—men endowed with all human immunities and privileges, then they will meditate! ” “Do you believe there are men in those stars?” Will they be like us, Señor de Artegui? Will they eat? Will they drink? Will they walk? I don’t know. I can assure you of only one thing about them; but that, with full knowledge and complete certainty. “Which?” the girl asked curiously, looking at Artegui’s pale face in the vague light of the stars. “That they will suffer as we suffer,” he replied. “How do you know?” she murmured, impressed by that deep accent. “Well, it seems to me that among the stars, which are so beautiful and so brilliant, there must be no sorrows, no quarrels, no deaths, as there are here… Why, that must be where glory lies!” he affirmed, raising his hand to point to the resplendent globe of Jupiter. “Pain is the universal law, here as there,” said Artegui, staring fixedly at the Adour, which flowed, black and silent, at his feet. They chatted little more until they returned to the hotel. There are conversations that awaken profound thoughts and after which silence fits better than frivolous words. Lucía, her bones broken, without knowing why, held tightly to Artegui’s arm, and he walked slowly, with his air of indifference. The last sentences of the conversation were almost unpleasant, almost hostile. “What time does tomorrow’s train arrive?” Lucía asked suddenly. “The first one, at five or so.” Artegui’s voice was dry and harsh. “Shall we go wait for him, to see if Señor de Miranda is coming?” “You will go if you like, madam; as for me, allow me to refuse. ” So sour was the tone of the reply that Lucía was left at a loss for what to say. “Porters from the hotel,” Artegui added, “are going with you, or without you, to wait for the trains.” There’s no need to get up so early… unless your conjugal tenderness is so strong… Lucía lowered her brow and her face flushed, as if a red-hot iron were being brought near her. Upon entering the hotel, the landlady approached them; her smile, fueled by curiosity, was even more accommodating and obsequious than before. She explained that she had forgotten one requirement: to ask the name of the gentleman and lady and their country, in order to note it on the travelers’ list. “Ignacio Artegui, Madame de Miranda, Spanish,” Artegui declared. “If the gentleman had a card,” the innkeeper dared to say. Artegui handed over the piece of cardboard, and the innkeeper dissolved into courtesies and compliments, as if imploring forgiveness for that formula. “You will have them,” Ignacio ordered, “that when they wait for the train to Spain tomorrow, ask for Monsieur Aurelio Miranda… don’t forget! Tell him that Madame is here at this hotel, safe and sound, and is awaiting him…” Understood? “Parfait,” the Frenchwoman replied. Lucía and Artegui said goodnight on the threshold of their respective rooms. Lucía, as she undressed, saw on the table the packages of her linen purchases. She changed with delight and went to bed, believing herself to sleep like a blessed woman, similar to the previous night. However, she did not enjoy such luxurious repose, but rather a restless and uneven sleep. Perhaps the novelty of the bed, its very softness, had the effect on Lucía that it usually has on people accustomed to the monastic life, of whom it can be said with paradoxical accuracy that comfort makes them uncomfortable. Chapter 6. Upon awakening Lucía with a bowl of coffee with milk, the chambermaid gave her, as her first piece of news, that Monsieur Miranda had not come on the train from Spain. She jumped out of bed and dressed in a fit of ecstasy, trying to resume her scattered recollections, and looking around the room with the surprise that tends to those who, having never traveled, wake up in an unaccustomed and new place. She looked at the mantel clock: it was eight o’clock. She went out into the hall and tapped softly on the door of Artegui’s room. He was in his shirtsleeves, finishing his toilet work, and upon hearing the knock, he quickly wiped his hands and face, threw his jacket over his shoulders, and went to open it. “Don Ignacio… good morning.” A hindrance? —Not at all. Come in, if you like. —Are you dressed yet? —Or close to it. —Do you know that Señor de Miranda didn’t come? —I’ve been warned. —What do you say to that? Isn’t it a very strange thing? Ignacio didn’t reply. The behavior of that newlywed, who had abandoned his wife on their wedding night, leaving her in a railway carriage, was beginning to seem somewhat strange to him. Some unpleasant, unforeseen incident had inevitably occurred to the incognito Miranda, whose destiny, by a singular chance, thus influenced his own for forty-eight hours here. —I’m going,—he said, —to telegraph everywhere, to the main stations on the line, to Alsasua, to… Do you want me to telegraph to León, to your father? —God forbid!—exclaimed Lucía. He’s capable of taking the train to come get me, and of suffocating himself on the way with asthma… and with disgust. No, no. “Anyway, I’m going to take the steps.” And Artegui stuffed his arms into his jacket and reached for his hat. “Are you going out?” asked Lucía. “Do you want anything else? ” “Do you know… do you know that yesterday was Saturday and today is Sunday? ” “That’s how it usually happens every week,” answered Artegui with affable mockery. “You don’t understand me. ” “Then explain yourself. What’s on your mind? ” “What could I think of but going to mass like everyone else? ” “Ah!” exclaimed Artegui. And then he added, “Well, that’s true. And you want…” “That you come with me. I don’t think I should go to mass alone.” Artegui smiled once more, and the girl noticed how pearly the smile fell on that face, usually dull and gloomy. It was like the dawn when it paints the brown mountains pink; like the ray of the sun when it pierces the crape of a misty day. The eyes were alive, the sunken and pale cheeks were alive, youth was reborn in that countenance withered by mysterious tribulations, and clouded by perpetual dark clouds. “You should always be smiling, Don Ignacio,” Lucía exclaimed. ” Although,” she added, reflecting, “in this other way you look more like yourself.” Artegui, smiling and solicitous, offered her his arm, but she refused to take it. When they reached the street, she walked very quietly, with her eyes lowered, missing the protective shadow of the black veil of her cloak. lace, which covered her cheeks, giving her such a modest bearing when, in León, she crossed beneath the half-ruined, scaffold-filled vaults of the cathedral. The one in Bayonne seemed as lovely as a filigree pendant; but she couldn’t listen to Mass there as devoutly: she was hindered by the meticulous neatness of the temple, like an exquisite box; the vivid colors of the neo-Byzantine figures painted on gold in the transept, or the novelty of that open choir, of that isolated tabernacle without an altarpiece, the moving of the kneelers, the circling of the chair-rental women. It seemed to her as if she were in a temple of a different cult from the one she professed. A white Virgin, with gold trim on her mantle, who presented the divine Infant in one of the chapels of the nave, reassured her somewhat. There she recited a good portion of Hail Marys, plucked the petals of the bloody roses from the rosary, the mystical lilies from the litany. She left the church with a light step and a cheerful heart. The first thing she saw at the door was Artegui, gazing with interest at the Gothic shape of the portal. “I’ve already sent a number of telegrams to the various stations, madam,” he said, removing his hat politely upon seeing her. “Especially to the most important, Miranda de Ebro. I’ve taken the liberty of signing your name. ” “Thank you… but what? Didn’t you hear Mass?” the girl exclaimed, looking intently into his face. “No, madam. I’m coming, as I told you, from the telegraph office,” he answered evasively. “Well, hurry up if you want to catch up.” The vested priest was coming out at this very moment … Artegui’s face twitched slightly. “I don’t hear Mass,” he replied, half grave and half joking. “Unless you express a serious desire… in which case… ” “Not to hear Mass!” the girl exclaimed, and her eyes became veiled with astonishment, and she became all troubled. “And why don’t you hear Mass? Aren’t you a Christian? ” “Suppose you weren’t,” he stammered very softly, like a prisoner confessing his crime before the judge, and sadly shaking his head. “Well, what are you… my God!” And Lucía folded her hands in anguish. “What Father Urtazu would call… an unbeliever. Ah!” she cried vehemently. “Father Urtazu would say that all unbelievers are wicked. ” “Father Urtazu might add that they are even more unhappy. ” “That’s true,” Lucía replied, still trembling, like a bush shaken by the north wind. “That’s true: even more unhappy.” Father Urtazu would surely say nothing else. And how unhappy they are! My goodness, the Rosary! The girl bowed her thoughtful head and was stunned, stunned by the sudden blow. Her religious sentiment, dormant until then, along with all the others, in the depths of her placid and serene soul, was powerfully awakened by the unexpected shock. Two sensations were mingled: one of piercing pity, the other of terror and repulsion. She wanted to flee in terror from Artegui, and even her insides melted with compassion just looking at him. People were leaving Mass; waves and waves of humanity poured into the portico, and Lucía, standing, couldn’t seem to tear herself away from that cathedral, upright and white like a Christian martyr in the circus. Artegui silently offered her his arm, and she, hesitant at first, finally accepted, both of them walking automatically in the direction of the hotel. The morning, somewhat overcast, promised a less warm and more pleasant temperature than the previous day. A pleasant coolness blew through, and behind the misty clouds, the smile of the sun could be seen, as love is wont to be glimpsed through anger. “You’re sad, Lucia,” Artegui said affectionately to the girl. “A little, Don Ignacio,” and Lucía drew a painful sigh from her heart. ” And you’re to blame,” she added in a soft, threatening tone. “Me? ” “You, yes. Why do you say such nonsense that can’t be true? ” “Can’t be true? ” “Yes, sir. How is it possible that you’re not a Christian? Come on, you don’t say what you feel. ” “What’s that to you, Lucía?” he exclaimed, calling her second. “Are you perhaps Father Urtazu? Am I someone who interests you or matters to you? Are they going to ask you to account for my soul in some tribunal? Child, that’s none of your business. ” “No, no! Come on, Don Ignacio, you’re looking extremely… extremely crazy today! It shouldn’t matter to me whether you’re damned or saved, whether you’re a Christian or a Jew! ” “A Jew… I’m not a Jew,” Artegui responded, trying to give the conversation a festive tone. “It’s the same thing… to renounce Christ is to be Jewish, after all. ” “Let’s forget that, Lucía; I don’t want to see you with that expression; you’re making yourself ugly!” he said in a relaxed tone, alluding for the first time to Lucía’s physical condition. “What do you want now? Do you want me to take you to see some interesting sight in this town? The hospital?” The strong ones? He spoke as affably as ever, and Lucía calmed down, like the rippling waves covered with oil. “Couldn’t we go for a walk in the countryside? I’m dying for trees. ” Artegui turned toward the theater, where two or three small carriages, known as cestos, were waiting in front of the portico. He made a brief sign to the nearest one, and the Basque charioteer, raising his whip, stroked the haunches of the Tarbesian ponies , which, necks erect, prepared to charge. Lucía jumped out, leaning back against the light vehicle, and Artegui settled himself beside her , ordering: “To Biarritz.” The carriage left, swift as a dart, and Lucía closed her eyes, enjoying not thinking, enjoying feeling the swift caresses of the wind, which blew back the ends of his tie, the straggling strands of his hair. Picturesque and pleasant, the road nevertheless deserved a look. It was cultivated land, mansions with pointed roofs, English parks with fresh lawns and fine grass, already yellowing, as if in autumn. Seeing a crooked path that, veering from the road, wound through the fields, Artegui stopped with a shout to the coachman and gave Lucía his hand to get out. The Basque sought the shelter of some walls where he could safely rest his sweaty trunk, and Artegui and Lucía set off on foot following the path, she in front, her childish joy recovered, her innocent delight in her tired body. She was captivated by everything: the clover blossoms, which splashed a shower of crimson flecks on the greenish-black field; the late chamomiles and pale cornflowers on the borders, the foxgloves she cheerfully picked , popping them with both hands, the curly celery shoots, the heady cabbages, arranged in rows, each row separated by a furrow, like a trench. The earth, from being so thoroughly tilled, fertilized, and disturbed, had a certain air of decrepitude. Its powerful flanks seemed to groan, sweating a viscous, warm dampness, while on the uncultivated borders, at the edge of the path, there were still unspoiled corners where the beautiful rural superfluities grew freely, the vaporous grasses, the multicolored little flowers, the sharp thistles. Not fitting together on the narrow path, Lucia and Artegui walked one after the other, although Artegui sometimes crossed the fields, with little respect for other people’s property. The girl finally stopped her unruly run at the foot of thick willows, which, growing at the edge of a swamp, shaded a sloping bank very soft with grass, and from which the entire landscape could be seen. They let themselves fall onto the natural couch, and saw the plain stretched out before them, as if patched with various colors, according to those of the vegetables grown on each field . On the white ribbon of the road they made out a black dot: the basket with the ponies. The sun was not shining; its light was filtered through a veil of clouds, and the countryside had dull tones, glaucous greens, sandy yellows, delicately ashen distances, soft hues that were copied in the tranquil swamp. “This is very beautiful, Don Ignacio,” said Lucía for the sake of saying something, for the silence, the profound solitude of the place, weighed on her soul. “Isn’t it?” “Do you like it? ” “Yes, I do,” Artegui answered distractedly. “Although it seems you don’t like it at all… You’re always sort of tired… I mean, not tired, you’re more like sad. Look, ” the girl continued, holding onto a flexible wicker and amusing herself by crowning herself with the obedient branch, “can’t you believe that your sadness is rubbing off on me, and that I too feel like this… I don’t know how, worried, really! I’d give… what I don’t know to see you happy and… natural, like all men. You don’t have the look or the face like others, Don Ignacio. ” “Well, vice versa,” he responded; “your joy communicates itself to me , and sometimes I’m even in a better mood than you yourself would be. Joy is contagious, too.” She said this, pulling another willow branch towards her, peeling the bark off with her nails, throwing the strips of tender film into the swamp, and staring at the circles they made in the water as they fell. “Of course you do,” Lucia affirmed. ” And if you were willing to be frank, if you were to decide to… confide in me what afflicts you so, you would see how in a jiffy I could dispel that shadow you have on your face. I don’t know why I imagine that so much seriousness, so much frown, so much dejection of spirit, doesn’t come from the fact that you are truly unhappy, but from… what do I know! From childishness, from meaningless ideas that bubble up inside you . Was I right? “So completely,” Artegui exclaimed, letting go of the wicker branch and taking the girl’s hand, “that now I am confirmed in my belief that pure beings possess a certain prescience, a certain marvelous and most singular intuition, denied to those of us who, on the other hand, know the sad mystery of living. ” Lucía, serious and unfazed, looked at her traveling companion. “You see!” she finally managed to say, searching the corners of her mouth for a smile and finding it with difficulty. “So all those baseless ideas are over, like the houses of cards my father built for me when I was little; I’d blow on them, and whoosh! They would fall to the ground. ” “You’re wrong there, child,” Artegui said, letting go of her hand with one of his languid, automaton-like movements. “The opposite is what happens. When sadness is born and conceived from some cause, it can disappear if the cause ceases; But if sadness springs up spontaneously like those weeds and reeds you see at the edge of the swamp; if it is within us; if it forms the essence of our very being; if it is found neither here nor there alone, but everywhere; if nothing on earth can bring relief, then… believe me, child, the sick man is hopeless. There is no hope. He spoke with a smile, but his smile was like the light that illuminates a niche. “But let’s know…” Lucía asked in spite of herself with anguished and feverish curiosity. “Do you have any misfortune? Any great sorrow? ” “None of what the world calls such. ” “Do you have a family… who loves you? ” “My mother adores me… and if it weren’t for her!” Artegui declared , abandoning himself, as if against his will, to the sweet current of confidence. “And your father? ” “He died years ago.” He was a Basque, a Carlist émigré, a man of great energy and a great spirit. When he was sent to France, he found himself poor and alone. He worked like a lion until he was able to establish a vast commercial agency, become rich, buy his own house in Paris, and marry my mother, who is from a distinguished family from Brittany, also a Legitimist. They had no other son but me: they adored me, without neglecting my education or overindulging in pampering and madness. I studied, I saw the world. I said I wanted to travel, and my mother opened her purse wide to me. I had, as a man now, a few whims, many whims, and they were granted. I have seen the United States and the Orient, not to mention Europe; I spend the winters in Paris, and in the summers I usually visit Spain; my health is good and I am not old. You see, I am what people usually call… a spoiled fortune, a happy man. “That’s true,” said Lucía, “but who knows if that’s exactly why you’re like this! I’ve heard it said that for bread to taste good, you have to earn it; it’s true, I don’t earn it, and so far it hasn’t upset me. ” “There was a time,” murmured Artegui, as if answering to himself, “when I believed my indifference stemmed from the security of my life, and when I wished to owe my subsistence to myself, to myself alone. For two years I refused my parents’ help, and, becoming an industrial partner in a large enterprise, I set about working ardently. I earned more than I needed; luck followed me, like a devoted lover; but that speculation without respite or compassion made me nauseous, and I wanted to try some work in which mind and body were united, and where the profit would only suffice to keep me from dying of hunger.” I studied medicine, and, taking advantage of the war that was raging in the north of Spain at the time, I came to Don Carlos’s barracks. My father’s name opened all doors for me, and I dedicated myself to working in hospitals…. “Was that when you treated Sardiola? ” “Exactly. The poor devil had a horrible shrapnel wound: his cheek was split, his jaw damaged, and he was bleeding rapidly from the artery. A difficult cure, but extremely fortunate. I performed many treatments then, and that was the time when I was least plagued by moral fatigue. But on the other hand…” Artegui stopped, afraid to continue. “Tell me, tell me,” Lucía asked anxiously. “Why, madam! Why? I don’t even know why I’ve told you so many ridiculous things, and probably unintelligible to you… like the dreams of a madman are to a sane person.” “No, sir,” Lucía declared, offended. “I understand you very well, and as proof of that, I’m going to guess what you left out. You’ll see that it was!” she cried when Artegui had nodded, smiling. “You were less bored during that time when you were a doctor by trade; but on the other hand… seeing so many dead people, so much blood, and so much barbarity, you became even more… more Jewish than before. Isn’t that so? Did I hit the nail on the head or not ?”
Artegui looked at her and, in mute astonishment, frowned without replying. “And you want me to tell you? Well, that’s what you have, and why you’re so unhappy with your fate and with yourself. If you were a good Christian, you might be sad, but… in another way, well, in another way; with sweeter and more resigned sadness. Because whoever hopes to go to heaven knows how to suffer here and doesn’t despair.” And as Artegui, silent and with his lips pressed together, turned his head elsewhere , the girl murmured in a voice as soft as a caress: “Don Ignacio, Father Urtazu told me that there were some men who refused to accept what the Church teaches and we believe, but that over there… in their own way, at their whim, in short, they worshipped a God of their own making… and they believed in an afterlife as well, and that the soul does not die when the body dies… Are you one of those?” He didn’t reply, and violently bending two or three willow branches, he made them burst. The broken trunks fell inert; but still joined by the bark, they hung like the broken limbs of a cripple. “Aren’t you one of those either?” the girl continued, turning toward him, her hands clasped, half-kneeling on the bank. “Do you not believe that either ? Don Ignacio, really, don’t you believe in anything? In anything?” Ignacio leaped up, and standing on the highest part of the bank, overlooking the entire landscape, he slowly spoke: “I believe in evil.” From a distance, the group was statuesque. Lucía, stunned, almost on her knees, her hands crossed, imploring: Artegui, his arm raised, his body erect, looking with painful defiance at the celestial vault, seemed a dramatic character, a rebellious Titan, if he were not dressed in the plain and prosaic attire of our days. The sky became increasingly overcast, and leaden clouds accumulated in it, like enormous flakes of raw cotton , towards the side where Biarritz and the ocean fell. Suffocating gusts crossed, very low, almost at ground level, bending the stems of the rushes and the sharp foliage of the willows trembled at its fiery breath. The plain uttered a powerful groan as it perceived the harbingers of the storm. It was as if evil, evoked by the voice of its worshipper, was coming, manifesting itself tremendously, astonishing all of nature with its broad black wings, to whose beating could be attributed the suffocating exhalations that ignited the atmosphere. Gloomy and dark, like the moon on a steel mirror, the swamp slept, and the aquatic flowers fainted at its edges. Artegui’s voice , more intense than lofty, resounded among the terrifying silence. “In evil,” he repeated, “that surrounds and envelops us from all sides, from the cradle to the grave, without ever leaving us. In evil, which makes the earth a vast battlefield, where no being lives without the death and pain of other beings; in evil, which is the axis of the world and the spring of life. “Mr. de Artegui…” Lucía stammered weakly, “you, I believe, will worship the devil, denying it to God. ” “Worship! No, should I worship the iniquitous power that, sheltered in the shadows, conspires to bring about common harm? I want to fight, fight with him now and always. You call him the devil: I call him evil, universal pain. I know how to overcome him. ” “With faith and good works,” the girl exclaimed. “Dying,” he replied. Whoever saw that pair from afar, a gallant young man and a blooming maiden, conversing alone in the leafy valley, would surely take them for lovers; and would not believe they were speaking of pain and death, but of love, which is life itself. Artegui, standing, could clearly see himself in the gray eyes that Lucía raised toward him, eyes that, despite the darkness of the sky, seemed sprinkled with luminous straws. “Dying!” she repeated, as the tree reverberates the sound of the blow that strikes it. “Dying. Pain only ends in death: only death mocks the believing force that delights in conceiving in order to later torment its unfortunate offspring. ” “I don’t understand you,” Lucía murmured; “but I’m afraid.” And her entire body trembled like the willows. Artegui didn’t answer a word; but a deep and powerful voice, resounding in the heavens, suddenly joined the strange duet. It was thunder, crashing in the distance, solemn and terrible. Lucía let out a moan of terror, falling face down on the grass. The clouds tore, and broad drops of water fell, sounding like drops of liquid lead on the rustling silk of the wicker fronds. Artegui quickly jumped down, and with nervous vigor, taking Lucía in his arms, he ran without looking where he was going, jumping over ditches, crossing fallow fields, trampling celery and cabbage, until, lashed by the rain and pursued by the approaching thunder , they reached the road. The coachman was vigorously complaining about the bad weather when Artegui placed Lucía, almost lifeless, on the seat, hastily raising the oilcloth to provide some shelter. The startled ponies jumped out without waiting for the caress of the whip, and, ears pricked and nostrils flaring, they set off toward Bayonne. Chapter 7. Lucía had just dried herself off in front of the fireplace Artegui had lit in her room. His hair, once soaked and plastered to his forehead, was beginning to flutter lightly around his temples; his clothes were still smoking, but the beneficial warmth, penetrating them, was restoring his accustomed ease. Only the plume on his hat, pitifully drooping, bore witness to the ravages of the torrent, despite the diligence with which its owner, holding it close to the flames, tried to restore its graceful curls. In an armchair lay Artegui, as always, stiff, abandoned to the inertia of his dreams. He was undoubtedly resting from the fatigue of having set fire to the traps that were burning so joyfully, and having ordered tea and served it, mixing in a few drops of rum. Silent and still now, he rested his eyes on Lucía and the fire, which gave a moving red background to her head. While Lucia felt the weight of the wet clothes and the grip Without her wet shoes, she remained mute and hunched over, shivering, thinking she could still hear the roll of thunder and feel the sting of the many needles of rain on her cheeks. Little by little, the gentle influence of the heat loosened her numb limbs and paralyzed tongue. She moved her feet, then her hands, toward the fire; she shook her petticoats to dry them equally , and finally, she sat down on the ground like a Turk the better to enjoy the fire, which she gazed at, fixed and absorbed, hearing it crackle and seeing the logs turn from embers to black. “Don Ignacio?” she said suddenly . “Lucia? ” “I bet you can tell what I’m thinking? ” “You must be. ” “The things that have been happening to me since the day before yesterday are so strange; my life these days has been so out of character.” “What you said back there seems so singular and unheard of to me… by the swamp, that I imagine if I were to fall asleep in Miranda de Ebro, and not have woken up yet. I must still be in the wagon, that is to say, my body will be there, but my soul has escaped and is dreaming such nonsense… by force. ” “I don’t know what’s so strange about what’s happening to you: on the contrary, there’s a lot of commonness and simplicity in it. Your husband stays behind; and I, who happen to meet you then, accompany you until he comes. Nothing more, nothing less. Let’s not make a novel of it. ” Artegui spoke with his usual slow and disdainful intonation. “No,” Lucía insisted, “what’s strange isn’t what’s happened to me. What I find unusual is you. Come on, Don Ignacio, you know him well. I’ve never seen anyone who thought what you think, or who said it; And that’s why sometimes,” he murmured, clasping his forehead with both hands, “the thought usually crosses my mind that I’m still dreaming.” Artegui rose from the armchair and approached the fire. His gallant stature grew in the reflection of the light, and Lucía, seated on the floor, seemed taller than usual. “It’s important,” he said, bowing, “that I ask your pardon. I’m not in the habit of saying certain things to the first person who comes along; but to people like you even less so. I’ve said a thousand foolish things, which rightly frightened you. As for being inappropriate, what I did was in bad taste and even cruel. I acted like a fool, and I regret it: believe it or not.” Lucía, raising her face, looked at him. The glow of the fire gilded her chestnut hair and tinged her entire body with pink; her eyes shone, which she was forced to raise due to her posture. “I have,” Artegui continued, “two temperaments, and I tend to obey them thoughtlessly, like a child. As a rule, I am like my father, very strong-willed, very reserved, and self-possessed; but sometimes my maternal temperament dominates. My poor mother suffered, when she was very young, back in her castle in Brittany, from nervous attacks, melancholy, and disorders that she has never been able to completely cure, although they eased somewhat after my birth. She let go of some of the illness, and I took her in; how wonderful that sometimes she acts and speaks not like a man, but like a child or a woman! ” “That’s right, Don Ignacio,” Lucía exclaimed, “in all her senses, you wouldn’t think what… what you said there.” “Going with you,” he continued, “with a young and loyal creature, who loves life and feels and believes, who would have me talk about anything sad, or expound abstruse nonsense, turning the walk into a lecture? Ridiculousness all the same! I’m a fool. Lucia,” he added naturally and without the slightest expression of bitterness, “you’ll excuse my lack of tact, won’t you? ” “Yes, Don Ignacio,” she murmured softly. Artegui dragged the armchair and sat down near the fire as well, stretching his hands and feet toward the flame. “Aren’t you feeling cold now?” he asked Lucía. “No, sir. A very pleasant warmth, on the contrary. ” “Let’s see those hands?” Lucía, without rising, offered her hands to Artegui, who found them warm and soft, and quickly let go. “With the rain,” he added, “I couldn’t take you a little further, toward Biarritz, where there are such beautiful villas and parks.” English style. We hardly enjoyed the beautiful countryside. How sweet the hay and clover smelled! And the earth. The smell of tilled earth is somewhat acrid, but very pleasant. “What smelled sweet were some mints I saw at the edge of the marsh. I’m sorry I didn’t bring any branches. ” “Do you want me to go get them? I’d be back soon… ” “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What nonsense, Don Ignacio! Going now for the mints!” said Lucía; but the pleasure of the offer turned her face purple . “Can you hear how it’s pouring?” she added, to change the subject. “The morning didn’t predict this downpour,” replied Artegui. “All of France in general is very humid , and this basin of the Adour doesn’t contradict the rule. It’s a pity I couldn’t have toured Biarritz! There are some very pretty palaces and shops there. ” I would take you to see the Virgin who, from a rock, seems to calm the ocean… A more beautiful artistic idea could not be given. “What? The Virgin?” asked Lucía, very interested. “A statue erected on some rocks… When the sun sets, it is a marvelous effect: the statue seems to be made of gold, and it is surrounded by a sea of fire… It is an apparition. ” “Oh, Don Ignacio! Will you take me tomorrow?” cried Lucía, her eyes wide with eagerness and raising her hands in supplication. “Tomorrow…” Artegui became thoughtful again. “But, madam,” he said in a different tone, “your husband should arrive today ! ” “That’s true.” The conversation ceased of its own accord, and both interlocutors looked at the fire, and Artegui even added wood, because it was dwindling. The burning embers crackled, and some split open, like a ripe pomegranate; A thousand sparks flew, and the fiery building half collapsed under the weight of the new materials. The flame gently licked the freshly poured food they offered it, and finally began to bite into it with its viper-like tongues, drawing a painful crackle with each burning kiss. Although it was not yet far from midday, the room was almost dark, such was the downpour outside and the blackness of the sky. “You haven’t had lunch, Lucía,” Artegui suddenly remembered, standing up. “I’m going to tell them to bring your lunch here. ” “And you, Don Ignacio? ” “I… I’ll have lunch too, downstairs, in the dining room. It’s already very late. ” “But why don’t you have lunch here, with me?” “No, downstairs,” he replied, advancing toward the door. “As you wish… but I don’t feel like it. Don’t bring me anything. I’m… like this, come on, I don’t know how.” “Have something… you’ve caught a chill, and you’d better get going . ” “No… even if you were to have lunch here, perhaps I’d cheer up,” she insisted with the tenacity of a willful child. Artegui shrugged his shoulders like someone who has resigned himself and pulled the bell cord. When a quarter of an hour later the waiter arrived with the tray, the fire was burning brighter and more cheerful than ever, and the two armchairs, placed on either side of the fireplace, and the nightstand covered with a snowy tablecloth, invited one to the sweet intimacy of lunch. The clean glasses, the decanters, the salve, the vinegar cruets, the silver ring of the mustard seller shone; the radishes, swimming in a fine porcelain shell, looked like rosebuds; the fried sole displayed its golden back, where the pale gold of the lemon slices and the scorched green of the parsley sprigs stood out ; The steaks rested bloody in a lake of liquid butter; and in the transparent muslin glasses, the intense garnet of Burgundy and the blond topaz of Chateau Iquem sparkled. As they entered and left; as they set down each plate, or cleared it away, the waiter laughed inwardly at the amorous Spanish couple, who wanted a separate room, so they could then dine like that, side by side, by the warmth of the fire. True to form , the servant took advantage of the situation, upping the bill. He had presented Artegui with the wine list and allowed himself some suggestions and advice. “The gentleman will have iced Champagne… I’ll bring it in a carafe, it’s more convenient… The pineapples in the house are excellent: I’ll bring…” Málaga comes to us directly from Spain: oh! Spanish wine… clack! There’s no wine like Spain… And bottles came, adding to the already formidable array before each guest: wide and flat, like those in ancient reliefs, for sparkling Champagne; green and narrow, very fine, for the Rhine; short as thimbles, held on a slight stem, for southern Málaga. Lucía barely managed to taste two fingers of each wine; but she tried them all out of greedy curiosity; and, her head already somewhat heavy, delightfully forgetting the adventures of her morning walk, she leaned back in her armchair, projecting her bust, showing her white teeth between her moist lips as she smiled, with the laugh of an innocent bacchante, tasting the juice of the vines for the first time. The atmosphere in the closed room was like a stove: spirituous aromas of drinks floated through it, the vapor of succulent delicacies, the even, gentle heat of the fireplace, and the faint resinous aroma of the burning logs. A beautiful subject for a modern anacreont, that woman raising her glass, that clear wine that formed a light and brilliant cascade as it fell, that pensive man, who alternately considered the disordered table, and the smiling nymph, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Artegui felt himself so master of the hour, of the present moment, that, disdainful and melancholic, he contemplated Lucía like a traveler contemplates a flower from which he has taken his foot. Neither wines, nor liquors, nor the gentle warmth of the flame were enough to awaken the pessimist from his apathetic sleep: his blood circulated slowly in his veins, and in Lucía’s it flowed swiftly, generously, and youthfully. For both of them , however, the moment was beautiful , one of supreme harmony, of sweet oblivion; their past lives were erased, the present was like a tranquil eternity, between four walls, in the blissful slumber of the silent chamber. Lucía let both arms dangle over the armchair’s arms; her fingers, loosening, released the glass, which rolled to the floor, shattering with a crystalline tinkling on the bronze fender. The girl laughed at the fracture, and, her eyes half-open and fixed on the ceiling, she felt stunned, invaded by a stupor, a profound withdrawal of her entire being. Artegui, meanwhile, mute and serene, remained upright in his armchair, proud as the ancient stoic: a bitter pleasure permeated him, the joy of feeling truly dead, and knowing that treacherous Nature had tried in vain to resurrect him. And so they would probably remain until God knows when, unless the door burst open and a man appeared; not the waiter, and certainly not the expected Miranda, but a young man of about twenty-four or twenty-five, of medium height, quick and easy-going. He was wearing his hat, and the first thing that was visible about him was his shiny tie clip and his light-colored boots, bold, short, and somewhat Manolesque. The entrance of this new character caused a visible transformation in the scene: while Artegui stood up furiously, Lucía, regaining consciousness, ran her hands over her temples, straightened in her chair, adopting a reserved attitude, but with her pupils still vague, lost in space. “Hello, Artegui… Are you here? I see you, I see you right now on the clipboard, and I’ll come running…” the newcomer pronounced imperturbably. And suddenly, pretending to notice Lucía, he bowed easily, uncovering his head, without adding another word. “Mr. Gonzalvo,” Artegui responded, concealing his anger in an icy tone, “we must have become very good friends since we last saw each other. In Madrid… ” “You’re always so English, so English!” the young man pronounced without embarrassment or flinching. ” Look here; you know I’m frank, frank; in Madrid, we each went about our business and our own tastes; but abroad, abroad, it’s nice to meet fellow countrymen. Anyway, excuse me; excuse me; I see I came to bother you; I’m sorry for the lady…” Another bow, while his half-closed eyes cynically sewed themselves onto Lucía’s face, illuminated by the dying embers. “No, wait,” Artegui shouted, rising and unceremoniously grabbing her sleeve when he saw her turn her back. “Since you’ve come in here without further ado, you must know that you’re not trapping me in some scandalous adventure, nor does that mean I’m angry at your importunity. ” “Well, well, well; I don’t ask…” he shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t care less what you thought of me… But this lady is… an honorable woman; due to incidents that are not relevant, she comes alone, and I’m accompanying her until I hand her over to her husband… ” And seeing the half-smile of his interlocutor, he added: “I advise you to believe me, because my reputation for truthfulness is perhaps the only one I value in the world… ” “I believe you; “I believe you,” said the young man simply and sincerely. “You’re going through something strange, strange; but very frank too… Besides, I’m practical, practical, practical in the matter, and I can distinguish true ladies well.” He said this, bowing to Lucía for the third time, with gentle ease. She rose, instinctively dignified, and her face serious and composed as she returned the greeting. Artegui then stepped forward and uttered the sacramental formula: “Senor Don Pedro Gonzalvo, the lady of Miranda. Miranda… Yes, yes, I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it written down below on the tablet too… I know a Miranda who must have married these past few days… a bachelor, a bachelor… ” “Don Aurelio?” asked Lucía despite herself. “Exactly… I know him very, very well. ” “He’s my husband,” she murmured. The young man’s cheeks quickly lit up with a flame of curiosity , and he fixed his small eyes on Lucía again, examining her relentlessly. “Miranda… Ah! So you are the lady, the lady of Aurelio Miranda!” he repeated, not thinking of saying more. But, discreetly directed, the questions bubbled up in his lips to such an extent that Artegui imposed on himself the penance of narrating everything that had happened from beginning to end. He listened, restraining with his practiced way of dealing with the world the malicious laughter that appeared on his features. It was evident that the young man was infinitely amused by the comical marital mishap of the rancid big man. A ray of embarrassing sunlight broke through the brown clouds and silhouetted against the dark background the young man’s blond, lymphatic head, his freckled complexion, his delicate, but not devoid of characteristic features. His white, feminine hands tormented the steel chain of his watch, and on the little finger of one of them, next to another innocent ring, a schoolgirl’s ring, too narrow for the finger, lay a thick red carbuncle, a small pearl cross on a gold circle. “And, in short, nothing is known about Miranda, nothing?” he asked, hearing the story. “Nothing until today,” Artegui stated gravely. “Man, it’s divine! It’s divine!” the young man muttered through his teeth, laughing more with his eyes than with his mouth. “Lance, too! Miranda must be funny; he must be funny.” Artegui stared at him fixedly, catching the indiscreet laughter in his pupils . With solemn seriousness, he questioned him: “Are you a friend of Don Aurelio Miranda?” “Yes, very, very much… ” Gonzalvo lisped rapidly, who was accustomed to swallowing two or three letters of each word when pronouncing, repeating the word itself two or three times, which made for a strange gibberish, especially when he spoke angrily, shuffling or omitting entire words. “Very much, very much,” he continued. “Everywhere, man, everywhere, I ran into him in Madrid… It was a season at the, what’s it called? The Veloz Club, the Veloz Club, and he was a member with us, with the boys, at that one, let’s say… at Apolo, at Apolo. ” “I congratulate myself,” Artegui exclaimed, without diminishing his seriousness one iota. “Well, madam,” he continued, turning to Lucía, “you now have here what you would have been so pleased to find two days ago: a friend of your husband’s, who With much more reason, motive, and right than I, he can serve as a support until Señor Miranda appears. At this unexpected exit, Gonzalvo smiled and bowed courteously, like a man of the world accustomed to all kinds of situations; but Lucía, her face astonished, still flushed, stepped back, as if to refuse the new escort offered to her. The silent scene was interrupted by the waiter, who entered and presented Artegui with a blue envelope on a small tray containing a telegram. It was not natural for Artegui to turn pale, and yet his cheekbones visibly grew even paler as he read the torn envelope and what the report said. His eyes clouded over, and instinctively he sought support from the fireplace, against whose marble tablet he leaned. At this point, Lucía, already recovered from her initial astonishment, threw herself at him and, placing both hands on his arms, begged him anxiously: “Don Ignacio, Don Ignacio… don’t leave me like this… For what remains now… what trouble will it cost you to stay? I don’t know this gentleman… I’ve never seen him in my life… ” Artegui heard mechanically, as a cataleptic hears. Finally, his tongue was loosed. He looked at Lucía in surprise, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and in a weakened voice pronounced: “I’m going to Paris right now… My mother is dying. ” She felt another blow from the mallet on her skull , and she was left voiceless, breathless, pulseless. When she was able to exclaim: “But… your mother… My God, what a great misfortune!” Artegui was already at the door, oblivious to the lisping offers of service that Gonzalvo was lavishing on her. “Don Ignacio!” cried the girl when she saw him put his hand on the latch. As if that vibrant voice had awakened the memory of her unfortunate son, he turned back, went straight to Lucía, and without saying a word , took both of her hands and clasped them between his own, with a vigorous but silent grip. They remained like that for a few seconds without being able to say a word of farewell. Lucía wanted to speak; but it seemed to her as if a very soft silk noose was wrapped around her throat, strangling her more and more. Suddenly, Artegui released her; she breathed, leaning against the wall, stunned… When she looked around, there was no one in the room but Gonzalvo, muttering to himself the telegram its owner had left on the table. “Well, it’s true, well, it’s true…” And it’s in Spanish, he murmured: “The lady is quite seriously ill. She wishes you to come, sir…” Engracia. Who can this Engracia be, this Engracia? Ah! I know: Artegui’s wet nurse … the wet nurse, for sure. Oh, my! Well, I don’t know if she’ll take the express, the express. This word on Gonzalvo’s lips sounded like this: _epés_. Two-thirty… the one from Spain arrived a little while ago… there’s still time. He put away the pretty skeleton watch with figures engraved on both crystals again , and turning his little eyes to Lucía, he added: “I feel sorry for you; for you, madam; now I’m your escort…. The best thing is for you to come with me; here I have my sister, my sister, and I’ll put you two together… She’s not here… A lady like that, alone in an inn, isn’t right…” Gonzalvo extended his arm, and Lucía, passively, was going to lean on it; but the door opened again, and the waiter, with a theatrical attitude, announced: “Monsieur de Miranda.” It was, in fact, the well-traveled groom, limping on his right leg, barely able to place his foot because the sharp pains of the dislocation, the unpleasant consequence of the jump onto the track, were renewed when he touched the ground. Thus lost, the grace of his gait, his forties loomed implacably over every line of his face: the sad, inky streak of his mustache stood out against his withered complexion; his drooping eyelid, sunken temples, and unkempt hair, the former handsome man looked like one of those dismantled towers, beautiful in the twilight, but which at midday all turn into crevices, nettles, brambles, and lizards. And since Lucía remained hesitant, undecided, unable to even say good morning to him or throw herself into his arms, Gonzalvo, eternal censor and The eternal marriage, resolved the strange situation by bursting into laughter, and rushing forward to give a jocular embrace to that lamentable caricature of the arriving husband. Chapter 8. A few days in Bayonne were enough for Miranda to noticeably relieve her painful dislocation, since Pilar Gonzalvo and Lucía had gotten to know each other and were on a somewhat friendly terms. Pilar was heading, like Miranda, to Vichy; only while Miranda wanted the waters to teach her liver how to process sugar in just and proper proportions so as not to harm the economy, the little girl from Madrid went to the healthy thermal baths in search of iron particles that would color her blood and restore the shine to her dull eyes. Hungry like any weak person, like any poor organism, for excitement, novelty, and events, she was extremely amused by Lucía’s new relationship, the unusual adventures of her trip, and the record of her bridal finery, which she visited without a second thought, examining the lace on every jacket, the ruffles on every dress, the initials on every handkerchief. Furthermore, the Leonese woman’s frank simplicity offered her a virgin and uncultivated field in which to plant all the exotic flowers of fashion, all the poisonous plants of elegant gossip. Pilar, then twenty-three, possessed the precocious malice that distinguishes young ladies who, with one foot in the aristocracy by their connections and the other in the middle class by their background, know all sides of society, and thus find out who is making appointments with the duke and duchess, as if they were corresponding with the neighbor on the third floor. Pilar Gonzalvo was tolerated in the distinguished houses of Madrid; Being tolerated is a nuance of social interaction, and being admitted, as his brother was, is another . Beyond tolerating and admitting, there remains yet another supreme nuance: celebrating. Few enjoy the privilege of being celebrated, reserved for the eminent, who are not lavish and are seen only year after year, for opulent bankers and magnates, who give balls, parties, and midnight masses with dinner afterward, for beauties during a brief and dazzling period of full bloom, for politicians who are on the horizon like playing cards. There are admitted people who one day, suddenly, find themselves celebrated for any reason, for a new hairstyle, for a horse that won at the races, for a scandal that people whisper quietly and think they can read on the face of the happy mortal. Perico Gonzalvo had many of these ephemeral successes ; his sister, none, despite repeated efforts to obtain them. She didn’t even manage to rise from tolerated to accepted. The world is wide for men, but narrow, narrow for women. Pilar always felt the invisible fence that rose between her and those daughters of Spain’s grandees, whose brothers so closely and intimately clashed with Perico. From this arose a dull resentment, coupled with no small amount of admiration and envy, and the slow nervous irritation that ruined the Madrid woman’s health was engendered . The paroxysm of an unsatisfied desire, the yearnings of ill-satisfied vanity, altered her temperament, which had not been very healthy and balanced before. Like her brother, she had a complexion of lymphatic whiteness, the makeup concealing her many freckles; her eyes were not large, but gray and expressive, and her hair was blond, which she styled with skill. At that time, her ears seemed like wax, her lips barely cut, with a dull pink line, the yellowness of her chin, her bluish veins stood out under the skin, and her whitish, flaccid gums gave the color of antique ivory to her sparse teeth. Spring had presented itself for her under very bad auspices; the Lenten concerts and the last Easter balls, of which she did not want to miss a single one, caused her palpitations every night, inexplicable tiredness in her legs, strange perversions of appetite: anemia was veering towards neurosis, and Pilar would secretly chew scrapings from the pedestal of the clay statuettes that adorned her corners and dressing table. She felt intolerable pains in her epigastrium; but to avoid breaking the thread of her festivities, she fell silent as a dead woman. Finally, towards the summer, she resolved to complain, rightly thinking that the illness was a suitable pretext for a summer holiday in keeping with the canons of good manners. Pilar lived with her father and a paternal aunt; neither of them resolved to accompany her; the father, a retired magistrate, so as not to leave the Stock Exchange, where he quietly carried out his modest and happy little tricks; the aunt, a widow and very devoted , out of horror of the revelry that her niece undoubtedly prepared for her as a cure. The commission therefore fell to Perico Gonzalvo, who, burdened by his sister, had to take her to Sardinero, counting on the fact that there would be no shortage of friends there to relieve him of his duties as a scullery keeper. And so it was: there were plenty of familiar families on the beach who took it upon themselves to toss Pilar around and take her from place to place. But unfortunately for Perico, the sea baths, which at first relieved his sister, came to an end when she overindulged in them and tried to swim and paint pictures, to break free her weak frame. She began to tire again, waking up drenched in sweat, feeling listless, and voraciously eating strange delicacies. What frightened her most was seeing her hair falling out in clumps. When she combed it, she flew into a rage and called out loud for Perico, demanding a remedy to keep her from going bald. One day the doctor who was treating her took her brother aside and said, “You must be careful with your little sister. Don’t let her take any more baths. ” “Is she in serious condition?” the young man asked, his small eyes wide open. “She could be very soon.” “Devil, devil, devil! Do you think she has consumption, consumption?” Perico exclaimed, “tiziz.” “I’m not going to say that much: I think the lungs aren’t even affected yet, but at the least expected moment, the blood rushes there, congestion sets in, and… cases of this kind are occurring every moment. There’s a terrible depletion of blood; her pulse is that of a chicken; there’s also a nervous overexcitement that periodically worsens, and a profound gastric disturbance… If it were up to me, you two might take advantage of the autumn to have some water… ” “Panticosa, Panticosa?” –In this case, I consider the ferruginous springs of Vichy preferable … Anemia is the first enemy that must be fought, and the gastric indication is also attended to in those waters…. Secondly , Aguas Buenas or Puertollano… but don’t be careless: in this fortnight you have lost ground, and alopecia and sweating are very characteristic symptoms…. And as Perico withdrew, crestfallen, the doctor added: –Above all, few excitations… no dancing, no swimming… moral rest… no music, no novels…. The villagers who suffer from your sister’s illness are cured with water, into which they throw a bunch of nails, or forge slag…. Civilization makes everything artificial: if you want to be cured, don’t stay up all night, don’t go to functions… a loose corset, wide heels…. –Yes, yes, ask pears from the elm tree, from the elm tree,– Perico lisped under his breath. Any day now, my lady sister will put on one less pin, one less pin, even if it takes her a bit of a loss. When Pilar learned of Asclepius’s decision to hang herself around Perico’s neck, in a burst of brotherly love never shown before, she performed a thousand feline antics, became sweet, obedient, extremely prudent in everything, promising everything demanded of her and more. “Periquín, precious, come on, monkey, aren’t you taking me? Come on, say yes, silly, come on. You’re worth more than all things! Come on, what Puertollano or what… ? We’re going to France, how nice, sir! It seems unbelievable! What will they say when Visitación and those from Lomillos find out! No, you see, when the doctor says it, it has to be done… What am I going to hinder you always, sewn up on you? Man, I’ll find friends: won’t anyone I know be there? I’ll figure it out, you’ll see.” I’m going to make myself a suit out of raw fabric, and up to there… Well, well, man, don’t you “You’re a snake… I already know I have to keep a straight face and go to bed early… at eight with the hens: what more do you ask for? Oh, what a lovely brother God gave me! And all of them are dying for him! ” “Do you think, do you think you’re fooling me with your loathing? Go on, leave me alone… I’m taking you because it’s necessary, necessary, otherwise who ‘ll put up with you in the winter? But let’s see how we can be formal, formal… or I ‘ll burn those damned buns… in the end you never go around looking anything but a coquettish, a coquettish… Pilar devoured the insult, as she would devour an even stronger one in such circumstances , and all she thought about was the elegant voyage that crowned her summer expeditions with such brilliance . Gonzalvo Sr., who, despite his retirement, was not lacking in wealth, loosened the purse strings, not without advocating parsimony and economy to his daughter: he never interfered in Perico’s affairs, gave him a monthly pension, and pretended not to notice that Perico, receiving like one, spent like ten, treated like a prince, and never asked for a raise. With this, the two siblings left Sardinero in triumph for France and stopped in Bayonne at the Hotel San Esteban, where we had the honor of meeting them. Perico saw the heavens open when he learned that Miranda and his wife were headed to Vichy, and he understood that Lucía was the most suitable person to relieve him of escorting Pilar, and even to act as a nurse if necessary. He immediately encouraged the two to get along, and they agreed to leave together for Vichy. The news her brother had shared about Lucía and Miranda singularly sharpened the anemic woman’s hungry curiosity, and her keen sense of smell detected some kind of novelistic emanations in the events that had befallen the couple. The brother and sister had conferred at length about the matter, in half-spoken words, sometimes daring to use a more lively and crude expression, both laughing together. One of Lucía’s greatest pleasures was the conversations she sometimes had with Perico when he deigned to treat her not as a child, but as a grown woman, and shared with her details, anecdotes, and events that usually don’t reach the ears of young maidens raised with a certain severity and modesty. Perico and his sister, not particularly affectionate or affectionate toward each other, understood each other perfectly in the realm of mischief, and sometimes the sister would complete the spicy phrase, stopped on her brother’s lips by a trace of the reserve that a woman inspires even in a man least capable of having her. Pilar experienced an unhealthy enjoyment exploring aspects of life’s cosmos, where the daughters of Spain’s grandees, so envied by her, never fixed their eyes. At that time, living in the cloistered atmosphere of their palaces, always watched over by their rigid governess, at the age of twenty-five, they bear on their foreheads the seal of their haughty innocence. “Well,” Perico said to Pilar, “I went up to Artegui’s room, because the truth, the truth, I was curious when they told me he had a very pretty, very pretty girl with him.” –Of course it was to arouse the curiosity of the very statue of Mendizábal, man… That Artegui, who was never known to pull a bad trade… –No, he’s a freak, a freak. Absolutely rich, and he lives like a monk. If only I had his ounces, his ounces… ole with ole! –But tell me, do you think there’s nothing fishy going on with Artegui and Lucía? –Damn! No,– whistled Perico, who unlike his sister, wasn’t a slanderer except when he got irritated with someone. –That Artegui has the blood of horchata, of horchata, and I’m absolutely sure he didn’t say this, nor that to her. And he clicked his thumbnail against one of his thumbnails. –The truth is, she’s a very intemperate cursing girl… But let’s get down to business, Periquín: didn’t you tell me that she was very sad, and all giddy, when he left and Miranda came in later? –But put yourself in the case, put yourself in the case… Miranda seemed the epitome of heresy… –No, I wouldn’t want to see myself in that case–exclaimed Pilar, laughing out loud. “Then the fool did what all roosters do, what all roosters in a bad mood do…” Perico continued, laughing in his turn. “If he had to be nice, say something to the poor girl… he gave her a tirade as if for her alone, for her alone, because he hadn’t gone back to Miranda de Ebro, to Ebro, to take care of her unglued leg… He was also the only one who would think of fainting from a sprain, and not telegraphing his wife to let her know… And he asked her with a tragic, tragic air : “Where is your solicitous companion?” The celestial man was there . “You see? Well, the husband is jealous. I thought so… You’re such an idiot. ” “My dear, my dear, my dear! Anyone would fool me, me, in these matters!” I’m telling you, I’m telling you, Artegui and Lucía, and Lucía… I’ll bet you four ounces right now, four ounces… –Well, I–Pilar emphasized with the insistence of a lucid sick person–, I assure you that what she is… she… I haven’t seen him, because if I had seen him, I would know… But she… I heard every sigh… and those aren’t because of Miranda. Sometimes she’s so pensive… although other times she’s happy and laughs, and she’s a little girl… –Bah, bah, bah! I’m not saying that she, deep down, her insides… but you don’t understand this… I assure you that when it comes to having, they haven’t had anything, nothing… I must know… –And me too…–Pilar affirmed cynically. –Well, we both got it right… there was nothing… but it’s… what do they say about pigeons at the shot? Hit on the wing. –Bah! “Bah!” Perico whistled again, indicating his disdain for all sentimentality, daydreaming, or similar amorous triviality. “That’s worthless, nothing… unless worse times await Miranda… it’s a real shame, a real shame, twisting a leg, and waiting two days for it to be straightened, straightened… leaving his girlfriend to wander around in those worlds… It’s divine, divine.” What bothers him is that it gets known, that it gets known… I give him every single one… –No, look, don’t make him angry… You know that they came to us as if rained from the sky… –Don’t worry about it, daughter, don’t worry about it… The truth is that Miranda doesn’t live, she doesn’t live without me, because she’s bored, she’s bored, and only I take the spleen, the spleen, the spleen, talking to her about her conquests… And he’s a bore… He just needs to drink half a Vichy… to get into flourishes now, at his age, at his age… It wasn’t boredom that Miranda had: it was her liver disease, furiously exacerbated by the spite of the ridiculous adventure that cut short their honeymoon. His temples turned green, the circles under his eyes were tinged with purple, bile seeped beneath his skin, and just as a new house makes those next to it appear more ancient, so Lucía’s youthful vigor accentuated her husband’s deterioration. Lucía’s charming transition from girl to woman was taking place ; her movements, slower and more composed, had greater grace; while in him, maturity was changing into old age, not so much due to years as to the collapse of his structure. Lucía showed herself all the more affectionate toward him, the more she saw him gnawed by ailments and the more she noted the marks of cruel suffering on his face. She was not daunted by certain detachments, certain inexplicable harshnesses in Miranda; she served him piously and filially, spoke to him sweetly, made his own remedies, and bandaged his injured foot with the devotion with which she would clothe a holy image. She was happy and even moved when he found the dressing properly applied. At last, Miranda could walk safely. Luxuries are short-lived, although at Miranda’s age they are more tenacious. She was discharged, and everyone prepared to take the Vichy route. The season was advancing: it was almost mid-September, and to wait any longer would have meant exposing oneself to the persistent rains of that climate. At Miranda’s request, the hotel mistress wrote to the spa town, requesting lodging. With entirely French verbosity, she convinced Miranda and Perico that they should stay in a chalet, to spare the ladies the annoying promiscuity. from the hotel’s round table, so that they would feel at home . Divided between the two families, the cost wouldn’t be exorbitant, and the advantages would be many. They agreed on it, and Miranda had to ask for the account of the hotel expenses, which were brought to her written in almost indecipherable scribbles. When she managed to understand them, she called the housekeeper. “Here,” she said, placing her finger on the fly’s legs, “there’s a mistake; you’re mistaken against her. You’re giving the lady the same number of days ‘ stay as me, and in reality she’s got two more. ” “Two more,” the housekeeper replied thoughtfully. “Yes, madam; didn’t she arrive two days early? ” “Ah! The gentleman is right… but Monsieur Artegui left them paid for. ” Lucía, who was folding some clothes to place them in her trunk, suddenly turned her head, like a bird at a call. Her cheeks were flushed. “Paid!” repeated Miranda, in whose lifeless, earthy pupil a brief spark lit. “Paid! And by what right, madam? I’d like to know. ” “Sir, that’s none of my concern… ce nest pas mon affaire,” exclaimed the innkeeper, resorting to her native language for the sake of explanation. “I receive travelers, is that not so? A lady comes with a gentleman, is that not so ? He pays me for that lady’s stay when he leaves, and I don’t ask him whether or not he has the right to pay, is that not so? He pays, and that’s it, voilà tout. ” “Well,” pronounced Miranda, raising his voice, “I’ll pay the lady’s debt, and nothing more; and you will do me the favor of drawing a bill on… that gentleman, returning what was collected. ” “The gentleman will be so kind as to excuse me,” protested the innkeeper, mercilessly tearing apart Castilian syntax in her bewilderment. “I refuse what the gentleman proposes; I am truly devastated, but this is not done; this was never done in our houses… It would be a fault, a grave fault; Monsieur Artegui would have reason to complain… I truly beg the gentleman’s forgiveness… ” “Go to hell,” replied Miranda in pure Castilian, turning her back on her interlocutor and, as usual, forgetting her false salon niceties in the face of her wounded pride. That night, Lucía still bandaged Miranda’s almost-healthy foot. She did it with her customary skill and delicacy; but when she rested the sole of her husband’s foot on her knee to better apply the compress and secure the elastic bands around the joint, she didn’t smile as she did on other occasions. Silently she performed her charitable duty, and upon rising from the ground, she exhaled a soft sigh, like one letting off steam, having accomplished some task that had tired both body and spirit alike. Chapter 9. The chalet rented in Vichy by the two families, Miranda and Gonzalvo, bore the poetic sign of the Chalet of Roses. To justify the name, no doubt, graceful festoons of climbing roses ran along all its openwork balustrades, at the ends of whose branches swayed the languid little heads of the last roses of the season. There were low, wafer-colored ones, enhanced by the fiery note of the sparklers, and the dwarf roses, flesh-toned, looked like microscopic faces, peering curiously into the windows of the chalet. In the little garden, in front of the peristyle, it was a gentle confusion of roses of all shades and sizes. The Maimaisons stood out, pink and turgid, like a beautiful breast; the teas shriveled, letting their faint petals hang; those of Alexandria, erect and elegant, poured their cup of intoxicating essence; the mossy ones laughed ironically with their carmine lips, through their thick, green beards; the alba flowers defied the snow with their cold and candid beauty, with their modest rigidity of cambric flowers. And among their beautiful sisters, the exotic viridiflora hid its glaucous buds, as if ashamed of the strange, alligator-like color of its flowers, of its ugliness as a rare plant, interesting only to the botanist. The chalet had the obligatory two floors; the mezzanine divided into a dining room, kitchen, living room, and a narrow reception room; the main one dedicated to bedrooms and bathrooms. Running alongside the main floor was a balcony, openwork like the finest lace, which was repeated on the mezzanine, almost covered by vines. A thin iron fence isolated the chalet on the side facing the public road, an avenue planted with trees; where it bordered on other houses and gardens, short walls performed the same function. At the entrance to the fence, on gray marble columns, two bronze children raised their chubby little arms to hold a frosted glass bomb that protected a gas lighter. It was clear at first glance that the chalet, with its thin wooden walls, would do little to protect its inhabitants from the winter cold and the summer heat; But in the mild and mild autumn season , that whimsical structure, trimmed with bands of fine cresting, crafted like a table toy, adorned with a fresh garland of roses, was the most charming and charming shelter the mind can imagine, the most suitable nest for a pair of amorous turtledoves. I regret having to give such beautiful buildings, of which there are so many in Vichy, the foreign name of chalet; but what can be done if there is no corresponding word in Spanish? What we call here a hut, cabin, or rustic house does not in any way mean what everyone understands by a chalet, which is an architectural concept peculiar to the Swiss valleys, where art, inspired by Nature, reproduced the forms of larches and firs, and the delicate arabesques of ice and frost, just as the Egyptians took the capitals of their pylons from the lotus flower. In Vichy, chalets are built for the exclusive purpose of renting them furnished to foreigners. The caretaker of the chalet takes care of the management of the house, the shopping, and even the cooking: the caretaker attends to the cleaning, cuts the branches in the small garden, trains the vines, sweeps the sanded streets, serves at table, and opens the door. The Mirandas and Gonzalvos settled in without any further concern than handing their traveling coats to the concierge and taking their respective seats in the dining room. Although Lucía, and especially Pilar, felt somewhat tired from the long train ride, they couldn’t help but be enthralled by the beauty of the dwelling their destiny had in store for them. The balcony, especially, seemed delightful for doing work and reading. Pilar remembered all the watercolors, fan-shaped paintings, and sentimental prints she had seen that depicted the now-mundane subject of a young woman whose head peeked out from a frame of foliage. Lucía, in turn, compared her old, massive, and gloomy house in León with this dwelling, where everything was splendid and genteel, from the gleaming waxed floors to the blue chintz curtains adorned with pink bells. The day after her arrival, when Lucía got out of bed, her first concern was to step out onto the balcony, and from there into the garden, pinning her robe so as not to get it wet on the damp floor. She found the roses fresh from their dew bath, smooth, very proud, each adorned with its pearl or diamond necklace. She smelled them one by one, running her fingers over the leaves without daring to cut them; it made her feel very sorry to think how the bush would feel, bereft of its bloom. At that hour, the roses barely smelled: it was more of a general aroma of dampness and freshness, rising from the grass of the plants and the surrounding trees. They are everywhere in Vichy; in the afternoon, when Lucía and Pilar walked the streets of the spa town to inquire about its layout, they let out exclamations of joy as they kept coming across a shaded area, a poplar grove, or a park. Pilar thought Vichy looked elegant; Lucía, less versed in elegance and fashion, simply liked so much greenery, so much nature, that it rested her eyes, sometimes leading her to imagine that, despite its crowded streets and its glittering shops, Vichy was a village, purposefully arranged to satisfy her secret and intimate need for solitude. A village made up of palaces, adorned with all the refinement of comfort and intelligent luxury that characterizes our century; but a village nonetheless. Pilar and Miranda began their thermal season at the same time, albeit with a method as different as their distinct ailments required. Miranda had to drink the boiling, vigorous waters of the Reja Grande, submitting at the same time to a complicated system of local infusions, baths, and showers, while the anemic woman absorbed in small doses the pungent , gaseous, and ferruginous lymph from the Senantias de las Señoras spring. From then on, a perennial struggle arose between Pilar and those who accompanied her. Heroic efforts were necessary to contain her and prevent her from living the life of the grand bathers, who spent the entire day showing off their outfits and enjoying themselves. From this point of view, the presence in Vichy of six or eight well-known Spanish women who were still enjoying the end of the season was disastrous for Pilar . The best and most brilliant part of the year had already passed ; the bullfights, the pigeon shooting, the grand excursions in carriages and buses to the Bourbonnais, which had begun in August, concluded in the first days of September. But there were still the concerts in the Park, the grand stroll along the asphalt-paved avenue, the nighttime parties at the Casino, and the theater, which, close to closing, was getting busier and busier. Pilar was dying to join the dozen distinguished compatriots who were fluttering in the ephemeral whirlwind of thermal pleasures. The consulting physician they had consulted in Vichy, while recommending distractions to Miranda, sternly forbade the anemic woman from any kind of excitement, strongly urging her to take advantage of the semi-rural nature of the town to live a country life as much as possible, sleeping with the chickens and rising early with the sun. This regime required great perseverance and, above all, a person who, constantly at the side of the rebellious patient, would not neglect for a second to force her to follow the doctor’s prescriptions. Neither Miranda nor Perico were suitable for the case. Miranda covered up the social formalities by exhorting Pilar to “take care of herself” and “not do anything stupid,” all of this said with the feigned warmth that selfish people display when it comes to the health of others. Perico was angry to see his sister ignoring the doctor’s warnings, which could prolong the treatment, and therefore her stay in Vichy, but he was incapable of supervising her and ensuring that she followed the orders she had received. He would sometimes say to her: “I’ll be glad if the demons take you, the demons, and that you’ll be the color of a dried lemon this winter, a dried lemon… You wanted it, so put up with it… The only person who dedicated herself to Pilar observing a healthy diet was, therefore, Lucía. She did this motivated by the need for self-denial experienced by wealthy and young natures, who are tortured by their own activity and need to be directed toward some goal, and by the instinct that drives them to feed the animal that everyone neglects, or to take the hand of the child abandoned in the street. Pilar was the only one within Lucía’s reach, and she placed her affections on Pilar. Perico Gonzalvo did not like Lucía, finding her very provincial and not very good at pleasing people. Miranda, already somewhat rejuvenated by the beneficial effects of the first week of water, would go with Perico to the Casino, to the Park, straightening his spine and twirling his mustache again. The two women were then face to face. Lucía adhered to the sick woman’s method in every way. At six o’clock she would leave the marital bed and go to wake the anemic woman, so that the prolonged sleep wouldn’t cause her dangerous sweats. She would quickly take her out to the ground-floor balcony to breathe the fresh morning air, and they would both enjoy the rural dawn, which seemed to shake Vichy, stirring it with a kind of early morning longing. Daily life in the spa town began very early, because the inhabitants, almost all of them hoteliers by trade during the water season, had to go shopping and get ready to give their guests lunch when they returned from their first glass. As a rule, dawn appeared somewhat wrapped in gray crape, and the tops of the tall trees rustled as the playful breeze crossed them. A worker passed by, his beard long, his face unwashed and sullen, limping, sleepy, his spine still arched from the curvature of the leaden sleep his exhausted limbs had succumbed to the previous day. The maids , with baskets on their arms, wide gray or blue aprons, and well-straightened hair—like a woman who only has ten minutes a day for her toilet and makes the most of them—walked with a light step, fearful of being late. The fifths were leaving a nearby barracks, upright, tightly buttoned in their uniforms, their ears red from rubbing them during their morning ablutions, their heads shaved close, their hands in their trouser pockets, whistling a tune. A little old woman, wearing her very white, clean cap, her dress sleeves rolled up, was diligently sweeping the dry leaves scattered across the asphalt sidewalk; she was followed by a lapdog who, as if bewildered, sniffed at each pile of leaves gathered by the diligent broom. Many carts were covered in veils, of all shapes and sizes, and Lucía amused herself by observing and comparing them. Some, mounted on two enormous wheels, were pulled by a donkey with impatient ears and guided by women with hard, weather-beaten faces, wearing the classic Bourbon hat, a kind of straw basket with two black velvet ribbons crossed at the top: they were milk carts; at the rear, a row of tin jugs enclosed the merchandise. The carts used to transport earth and lime were more crude and were pulled by a sturdy Percheron, its trappings adorned with red wool fringes . When they were empty, they rolled with a certain sloppiness, and when they returned loaded, the driver wielded the whip, the horse trotted briskly, and the browband bells jingled. If it was sunny, Lucía and Pilar went down to the garden and pressed their faces against the ironwork of the gate; But on rainy mornings they would stay on the balcony, protected by the overhangs of the chalet, listening to the sound of the raindrops falling quickly, quickly, with a tiny bombardment sound, on the plane tree leaves, which rustled like crumpled silk. But the weather insisted on celebrating the travelers, and shortly after their arrival in Vichy, it granted them the most splendid and peaceful days possible in autumn, a season of serenity, especially at its beginning. With the atmosphere clear and clear, the heat benign, the plants in the fullness of their color and richness, the long afternoons and cheerful mornings, Lucía took advantage of these favorable circumstances to convince Pilar to go out into the country, as the doctor had arranged. Pilar’s medication included riding a donkey, so that the uneven trot would exercise her blood without tiring her. And although the sick woman hated such a mount with all her heart, and even left the town on foot at the cost of dragging herself with difficulty, she agreed to ride as soon as she was out of town. The jolt shook her, and a hint of pink rose appeared on her cheeks. Lucía found this occasion for jokes. “See how good it is to ride spirited horses? You look very beautiful: you look like a different person. Look, to make a conquest, all you had to do was take a little spin like that, in front of the Casino, when the orchestra was playing. ” “How awful!” exclaimed the anemic woman with a shriek. “If those from Amézaga could see me… those women, who only ride in a charabán or a milor!” The two friends were heading either towards the Green Mountain, or towards the Road of the Ladies, or towards the intermittent spring of Vesse. The Green Mountain is the highest point in the vicinity of Vichy. The hill is covered with vegetation, but with low vegetation, at ground level, so that, seen from a distance, it looked like the head of a giant with short, thick hair. Once at the top, they climbed to the lookout point and handled the large telescope, taking in the immense panorama that stretched out around them. The gentle slopes, carpeted with vines, descended to the Allier, which wound in the distance like an enormous blue serpent. In the distance, the Forez chain reared its peaks where the snow gleamed like a silver hood; the giants of the Auvergne, vaporous and gray, seemed like misty ghosts; the Chateau de Bourbon-Busset emerged from the mists with its stately turrets, putting the peaceful Chateau de Randán to shame, with all the disdain of a legitimate Bourbon for the degenerate branch of the Orléans. The Chemin des Dames was Lucia’s favorite excursion. A narrow path, shaded by thick trees, follows the gentle course of the Sichón, pausing when the river chooses to form a pool and twisting into graceful curves like a tranquil current. At every step, the monotony of the rows of poplars and black poplars is broken by some picturesque feature: now a washhouse, now a small house dipping its feet in the river, now a dam, now a mill, now a duck pond. The mill, in particular, seemed arranged by a gimmicky painter for some canvas of perfected nature. Ancient, eaten away by damp, greenish leprosy, supported by wooden posts that the water was rotting, the wheel shone on the building, like the misshapen eye on the brown and wrinkled forehead of a Cyclops. The drops of gleaming liquid silver that leaped from ray to ray at each turn were flashes from the enormous pupil; And the pitiful groan the heavy wheel emitted as it turned completed the simile, mimicking the monster’s breath. A bridge, boldly thrown over the very arch of the waterfall that formed the dam, revealed, through its awkwardly joined planks, the foaming, roaring water. Up to half a dozen ducks sauntered about the dam, and countless sparrows flew about on the uneven eaves of the roof, while a pot of petunias blossomed in the dark hole of one of the uneven windows. Lucía would sit on the opposite bank for many moments looking at the mill, lulled by the rhythmic hum of the wheel and the soft lapping of the churning water. Pilar preferred the intermittent spring, which provided her with the thrills her weak frame so craved. The spring was reached by a pleasant path; even from the bridge, a beautiful view could be obtained. The Allier is vast and mighty, but much diminished at this time by the summer heat; only in the widest parts of the channel did it carry water, and the rest revealed the sandy bed in long white patches. At the swiftest point of the current, dark rocks intervened, creating just as many eddies; the water leaped, foamed angrily for a moment, and then continued placid and slanted as usual. In the distance, a vast plain lay. Vast meadows, where cows and sheep grazed, were bordered at the horizon by a line of pale green poplars, very straight and sharp, like the misshapen trees in toy boxes; the willows, on the other hand, were plump and pot-bellied, like balls of somber greenery rolling across the meadow. The peak of the _Green Mountain_ completed the distance, standing out against the sky with a certain harshness like a Flemish landscape in its exact, sharp contours, a limpid dark green. On the riverbank, the washerwomen’s right arms could be seen rising and falling, like a puppet’s limb moved by springs, and the rhythmic clap of the paddle with which they beat the clothes could be heard . Carts laden with sand and gravel climbed slowly up the steep slope of the riverbank , and then crossed the bridge, their teams bathed in sweat , very slowly, the bells ringing at long intervals. The Auvergne village women passed by , dressed in dull colours, the straw basket placed on the white chaise longue, driving their cows, whose udders swollen with milk swayed as they walked, and who, casting a sad look on the passers-by, would usually take off sideways, a trot of ten seconds, after which they would recover the resignation of their gravel gait. At the corner of the bridge, a poor man, decently dressed and with the appearance of a soldier, was begging with only a pleading inflection of his voice and a sorrowful furrow of his brow. As they left the bridge behind, entering the leafy avenue that leads to Vesse, Lucía’s heart began to swell, believing she was truly in the countryside. The trees there were less symmetrical, clean, and upright than in Vichy; the road surface was more uneven; the grass along the borders was more virgin; the villas and hotels that lined both sides of the road were less varnished, polished, and gleaming. No jealous hand swept away the dry leaves that made a natural white carpet, nor the patches of cow dung that had fallen here and there like enormous black wafers. From time to time, a shed was seen, in whose shade the farm implements gleamed, and the rustic, potent scent of the fertile farmland penetrated the lungs, healthy and strong like the robust vegetables growing in the nearby orchards. It was a short distance from the bridge to the intermittent spring. They crossed the porch of the little house, entered the garden, and headed for the arbor covered with virgin vines, sheltered by the basin. The basin was empty, and the bronze spout of the fountain didn’t release a drop of water. But Pilar knew in advance the time of the singular phenomenon and calculated it accurately. The time it took for it to appear was as she leaned over the basin, palpitating, mute, holding a funnel to her ear with her right hand. “He’s coming: I’ve felt him, he’s already hissed,” Lucía would say as if she were a dragon . “You’ll see, he won’t come for five minutes,” Pilar would respond confidently. “I tell you yes, woman… it’s already bubbling. ” “Let’s see? No, no. It’s the sound of the wind shaking the bushes. You see visions. ” There followed a brief pause and complete silence. A tragic wait. “Shh! Now, now,” cried the anemic woman, clapping her hands. “Now it’s coming! And with a soul!” Indeed, a strange bubbling was heard, then a sharp hiss, and a jet of boiling water, giving off an intolerable sulfurous odor, launched itself, foaming, straight and fast, up to the very dome of the high arbor. Thick vapor covered the basin, clouding the atmosphere, which stank of sulfur fumes. Thus the torrent rose impetuously until its force began to wane. Then the fury of his impotence made him jump unevenly, epileptic convulsions in which he writhed irritably, foaming, and finally collapsing with desperate energy, he fell, tame and lifeless, only emitting a small jet at intervals, separated by long spaces, like the final flares of a fading light. His agony ended with two or three hiccups from the fountain, from whose orifice the jet peeped, but he could not manage to eject himself . The spring would not run again for at least ten hours. Lucía and Pilar frequently argued about the end of the phenomenon, as well as about its beginning. “It’s stopped now. You’re going to sleep. Good night, sir,” Lucía exclaimed, waving her hand at him. “No, woman, quia! He still has to show his nose three or four times. ” “What, if he can’t. ” “Yes, he can. ” You’ll see if he’s still spitting a few spits, as the assistant of one of my cousins, the artilleryman, says. Shhh! Listen, listen to how he’s still snoring. One, two, three… Now he’s spitting. Four, five, six… oh, he’s not coming back; the poor fellow is very tired. Not now: he’s already gasped. On their way back, the friends would usually find the bridge busier than on the way out. It was the time when the Vichy people and the bathers were returning from their country expeditions, and there were plenty of horsemen, walking their mounts at a walk, showing off their knitted trousers and buttoned gaiters, on which the bright note of the stirrup and the spur shone. Some sociable man, resembling a light canoe, was dragged along by his gallant trunk of well-matched ponies, with their coats polished and their hooves shiny, and proud of his elegant crew; for a moment, wide Straw hats adorned with rows of flowers and poppies, light-colored suits, lace and ribbons, colorful percale parasols, happy faces, with the cheerfulness of good taste, which is always at a lower pitch than that of common people. This was enjoyed by the foot expeditionaries , for the most part happy families, who contentedly displayed the livery of golden mediocrity, and even of simple poverty: the father, fat, gray-haired, ruddy, gray or brown frock coat, carrying a very long fishing rod on his shoulder; The daughter, dressed in dark wool, with a small hat of black straw bearing a single flower, in her left hand the small basket containing the hooks and other fishing equipment, and in her right hand carrying her little brother, whose trousers and jacket had become too short, and who was sporting the shaft of his boots, proudly holding the bucket in which floated the simple fish, victims of his father’s deadly pastime. Lucia liked the bridge and the river so much that she deliberately walked slowly as she passed them. The curtain of greenery of the new park stretched out before her eyes. Once, that entire beautiful garden had been marshland, until the powerful dikes, placed by Napoleon III to prevent the flooding that followed each rise of the Allier, and the reclamation of the land, had transformed it into a paradise. The select, well-nourished trees were, for the most part, shades of green, deep and velvety; But some, already yellowing, glowed in the setting sun like pyramids of gold filigree. Others were reddish, a brick red, which turned carmine where the sunburnt parts had hit. The anemic woman would often express, upon returning from her walk, the whim of sitting for a while on the park benches. Usually, there were people there, and one of the Spaniards from the colony, acquaintances of Perico or Miranda, would perhaps run into them, greeting them and addressing a few ritual words. Sometimes, like surprising comets, the rich Cuban women from Amézaga would also appear, with their extraordinary hats , their monumental parasols, and their whimsical attire, always distilled to the quintessence of fashion. Pilar could spot them from a hundred leagues away, thanks to their famous hats, impossible to confuse with any other headdress. They were like two large pudding bowls, covered all in the finest, tiny red feathers: a natural bird, a kind of elaborately stuffed pheasant, contoured its wing, gracefully twisting on one side of the head. This unique, semi-Hindustani adornment suited the tropical pallor and fiery eyes of the two Cuban girls. When they approached, Lucía would nudge Pilar, saying without a trace of malice: “Look… here come the big birds from those friends of yours.” The presence of the Amézagas, as Perico called them, always triggered in Pilar a kind of fever that would leave her bedridden for two hours afterward. When she saw them in the distance, she would instinctively arrange her hair, stick out her foot, shod in a Louis XV morocco slipper, and run her nervous hand over the dark lace of her kerchief, highlighting the little turquoise arrow that adorned it. They fell into conversation, and the Amézaga women spoke as if with laziness and disdain, looking at the sky or the passersby, and wounding the sand with the story of the umbrellas. Short and indolent replies—”Daughter, what do you want?” and “It was magnificent,” “People, like never before”; “Well, you can see the Swedish girl was there”; “Cream satin and heliotrope grenadine combined”; “As always, very dedicated to her”; “Yes, yes, hot”; “Wow, I’m glad you’re having a good time, daughter”—they answered Pilar’s eager questions. Then the Cubans left, with discreet giggles, half -words, firmly clicking their heels and moving a roaring roar of fresh fabrics and fine clothes. Pilar would spend at least fifteen minutes muttering about the fops and someone else as well. “Every day more exaggerated and more boisterous!” Come on, do you like that strange suit, with a bird’s head just like the one on the hat, at the top of each pleat? They look like something out of a Natural History Museum window … Even the fan has a bird’s head! It’s hard to imagine… Worth came up with that nonsense… I think they make them at home, with the maid, and then say Worth sent them… “No, they claim his father is a very rich banker from Havana…” “Yes, yes, he has more wit than wit,” Pilar said, repeating a joke that had been making the rounds in Madrid all winter about the Amézagas. “There’s no doubt that birds are a very strange decoration… I also have one on a hat. ” “Yes, on a headdress; but it’s different. Besides, a married woman can allow herself certain things that single women can’t afford in their dresses… ” “That’s why Perico was right not to buy you that coat embroidered with colored beads that you fancied. It was very striking. ” “Nothing of the sort… it was extremely distinguished… what do you understand about such things? ” “I don’t understand anything,” Lucía responded smiling. “The Swedish woman’s dress would be lovely… cream and heliotrope!” I like the combination!… What a scandal this is causing with Albares… a married man! They must both be in dire need of the waters… “Woman, I heard your brother say that she doesn’t give him a damn attention. ” “Bah! It seems they haven’t been paying a dime to the town crier since they arrived. Albares is a fool, lined with the same stuff, who’s dying for appearances… The fact is that everyone in Vichy is talking about them.” Lucía remained thoughtful, her eyes fixed on the flower baskets in the park, which looked like enamel medallions pinned to a green satin skirt. They were made up of various varieties of colias; those in the center had shiny, lanceolate leaves, dark purple , purplish red, brick red, turkey-crested red, rose red. At the edge, a row of _ruins of Italy_ highlighted their bluish medallions against the damp, country green of the grass. In some corner of the park, the larches and the larch pines formed a leafy, Swiss-like group, drooping their thousand limp arms until they languidly kissed the ground. The majestic catalpas filtered the last rays of the setting sun through their pale foliage, and moving, elongated patches of gold danced here and there on the fine sand of the avenue. It was a churchlike seclusion, imbued with mystery, a grave, poetic, solemn silence, and it seemed sacrilegious to disturb it with a phrase or a gesture. The strollers were beginning to leave, and the faint crunch of the sand revealed their distant footsteps. But both friends were in the habit, as they say, of taking the keys to the park with them, because it was precisely at sunset that Lucia found it most beautiful, in that melancholy autumn season. The sun’s rays, now low and dying, fell almost horizontally upon the grassy meadows, inflaming them with fiery hues like molten gold. The dark cones of the larch cut through this ocean of light, into which their shadows lingered. The plane and horse-chestnut trees were shedding their leaves, and from time to time , a hedgehog fell with a dull, dry thud, opening itself and letting the shining chestnut roll. In the large baskets that stood out against the grassy background, the pale eglantines, in the slightest autumn breeze, released their fragile petals; the verbenas trailed languidly, as if tired of life, decomposing the oval shape of the flowerbed with their capricious stems. The agerata rose up, all showered with blue stars, and the peregrine colias displayed their exotic hues, their metallic colors, and their tiger-like leaves, resembling reptile scales, sometimes white with black spots, sometimes green with flesh veins, sometimes dark amaranth zebras of coppery pink. A profound shudder, precursor of winter, passed through all of Nature, and it seemed that before dying, she wanted to dress up in her richest finery: thus the virgin vine wore such a splendid purple dress, and the white poplar raised with such coquettishness the plume of candid plumes from its crown; thus the coral vine adorned itself with innumerable strings and tendrils of bloody coral, and the cinnias ran the whole scale of vivid colors with her scalloped petticoats. The striped corn shook its green and white striped silk swathe with a melodious whisper, and far away at the edges of the sun-drenched prairie, some tender saplings bowed their young crowns. The dry leaves softened the pavement so much that Lucía buried herself in them up to her ankles with pleasure. The rustling of her dress produced a continuous, rapid noise in them, similar to the panting of someone following her; and seized by childish fear, she sometimes turned her face back, laughing at her own realization. The leaves were very different from one another: some dark, decomposing, almost turned into mulch; others dry, brittle, shrunken; others yellow, or even slightly greenish, still damp with the juices of the trunk that had sustained them. The carpet grew thicker as we approached the shadowy edges of the pond, whose surface shimmered like rippled glass, shuddering at the gentle passing of the evening breeze and rippling into a thousand tiny waves, each one continually colliding with the other. Great willows leaned, weeping and disconsolate, toward the water, which reproduced the gentle swaying of their trembling branches, between which the disc of the sun could be seen, and their rays, concentrated by that sort of camera obscura, pierced the pupil like arrows. In a backwater of the pond, an enormous clump of malangas displayed its lush, tropical vegetation , and its gigantic leaves, open like fans of green taffeta, remained motionless. Swans, ducks, and mallards paddled, the former with their usual fantastic smoothness, swaying their long necks, the latter quacking dismally, all heading for the shore as soon as Lucía and Pilar approached—in search of crumbs of bread, which they gobbled down, gagging and raising their tails in the air. The small island and the pine that grew on it cast a mysterious shadow across the surface of the pond. A clump of reeds rose slender, and beside it, the sharp poas shook their chestnut velvet brush. A regal coolness rose from the water. It was the characteristic note of the landscape, sweet melancholy, gentle drowsiness, the repose of Mother Nature when, tired of the continuous gestation of summer, she prepares for winter’s slumber. Lucía was no longer a child; external objects now spoke eloquently to her, and she was beginning to listen to them; the park plunged her into vague contemplation. Her soul seemed to detach itself from her body, as a leaf detaches itself from a trunk, and to wander like her without purpose or direction, surrendered to the delight of annihilation, to the sweetness of not feeling that it exists. And how pleasant death must be, if it were similar to that of leaves; death by detachment, without violence, representing the passage to more beautiful lands, the fulfillment of some inexplicable longing, hidden deep within her being! When such thoughts came to her in droves, a little bird would descend from a tree, and the beating of its wings could be heard in the air. It would hop for a time along the sandy streets, bouncing on the dry leaves; when Lucia approached, she would suddenly flutter and land on the highest peak of the rustling acacias. Chapter 10. The voice of the anemic woman would often break the spell. “Hey, girl… what are you thinking about?” How romantic these provincial girls are! As she said this, Pilar’s sharp and perceptive eyes fixed on Lucía’s features, revealing a faint shadow, a sort of brown veil from her forehead and temples to her dark circles, and a certain hollowness at the corners of her mouth. Her morbid curiosity was awakened, inspiring her with a desire to dissect that heart for solace and amusement. The infallible feminine penetration had told her many things, and, unable to be content with discreet divination, she desired the secret. It was one more emotion that offered itself during the spa season. “I don’t know what I was thinking about! Nothing,” Lucía replied, resorting to the most vulgar and always most convenient expedient. “Well, sometimes it seems you’re sad, darling… and I don’t know why; because you’re precisely in the midst of your honeymoon… Gosh! Who else is like you! Miranda is very pleasant; she’s so well- mannered, she presents herself so well… ” “Yes, very well,” echoed Lucía. “And he’s crazy about you… Wow! It’s obvious! He’s around a lot with my brother… But girl, what do you want? That’s how all men are… The point is that while they’re with someone they should be in a good mood and speak to her with a certain affection… And that they aren’t jealous… No, Miranda, that’s what’s good about him: he’s not jealous.” Lucía turned as red as a coal, and, bending down, she picked up a handful of dry leaves, a maneuver that served to hide her confusion. Then she amused herself by reducing them to dust between her index finger and thumb, blowing on them to disperse them more quickly. “And be careful,” Pilar continued, “if someone else were in his position… No, look, if I were a man, I don’t know what I would have done… that of a knight accompanying my fiancée for so many days… like that, hand in hand… and precisely when…” At this direct and brutal blow, Lucía raised her forehead and fixed on her friend the candid, but dignified, and even severe gaze that sometimes sparkled in her eyes. Pilar, skilled in tactics, stepped back the better to pounce. “It’s true that knowing you… and him, anyone would be as trusting as Miranda… You, as we know, are a little saint, a little angel… and he… he’s an old-fashioned knight, despite his quirks… he has more fame than El Cid. He’s been around for a while! I’ve known him for a long time,” asserted Pilar, who, like all middle-class young women introduced to good society, was itching to get to know the whole world. “Have you… known him for a long time?” Lucía murmured, overcome, offering her arm to the anemic woman for support. “Yes, woman. He goes to Madrid every year, sometimes for the whole winter, but usually for a month or two in the spring. He doesn’t like society very much; They invited him to some houses, because it seems that his father, the leader, was a distinguished person from the Provinces, and is related to the Puenteanchas, and to the Mijares, who are Urbietas by surname… but he was sold for so much that everywhere they were dying to have him…. Once, because he danced a rigodon at Puenteancha’s house with Isabelita Novelda, there was joking around all night… they told him that he could tame bears and take Plewna without artillery…. Isabelita was dumber than… and then it turned out that Puenteancha had asked him out of favor, and he had answered: well, I’ll dance with the first one I find… he found Isabelita, and boom, he invited her…. When the news got out, imagine that silly Isabelita’s face! She, who was convinced she’d made a conquest… her nose stretched out longer than it actually is, which is no small feat… ha ha!… The anemic woman’s laughter turned into a cough, a little cough that scratched her throat and suffocated her, forcing her to sit down on one of the many rustic benches in the park. Lucía gently patted her shoulders and remained silent, unwilling to utter a word that might change the course of the conversation. Her eyes were questioning. “Um… um… I assure you it was a famous disappointment…” Pilar continued, calming herself. “Novedita would have been very grateful for the hundreds of thousands of francs the father put together for his son… but they say he doesn’t like women! ” “He doesn’t like them…” Lucía repeated, as if that pronoun could only be applied to a person understood, but not named. “They add that, yes, he is a son like few others… he brings his mother the praises.” They say she’s a very fine lady, from the French aristocracy… very delicate of health, and I even believe that back in her youth… The anemic woman placed her index finger on her forehead, with an expressive gesture. “It seems that the father wanted the boy to be Spanish, and brought his wife to give birth in Ondarroa, where he is from… they made her speak Castilian always and Basque with her wet nurse… she told me so.” Paco Mijares, who, being a relative of hers, knows all that… Lucía eagerly drank in those words and those details, unimportant in themselves. “He has very particular whims and eccentricities… There was a time when he fancied working, and he entered a trading house… Later, he studied medicine and surgery, and I understand he leaves Rubio and Camisón as little as possible… In Madrid, he went to hospitals, for pleasure, to study… During the war, he did the same thing. Do you know where I sometimes found him in Madrid? Well, in the Retiro Park, staring fixedly at the large pond… What’s the matter, girl?” Lucía, with her eyes closed, her color fading, leaned against the trunk of the plane tree that shaded the bench. When she opened her eyelids, the shadow on her temples was more pronounced, and her gaze was vague, like that of someone recovering from a faint. “I don’t know… It’s just that sometimes it seems I’m left like this, senseless… It’s as if my stomach were being ripped out,” she stammered. “That’s the way it is,” Pilar thought; “God’s blessing comes early !” she added shamelessly to herself. Night was coming on more slowly, a chilly breeze stirred the leaves; the two ladies buttoned up their coffee-with- milk cloth coats with a shiver, just as two black shapes appeared at the end of the avenue. It was Miranda and Perico, who were astonished to find them there so late. “A fine way, a fine way to get better! Damn it! You’ll catch pneumonia, a pneumonia all your own! Come on, you crazy woman, come, come.” Pilar got up, faint, almost dying, and went to take Miranda’s arm . Perico offered his to Lucía, whose robustness had already overcome her momentary faintness. “I doubt she’ll be able to drink the waters tomorrow,” Lucía said to her companion. ” She was a bit excited today… and now the onset of fatigue is coming on… ” “I bet she’ll revive, I bet she’ll revive if I let her go to the Casino? ” “Oh, my darling Periquillo!” cried the anemic woman, whose keen ear never missed a word. “You’re letting me, huh? What harm will that do me? Go on , Miranda, intercede for me. ” “Well, sometime… It might be of some relief, distracting her. ” “Don’t pay attention to her, Gonzalvo… Mr. Duhamel says no… who would know better, the doctor or her?” “And you?” Perico said, with a hint of gallantry prompted by the nightfall, her husband walking ahead, and her inveterate bad habits. “And you, young and pretty as you are, why don’t you come to the Casino? Those fine ladies who are dying of laughter, of laughter, in their worldly trunks, would be better off showing off there… Come on, cheer up, cheer up, and I’ll bring you a bouquet of camellias like the one the Swedish woman had last night. ” “I don’t want to outshine the Swedish woman,” Lucía exclaimed, smiling. “What will become of her if I show up? ” “Well, even if you say it jokingly, jokingly, it’s the pure truth…” and Perico lowered his voice treacherously. “You’re worth ten Swedish women…” and in a louder tone she added, “If Juanito Albares hadn’t been so stupid, damned if no one remembered her… Juanito Albares, as Perico amicably called him, was a duke, a grandee of Spain two or three times over, a marquis, and a count, I don’t know how many times; a fact that is very worthy of being taken into account by the biographers of the elegant Gonzalvo. “Where are your eyes, man?” exclaimed Lucía with her Castilian frankness. “It takes courage to say that! The Swedish woman is very beautiful; she’ll dazzle people anywhere. She’s whiter than milk, and then some eyes… ” “Don’t trust whiteness,” Pilar intervened. “If there is a Venus towel and Parian white in the world… She’s too big a woman. ” “Too tall,” Perico affirmed, like the fox with the grapes. “Don’t worry,” Miranda said softly to Pilar. “We’ll win over that fierce brother, and you’ll go to the Casino one night: that’s all I need ! Were you going to leave Vichy without seeing the theater, or attending the concert? That would be unheard of. ” “Oh, Miranda! You’re my guardian angel. If there’s no other way , you and I will escape one night… a kidnapping… we must.” do like in the novels… you’ll bring a steed, I’ll climb on its back, and, hey presto! Let them catch us… let’s lock Perico and Lucía up first, and there they’ll stay doing penance… eh? What do you think? When they arrived at the gate of the chalet, whose gas lamps were already glowing in the shadows of the trees, Miranda said to herself: “This one’s more entertaining than my wife. At least she says something, even if it’s nonsense, and she’s in a good mood, even though she only has half a lung, God knows how… ” “This girl is as dull as water, as water,” Perico thought as he separated from Lucía. Meanwhile, the long-awaited day of attending the evening party arrived, Pilar got used to spending a couple of hours in the Ladies’ Lounge at the Casino, usually from one to three in the afternoon. The Ladies’ Lounge is another attraction of the beautiful building where the thermal entertainment is concentrated ; There, the ladies who are Casino members can take refuge without fear of male invasions; there they are at home, and they are absolute queens, playing the piano, embroidering, chatting, and sometimes even indulging in the luxury of a sorbet or some jam or chocolate that they gnaw with the same delight as if they were mice loose in a candy cabinet. It is a harem of civilized Moorish women, a gynaeceum not hidden in the modest shadow of the home, but shamelessly implanted in the most public place possible. There, all the female stars of the Vichy firmament convened and congregated , and there Pilar found the small but brilliant Spanish-American colony gathered : those of Amézaga, Luisa Natal, the Countess of Monteros: and a kind of Spanish nucleus was formed, if not the most numerous, then also not the least lively and cheerful. While some blonde Englishwoman played classical music on the piano, and French women clutched each other’s hair for the opportunity to show off their exquisite canvas work, scoring three stitches per hour, the more outspoken Spanish women accepted complete laziness, devoting themselves to talking and fanning. A magnificent geographical sphere, placed at the far end of the room, seemed to be wondering what its purpose and destiny were in such a place; while, in contrast, the portraits of Louis XVI’s two sisters, Victoria and Adelaide, traditional ladies of Vichy, smiled, their hair powdered, rosy and benevolent, presiding over the contest of continuous frivolity held in their honor. There were murmurs like the fluttering of birds in an aviary, the sound of giggling like strings of pearls falling and tumbling into a crystal goblet, the silky creaking of fan-shaped sashes, the dry crackling of rods, the little casters of armchairs that ran for a moment on the polished floor, the roaring roar of skirts that seemed like the squealing of insect wings. The atmosphere was embalmed by light auras of gardenia, of vinegar, of Epsom salt, of Rimmel perfume. Nothing could be seen but trinkets and graceful garments abandoned on chairs and tables; long silk parasols heavily embroidered with gold lace; handbags and work cases, now of Russian leather, now of straw with ribbons and worsted tassels; here a lace shawl, there a batiste handkerchief; here a bouquet of flowers dying, exhaling its most delicious essence. over there a little veil of mottled tulle, and above it the hairpins used to pin it… The group of Spanish women, led by Lola Amézaga, who was very resolute, had a certain independence and intimacy, quite different from the Secaton reserve of the English women: and even between both groups, a concealed hostility and mutual disdain could be noticed. It had been very entertaining for the Spanish women to see how the English women very formally took a newspaper, the size of the Holy Shroud, from their pockets, and read it from the cross to the date. Pilar had not been able to get Lucía to accompany her to the Ladies’ Room; the shyness and reticence of a girl brought up in the provinces prevented her from doing so, making her fear those curious women more than fire, who would examine her headdress like a skillful confessor the folds of a penitent’s conscience. Pilar, on the other hand, was in her element there and natural sphere. Her somewhat reedy voice yielded only to the Cuban lisp of Captain Amézaga. Let’s listen to the concertante. “Well, I bought this one today,” said Lola, casually rolling up the sleeve of her pink muslin dress with dark maroon satin bows, and showing a bracelet from whose ring hung a piglet with a twisted tail and a powerful back, executed in fine enamel. “I have it pinned,” added Amalia Amézaga, pointing to another no less dapper pig rooting among the lace of her tie. “Good heavens! What an ugly fashion!” exclaimed Luisa Natal, a beauty approaching sunset, very careful not to wear any frills that wouldn’t enhance her beauty. “I wouldn’t wear such things; it reminds one of tripe, doesn’t it, Countess?” The Countess of Monteros, a long-standing, devout, and somewhat severe Spaniard, nodded approvingly . “I don’t know what they’re going to invent,” she pronounced calmly. “I’ve seen elephants, lizards, frogs, toads, and even spiders in those shops; in short, the most disgusting little animals used as ornaments for young ladies. In my youth, we didn’t indulge in such extravagances: fine diamonds, pretty pearls, the occasional ruby heart… ah! We also used cameos; but it was a precious whim… one could engrave one’s portrait on them … or some virgin, some saint. ” A brief silence reigned; the Amézagas didn’t dare reply, subjugated by the authority of that highly authoritative voice. “Look here, Countess,” Pilar said at last, satisfied with finding a reason to drive the Amézagas to despair, “the beauty is that little sting of Luisa’s.” Luisa pulled the gold nail from her bun, with its amethyst head studded with tiny diamonds. “The Swedish woman had another one just like it yesterday,” she explained as she handed it to the Countess. “She was wearing the whole set: earrings, a necklace of amethyst balls, and the spike. The woman looked absolutely gorgeous in that and the heliotrope dress. ” “Last night?” Pilar asked. “Yes, at the theater. The other one, sad and dead as usual… at ten o’clock he made his entrance into the box, presenting her with the usual bouquet of camellias and white azaleas… they say it cost him seventy francs a night… It’s a regular addition to the cost of his room and board at the hotel… ” “That nephew of mine has neither shame nor decorum,” the Countess of Monteros gravely stated. “A married man!” said Luisa Natal, who made excellent friends with her husband, a blind fulfiller of his other half’s every whim. “And is it finally known whether the Swedish woman is the daughter or the wife of that Baron of… of… I can never remember his name… well, of that old man who’s with her?” the Countess inquired, finally entering into the current of curiosity that swept her away, despite her dignified attitude. “Of Holdteufel?” Amalia Amézaga pronounced in a sing-song accent. “Well, who can find out! But judging by the freedom he leaves her, he looks more like her husband than her father. ” “It takes nerve,” Luisa Natal continued with discreet and smiling indignation , “to be the talk of the town like that… ” “Take it!” Pilar’s flute-like voice said. “Well, that’s what he wants. What did you think? The real kick and the pleasure are in getting people talking.” “Juanito was always like that, a real brat,” the Countess murmured, moved, remembering her nephew, when he was a mischievous little devil of ten years old and used to come to her house to give her a headache, demanding a thousand sweets. “Until the day before yesterday …” The group grew closer: the armchairs moved closer together, and for a moment the rhythmic squeak of the wheels on the floor could be heard. “The day before yesterday…” Amalia Amézaga continued in a somewhat lower tone, “she was within pistol shot… ” “Are you shooting now?” Pilar and Luisa Natal asked simultaneously. “Just a little… to distract myself…” And Lola smoothed down her black fringe, cut straight a finger’s length from her eyebrows, which made her look like a page from the Middle Ages, highlighting her pale face, that of a daughter of the tropics, and her large, childlike eyes, but that of a mischievous and precocious. “Well,” Amalia continued, seeing that she was being listened to religiously, “there were Jiménez and the Marquis of Cañahejas, and Monsieur Anatole… and they were all reading and commenting on a piece from Figaro, which described the sensation caused at one of the most elegant spas in France and Europe by the mad love of a Spanish magnate for a Swedish lady… “It only puts initials,” Lola added, “but it’s as clear as day… And it says, in so many signs: ‘Ce digne petit fils du Comte d’Almaviva se ruine en fleurs…'” A chorus of stifled laughter arose from the circle. Lola knew how to say things with a certain lisp and a certain blinking, which improved them by a third and a fifth. “And she, how is she, is she softening?” Pilar asked. “She?” Lola replied. Ah! Every night, upon receiving the bouquet, she invariably answers him the same way: “Hrasiah, Your Honor, very kind.” The laughter redoubled. Even the Countess smiled, holding her fan open before her out of decorum. “Shh!” Luisa Natal pronounced. “Here she comes! ” “The Swede!” Pilar exclaimed. They all turned their heads, extremely moved. The door to the Ladies’ Salon opened solemnly; an elegant and proper old man, with white sideburns and the rest of his face delicately shaved, stood on the threshold in a diplomatic posture; a tall and gallant woman entered the room; her classic beauty was enhanced by her black taffeta dress, very tight and trimmed with jet; on her goddess-like forehead, her tulle hat with golden spikes looked like a mythological diadem; Her gait was noble and sovereign, and without caring to greet anyone, she went to the piano, which was vacant at the time, and sitting down, began to masterfully play some Chopin mazurkas. Her posture demonstrated the spirit of her figure, her long, pliable arms, her hips, her shoulder blades, which, with each stroke of her white hand, were vigorously outlined beneath the tight bodice. “Isn’t it true,” Pilar said in a low voice to Luisa Natal, “that if Lucía Miranda dressed like her, they would look somewhat alike, in their figures? ” “Bah!” Luisa Natal murmured, “Mirandita doesn’t have a bit of chic.” Then came from the group of English women that energetic whistle that in every language means: “Silence! Be quiet, and listen, or at least let others hear.” The Spanish women nudged each other and continued their whispers, imperturbable. “Don’t you see that?” Lola Amézaga was saying. “What… what… what?” they all asked. “What could it be, Albares? There, there, on the glass… Stealthily … so he wouldn’t notice… Through the glass windows that faced the Casino roof, one could indeed see the face of a green-haired man, almost beardless, standing out against the porcelain whiteness of his exquisite shirt and snowy cambric tie, the triangle of which was enclosed by one of those agates called cat’s eye, to which such fabulous value was given by the whim of the elegant men of two or three years’ standing. A morning suit of a soft and exquisite smoke gray, a bowler hat of the finest beaver, a gardenia flower in his buttonhole, brand-new suede gloves—such was the attire of the indiscreet man who thus surveyed the Ladies’ Room. His appearance revealed a singular blend of weakness and strength, the body of a seven-month-old and the muscles of Hercules. Gymnastics, fencing, horseback riding, and hunting must have hardened that frame, which Nature had made weak, almost puny. His stature was short; his limbs were delicate and feminine; but his muscles were of steel. This was evident in the way his clothes fell, in the manly cut of his knees and shoulders. Moreover, the man revealed the haughty superiority that comes together from wealth, birth, and the habit of being obeyed. But if the duke had hoped for any fruit from such stalking through the glass, it was a Friday, for the Swedish woman, after having played half a dozen mazurkas with great composure and skill, rose with no less majesty than she had displayed upon entering, and without turning her face, headed for the door. It opened as if by the work of a spell, And the white-whiskered diplomat appeared affable and serious, offering his arm. It was a royal outing, très réussie, as they said among the French women. “She looks like Princess Micomicona!” said Lola Amézaga, who had spent no less than two hours in front of the mirror that morning, rehearsing the Swedish woman’s regal gait. “What poise!” observed Luisa Natal. “No, fine young lady, she already is. Watch your waist! And what hands! Haven’t you repaired them? ” “I rarely look at her,” Pilar replied. “I don’t give her that much pleasure. She only adopts these theatrical gestures to attract attention! ” “Albares has become very surprised!” exclaimed Amalia. “She didn’t even realize he was there!” They all turned to look toward the shop windows. The Duke was no longer there . “Now he’ll have run off to try to see her in the park. Are we going to convince ourselves? ” “Yes, come on, come on; the scene will be amusing. ” They rose and hurriedly gathered fans, parasols, and veils, hurrying toward the door. “Hey, ladies!” said the Countess of Monteros. “Don’t rush so much, I’m not as young as you, and I’m going to stay behind. By my faith,” she added through gritted teeth, “when I lay eyes on my lord nephew, I’ll tell him what’s relevant, so as to kill that poor Matilda, who is an angel, in such a distressing way.” While Pilar was amusing herself in a manner so in keeping with her inclinations, Lucía was waiting for her on the balcony of the chalet. At that hour, no one was home, neither Miranda nor Perico; the Casino had swallowed them all up. Hardly a passerby crossed the secluded street. Only the monotonous squeal of the sewing machine, which the caretaker’s daughter was working, could be heard in the silence. In the garden, the roses, intoxicated by the heat they had imbibed throughout the morning, were melting into perfume; even the cold white roses had rancid nuances, like pale flesh, but flesh nonetheless. From the entire chorus of aromas, a single, penetrating, powerful scent formed, rising to one’s head, as if it were the fragrance of no more than a rose, but an enormous, flaming rose, exhaling from her purple mouth a fascinating and deadly breath. Lucía began sewing as soon as she sat down; But after a quarter of an hour, the pillow would fall from her lap, the thimble would slip from her finger, and her pupil would wander, her eyes fixed on the rosebushes until at last her eyelids would close, and, resting her forehead on the branches that covered the balcony, she would abandon herself to the delight of that fragrant atmosphere, without hearing, without seeing, only breathing. Two months before, she would not have been able to remain still for half an hour; the gardens invited her to run. Now, on the contrary, they incited her to let herself remain thus, motionless and stunned, like a güebro before the sun. One afternoon, Pilar, returning from her club, found her more pensive than ever. “Silly,” she said to her, “what are you thinking about? If you came to the Casino, you would have a great time. ” “Pilarcita,” Lucía murmured, throwing her arms around her neck, “will you keep a secret if I tell you?” The anemic woman’s eyes lit up. “No way! Unburden that heart, woman…. Between us, right? Everything can be told…. I’ve seen so many things… nothing surprises me… ” “Listen…” said Lucía. “I would like to know, at all costs, how Señor Don Ignacio Artegui’s mother is doing. ” Pilar stepped back, disoriented; and immediately laughing with her cynical laugh, she exclaimed: “Is that all it is? What a secret! Three flies are a big handful!” “For God’s sake,” Lucía begged hurriedly, “don’t tell anyone…. I ‘m dying to know, but if someone finds out… Miranda, or something like that… ” “Hey!” “You fool, I’ll know soon enough, and without telling anyone… I have a thousand ways to find out… I promise you’ll get over your curiosity…” Pilar tapped Lucía on the chin two or three times; she was seriously ill and even a little confused. “Shall we go for a walk today, nurse?” asked the anemic woman. “Yes, and you’ll drink milk in Vesse. But take another, warmer outfit, for God’s sake: you’re capable of catching a cold…” “Haven’t you noticed how good the flowers smell?” Roses? There are hardly any in León: I remember that the ones I could pick I used to give to the Immaculate Conception I keep in my room. Chapter 11. It was the Casino for Perico and Miranda, as for all the idlers of the colony, house and home during the spa season. As a whole, the great building resembled a concert of voices inviting one to the rapid and easy existence of our century. The spacious peristyle, the main facade with its vast rooftop, its reserved little garden where exotic plants grow in graceful baskets, and its rich and whimsical Renaissance ornaments of pure white ashlar; the tall columns of polished porphyry that support the interior; the soft seats and wide couches; the mischievous little cupids, artistic symbols of ephemeral loves, who usually live for the space of fifteen waters that run along the cornice of the grand ballroom, or flutter in the blue of the wide arcades of the theater; The gold lavished in skillful touches, like points of light, or in long slats, like rays of sunlight; the large windows of clear glass—everything, in short, helped the imagination picture an Athenian temple, improved and enlarged with the benefits and pleasures of modern civilization . Anyone who looked at the Casino from its southern facade could immediately see the divine being who received worship and sacrifices there: the Water Nymph, inclining the urn in a graceful pose, while two cupids emerge from a reed bed at her feet, and one of them, raising a shell, collects the sacred water that flows copiously from the urn. Priests and flamines from the temple of the Nymph are the waiters at the Casino, who at the slightest signal, at a movement of the lips, come tacitly and promptly with whatever is desired: cigars, newspapers, paper, soft drinks, even water, which they bring at full speed, in a tank turned upside down on a plate, so that it doesn’t lose its precious temperature or its gases. Miranda preferred the reading room, where he found a quantity of Spanish newspapers, including the Colmenar organ, which he read with the air of a politician. Perico was more often found in another gloomy, cavern-like apartment, the walls the color of toasted hazelnut, the curtains dirty gray with red stripes, where a row of mottled gutta-percha benches faced another row of tables covered with the sacramental, melodramatic, and threadbare green tablecloth. Just as the retreating tide leaves parallel fringes of seaweed on the beach, so the backs of the red gutta-percha benches bore layers of grime deposited by the heads and backs of the players. These marks increased from the first bench to the last, as one ascended from the harmless piquet to the vertiginous écarté, because the row began at the board game and ended at the game of chance. The benches at the entrance were clean in comparison to those at the back. That room where such a nefarious cult was paid to the Water Nymph witnessed many feats of Perico’s, which, due to their similarity to all others of the same kind, are not worth recounting. Nor does the spectacle, dear to novelists, of the feverish adventures that took place around the tables require description . Gambling in Vichy has something of the hygienic elegance of the town as a whole, whose inhabitants are fond of repeating that in their town no one blew their brains out over the green baize, as happens in Monaco at every turn; so that the Casino room does not lend itself to descriptions of the lurid dramatic genre; there the loser puts his hands in his pockets, and comes out in a better or worse mood, depending on his nervous or lymphatic temperament, but convinced of the legality of his plucking, guaranteed by agents of the Authority and commissioners of the leasing Company, always present to avoid frauds, chimeras and other adventures, typical only of low-class gambling dens, not of those Olympian regions where gloves are polished. It should be noted that Perico, although he was from the who most helped to grease and polish the gutta-percha benches with the pomade in his hair and the rubbing of his back, did not fit the classic type of gambler who wanders in moral and edifying images and hallelujahs. When he lost, it never occurred to him to pull his hair out, blaspheme, or raise his fists to the celestial vault. Of course, he took every precaution possible to avoid losing. Gambling is analogous to war: it is said of both that luck and destiny decide them; but accomplished strategists know only too well that a combination that is both instinctive and profound, analytical and synthetic, usually leaves them with victory tied hand and foot. In both struggles, there are fatal errors of calculation that lead to the abyss in a second, and in both, if the skilled usually win, occasionally the daring sweep everything away and in turn triumph. Perico thoroughly mastered the science of gambling, and he also carefully observed the character of his opponents, a method that rarely fails to produce successful results. There are people who become angry or confused while playing , and they act according to their mood, so much so that it is easy to surprise and dominate them. Perhaps the indefinable quirk they call a streak, a streak, or a quarter of an hour is nothing more than the superiority of a serene and lucid man over many intoxicated by emotion. In short: Perico, who had lively movements and inexhaustible loquacity, but an icy head, so understood the marches and countermarches, retreats and advances of the determined action that was waged every day at the Casino, that after several small fortunes, a fortune fell to him in the form of a medium-sized bundle of thousand-franc notes, which he calmly put in his waistcoat pocket, leaving with his usual gait and expression, and leaving the given loser to reflect on the ephemeral nature of earthly goods. This happened the day after Lucía had expressed to Pilar such interest in the health of Artegui’s mother. Perico was naturally generous, unless he lacked gold for his amusements, in which case he would spare a maravedí, and, telling Pilar that he was in the Ladies’ Room, he would join her on the roof and, giving her his arm, said: “So you don’t always tell me I didn’t buy you anything in Vichy, come on, come here; I’m going to give you a present. ” “A present?” and Pilar opened her eyes wide. “A present, yes sir; it seems it’s only the first. Ask with that mouth, with that mouth. ” “But is it real? How delicious Perico is!” exclaimed the anemic woman, singing. “Will you buy me whatever I want?” “Let’s go to the stores,” he exclaimed, and started walking. Pilar hesitated for a long time, like children before a tray of various sweets; Finally, she made up her mind, choosing two small drops of water for her ears and a portable mirror of chased gold, a whimsical and brand-new jewel that hung from her waist and that only the Swedish woman still wore in Vichy. Upon returning home with her purchases, the anemic woman’s eyes shone so brightly and her cheeks were so flushed that Perico said to her: “The devil are you ladies. By giving you a rattle or a bell, a bell, you cure yourselves of all your ills. I laugh at the pharmacy, at the pharmacy. Now your stomach doesn’t hurt. ” “Periquillo… You’re the flower of cinnamon! Look, I’m crazy happy… and if you wanted… eh? Say yes. ” “If I wanted… Do you want anything else? No, my dear, that’s enough for today, that’s enough.” “No, no shopping… but tonight… I wanted to go to the concert to show off the mirror… look, neither the Amézaga women nor that fat Luisa Natal have it… nor did they know it existed in Vichy… they’re going to be shocked… come on, Periquín; they are, right? Just once, man… come on. ” Lucía, almost on her knees, begged Pilar to renounce the dangerous pleasure she longed for. It was precisely the most critical occasion; Duhamel hoped that Nature, aided by method, would win the fight, and perhaps fifteen days of will and tenacity would decide the triumph. But there was no way to persuade the anemic woman. She spent the day in a fit of fever. searching her wardrobe; at dusk, she left on Miranda’s arm; she was wearing a dress she hadn’t worn until then because it was too light and summery, a white gauze tunic strewn with carnations of every color; her mirror hung from her waist; solitaires glittered in her ears, and behind her bun, with Spanish grace, she displayed a sheaf of carnations. Thus composed and aglow with fever and vain pleasure, she seemed even beautiful, despite her freckles and the poor appearance of her tissues, ravaged by anemia. She was therefore very successful at the Casino; it could be said that she shared the scepter of the night with the Swedish woman and with the eccentric English lord, of whom it was said that his stables were carpeted with Turkish tapestry and his reception room paved with stone. Joyful and well-attended, Pilar watched a Thousand and One Nights party at the Casino, studded with countless gas lamps, in the warm air filled with the harmonies of the magnificent orchestra, in the ballroom where the playful cupids on the ceiling bathed in the golden mist of the lights. Jiménez, the Marquis of Cañahejas, and Monsieur Anatole vied for the pleasure of dancing with her. Miranda demanded a rigodon, and to top off their happiness and victory, the Amézagas squinted at the mirror, which I said only shone on two skirts: Pilar’s and the Swede’s. It was, in short, one of those unique moments in the life of a vain girl, when flattered pride creates such sweet impressions that it almost emulates other, more intimate and profound pleasures, eternally unknown to such creatures. Pilar danced with all her partners as if she were deeply enamored with each one of them; her eyes shone so brightly, and her attitude revealed such openness. Perico couldn’t help but say to her sotto voce: “You dance, eh? We’ll see what Duhamel says tomorrow! It’ll be heavenly, heavenly. Tomorrow I’m escaping, I’m escaping. You’ll definitely burst, burst, burst like a firecracker. ” “You wouldn’t believe it. I feel so good!” she exclaimed, drinking a glass of gooseberry that the Hispanophile Monsieur Anatole was offering her. The next morning, when Lucía went to wake Pilar, she took three steps back involuntarily. Her anemic head was buried on one side in the pillows, and she slept with a restless and uneven sleep; In her ears, pale as wax, the solitaires still shone, their clear whiteness contrasting with the earthy hues of her cheeks and neck. A black circle surrounded her eyes, as if made with a smudge. Her lips, tightly pressed together, resembled two dried rose leaves. The whole ensemble was cadaverous. Items from the previous evening’s dress lay scattered on the chairs: her white satin shoes, turned up at the heel, lay at the foot of the bed; carnations lay on the floor, and the never-well-considered mirror, the innocent cause of so much ill, rested on the nightstand. When Lucía gently touched the sleeping woman’s shoulder, she half-sat up with a start; her half-open eyes had a cloudy, dull cornea, as if covered by the film seen on the eyes of dead animals. A thick, fetid vapor rose from the bed; the anemic woman was bathed in copious sweat. She couldn’t get up because as soon as she set foot on the ground, she was struck by a terrible cold, her teeth chattered, and she had to cover herself again, feeling the sweat freeze on her limbs. She also noticed a sharp and violent pain in her side, so much so that in order to breathe she had to turn to her left side. She trembled all over, like a green stick, and all the coats they threw over her didn’t do anything to warm her up . Lucía jumped into her husband’s room, where he was smoking a paper cigarette between sleeps. The waters were good for Miranda: the withered tones of her skin were disappearing, beneath which a little blood and fat were beginning to infiltrate, giving her that stale freshness , the hallmark of obese fifty-somethings who are still good- looking. Such was the physical result for Miranda; the moral result was a longing for Rest and selfish well-being, that regularity of habit, that tyranny of custom that imposes itself in mature age, and which leads one to consider it an irreparable misfortune to have one’s meal or sleep delayed half an hour longer than usual. The former handsome man wanted to rest, live well, take care of his precious health, and, in short, attain the respectable and important type of the classic Mirandas. Lucía came in like a hurricane, and, agitated and trembling, said to her: “Get up… go see if you can get Mr. Duhamel home… Pilar is very ill. ” Miranda sat up. “Of course the crazy woman is ill! She didn’t dance like a madwoman last night! Well spent!” Lucía fixed her astonished eyes on her husband. “Go quickly, quickly…” she exclaimed. “He’s having a fit of cold… he’s complaining of pain in one side, and his voice has thickened…” Miranda got up grumbling. “I don’t know why she has her little brother,” she murmured as she put on her boots. ” He might as well go. ” “You tell him, if you want,” Lucía said slowly, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m not going to go in and wake Gonzalvo. Just like that, you were about to get up to drink the water. ” “There’s no reason for that in at least three-quarters of an hour. It seems that that girl is the only one here who has to take care of herself. The rest of us suffer too and have to observe a diet. Today I feel awful.” It was Lucía’s habit to take a great interest in Miranda’s health, and to ask her every day those details that mothers demand of their children and that tire the indifferent; but on this occasion she turned her back on him and went out to the kitchen, where she asked the concierge for a cup of linden tea, which she herself brought to Pilar. Duhamel frowned when he saw the patient. What displeased him most was learning that at the dance he had drunk two or three sodas. Duhamel was a small, wizened old man, whose life took refuge in his shining, discerning eyes. A hawk-like figure with a broad brow, he displayed all his teeth, long and thick like keys, with his frequent smile. He was quick and slippery in his movements like an eel, and having been in Brazil with a scientific commission, he spoke a little Brazilian Portuguese, trying to pass it off as Spanish. “Completely stop the thermal treatment,” he said, addressing himself exclusively to Lucia, despite the patient’s brother being present, thanks to that infallible instinct of doctors who immediately distinguish the person attentive to their prescriptions and interested in carrying them out. “The patient, the patient, has done wrong in breaking the prescribed regimen like this. ” “But now, what can be done?” –We’ll try a vigorous revulsive, _forte…. And a recoil at the lungs_… we’ll see how to divert it…. _Bon Deus_! Dance, and drink refreshments! And now we have to fight the sweat… _O suor esgota a_. This conversation took place between the doctor and Lucía, at a sufficient distance from the sick woman’s bed so that she couldn’t hear a word. Lucía learned in great detail everything concerning the care, the times of feeding, the precautions that were important to adopt. After giving Pilar the medicines that the doctor prescribed, she tidied the room , put everything in its place, closed the blinds and settled herself beside the bed on a low sewing chair . Pilar was very agitated and burning with thirst; with every step Lucía reached her lips the pistero of rubber water, previously warmed on a small stove. In the afternoon, Duhamel returned and ascertained that the revulsives had succeeded in clearing the sick woman’s voice somewhat and easing her labored breathing. Nevertheless, her fever was high, and her sweating had subsided. The pulmonary congestion lasted eight days, and when Duhamel ordered Pilar to get up, because the bed was increasing the burden and sapping her strength, the creature was a specter; the rather sad features of anemia were now joined by others more alarming. When she dressed, her limbs could not hold up her clothes, which It was escaping from the body like a poorly stuffed mannequin. She herself became frightened, and in one of the lucid moments that those attacked by the terrible illness that already oppressed them in its clutches usually have, she asked for the famous mirror , and Lucía, not wanting to upset her, reluctantly presented it to her. As she fixed her eyes on it, Pilar remembered how she had looked the night of the ball, with her carnations, her artfully curled hair, and the smile of pleasure that lit up her face. The contrast between the past and the present, between the face of eight days ago and the one of today, was such that Pilar quickly threw the mirror to the floor. The clear glass cracked, and the finely carved edges of the frame were dented by the impact. It wasn’t long, however, before the persistent illusion that sweetly leads consumptives, blindfolded , to the gates of death took hold of her again . The symptoms of the illness were so evident that seeing them in anyone else would have given her a death warrant; and despite all this, Pilar, cheerful and full of plans, believed herself suffering only from a persistent cold that would gradually clear up. She had a soft, persistent cough, sticky expectoration, sweats that the slightest rise in temperature brought on, and her perversions of appetite had turned into horrible listlessness. In vain, the concierge of the chalet displayed her culinary prowess, devising a thousand delicate delicacies. Pilar regarded everything with equal repugnance, especially the nutritious dishes. Then began a life of insanity for the two friends. Lucía never left Pilar’s side, taking her out onto the balcony to breathe the fresh air if the weather was nice, and keeping her company in her room if not, trying to entertain her and make the hours less tedious. The sick woman was already feeling that impatience, that desire for a change of scenery and surroundings that generally plagues all those suffering from her illness. Vichy was becoming unbearable, and even more so since she saw the season ending, the Casino emptying, the opera company leaving, and the glittering fliers of fashion migrating. The Amézagas came to say goodbye and give her the last bad time of the season; following Lucía’s inclination, she would receive them in the lower parlor, excusing Pilar; but she insisted they go up to her room, and she had to give in. The Cuban girls were triumphant and radiant because they were going to Paris to do their winter shopping, and from there to show them off at the first Madrid soirees and in the Retiro Park, and they spoke with the lisp and sweetness of the days of victory. “Yes, girl… Who’s staying here anymore? This has become so silly… Oh!” Not a living soul…. Yes, Krauss left; they hired her in Paris…. A success on Mignon’s last night…. There are hotels that have already closed…. As you can understand, the rope behind the cauldron… well, with the Swede leaving, was he going to stay? He’ll go as far as Stockholm…. No, no! But didn’t you know? The day of the departure, he filled the carriage with bouquets… a whole parlor car covered with gardenias and camellias…. what do you think? It already represents some franquillos, yes… Luisa Natal… where else but Madrid?… Ah! The Countess makes the trip, stopping in Lourdes… she plans to spend at least a week there…. Yes, Cañahejas is going to a castle belonging to some relatives of Monsieur Anatole, where they will hunt until November…. Jiménez? “I don’t know, girl… He’s always involved in mysteries and secrets… They say that Laurent, the soprano of the company… That cross-eyed one… I don’t even believe this… He’s a boastful, eternally praising one. ” “And you, are you staying, eh?” added Amalia, joining her lisp with Lola’s. ” Until when, girl…? But you’re going to dry up… This is now a monastery! If that’s not worth anything… what does a cold matter?… Cheer up… This year Puenteancha will have comedies… Monteros told me so… The Torreplanas from Arganzón have already indicated that they would receive on Thursdays… We’ll have Patti and Gayarre at the Real; imagine! We’ve written for a subscription, in case we don’t arrive in time… ” “I’m going to have Worth make me two or three little outfits… simple ones, because Not being a married woman… One about skating… I’m dying for skating!… At the Casa de Campo last year… do you remember, Amalia? That day… –Did the king say you’d excelled?… Yes, well I remember… wow! And the voices of both sisters merged into a concert of giggles of pleasure and pride; both of them looked back at the frozen pond, the trees covered in frosty lace, the misty morning, and the youthful figure of the king, with his face pale with cold, his slender body, his loose and elegant manner, and his smile somewhere between roguish and courteous, as he bent down to congratulate the agile skater. He left Pilar’s visit more impatient, more feverish, more excited than ever. Pilar was wasting away; at all costs, she wanted to leave Vichy, fly, break out of the opaque cocoon of illness and present herself once again, a brilliant butterfly, in social circles. She believed in good faith that she could do it and counted on her strength. No less than she, two other people were growing impatient: Miranda and Perico. Perico, forced to live in perpetual divorce from himself, could not bear the solitude that forced him to remain on his own; and as for Miranda, her season of wet weather over, her health noticeably restored, it seemed to him that it was time to retreat to winter quarters and peacefully enjoy the fruits of her treatment. It bored him to the extreme to see his wife, designated by high decree to care for him, withdraw so far from her providential mission, devoting days and nights to a stranger, stricken with a painful and perhaps contagious illness. So he hinted to Lucía that it was necessary to leave, leaving the Gonzalvos there to their sad fate, as one leaves those who cannot fit in the boats after a shipwreck. But contrary to all his expectations, he found in Lucía a warm protest and energetic resistance. By confessing that noble sentiment, she indemnified herself for everything she kept quiet, even from herself. “It would be necessary to have no heart… no heart at all! Poor little Pilar of my life! She would certainly be in good shape with her brother, who doesn’t even know how to put a pillow around her! What would become of her! Just thinking about it terrifies me… ” “She’ll call a nun of charity… she won’t be the first,” Miranda grumbled harshly. “What a pity… poor creature! That’s even crueler than leaving her to die alone, like a dog. ” “Well, she’d be damned if she had stayed for you, or for me, or for the morning star. And what obligation do we have to assist her? It seems only that… ” “Don’t you say you’re Gonzalvo’s friend?” Lucía pronounced, staring at her husband. “Friendship, like that… society; what do you know about such things? Friendship, as there are many.” “Well, then, why do we live together with the Gonzalvos? I didn’t know them; but now I’ve grown fond of her, and to leave her in such a bad state… ” “Good heavens! Doesn’t she have a father, an aunt, a brother? Let them come and take care of her like a thousand devils! What’s our business? If you have a vocation to be a Sister of Charity, you should say so and not marry, daughter… your obligation is to take care of your husband and your home, nothing more… ” “Anyway,” said Lucía, raising her face, where the rounded, fleeting lines of adolescence were beginning to turn into firmer features, ” I’ll go if you order me to; but convinced that it’s a bad thing to abandon a friend like that when she’s dying.” She left the room. In her mind, a singular concept of conjugal authority was germinating: it seemed to her that her husband had a perfect, incontestable, and evident right to deny her all kinds of pleasures and happiness, but that in his suffering he was free, and that prohibiting him from suffering, from watching over, and from devoting himself to the sick woman was harsh despotism. Many of these strange ideas are shared by the unfortunates who come to take refuge in pain and proclaim it a place of asylum. However, the matter was resolved better than Lucía expected, because it so happened that that same afternoon Perico took action on it, resolving it with his typical casualness. “Goodbye, children,” he said, entering Miranda’s room in his traveling clothes, with cloth leggings, a felt cap, and a double-barreled hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. And as if Miranda were to stare at him with such a wide-open mouth. “I’ve made up my mind,” he explained. “Vichy is too stupid; and Anatole insists… ” “Are you going to Auvergne? ” “To the Château de Ceyssat, Ceyssat… It seems there are hares and roe deer by the handful, by the handful… and the château is a good place to be; there are a lot of people; eighteen guests. ” Miranda summoned all the energy she knew in her voice and demeanor and said to the spirited hunter: “But look, Lucía and I had decided to start back for Spain… in two or three days at the most… and since Pilar is like this, delicate… your presence is necessary here. ” “Go on, go on!” exclaimed Perico, faithful to his system of frankness and openness. Can’t you wait a fortnight to please me? What are you going to do in Spain? Go to León and vegetate, vegetate. Here you are on the moon, on your honeymoon… Nothing, nothing; I’m leaving my little sister with you; I know she’ll be well taken care of, well taken care of. Aw, it’s time for the train. I’ll bring you a roe deer head to carry a walking stick… “But, listen; look…” Perico was already in the doorway. Miranda called to him through the window; but he turned around smiling, waved goodbye, and ran off toward the station. And this is how the bolder of two egotisms won, if not the strongest and biggest. Miranda was completely exhausted when Duhamel came to console him a little, assuring him that the sick woman had been experiencing some signs of improvement for a few days now , and that he should take advantage of them by returning to Spain in search of a mild climate. adding, in his broken French-Portuguese, that since he, like almost all the consulting physicians at Vichy, was planning to leave for Paris soon, they could combine the trip together, and thus see how the movement of the train tested the sick woman, and decide whether she needed rest or would be able to bear returning to Spain at once. The doctor’s advice seemed absolutely correct to everyone, and Lucía wrote, under Pilar’s dictation, a letter to Perico, asking him to be back within exactly fifteen days, the deadline set by Duhamel to close his consulting season at Vichy. The new arrangement somewhat tempered Miranda’s bad mood, consoled Lucía, and delighted the sick woman, who above all else dreamed of returning to Madrid. It was true: Pilar’s very weak constitution, offering less scope for the evil, delayed the fatal crisis of her illness; And just as a hurricane, which uproots oaks, only bends the canes, the consumption entered with less force into that lymphatic body than it did into a sanguine and vigorous one. The cavity of one lung was infested with tubercles, and already had those terrible breaches that doctors call caverns; but the other still held out, although with lungs it is what happens with apples: minutes are enough to lose the healthy one if it is next to a rotten one. In any case, Pilar’s momentary relief was so evident that it allowed her to take a few hundred steps along the street every morning , arm in arm with Lucía; and food did not repel her invincibly as it had before. Chapter 12. In truth, the sight of Vichy instilled sadness in those late October days . They were nothing but fallen leaves: the Park, always so lively, looked solitary; Only a few late-night water-drinkers, truly ill, strolled along the asphalt sidewalk, which had been filled yesterday with the rustling of rich dresses and the murmur of cheerful conversation. No one bothered to pick up and sweep the yellow carpet of leaves, because Vichy, so dressed up and adorned during the rainy season, becomes shabby and disheveled as soon as its elegant summer guests turn their backs. The whole town resembled an immense relocation: from the chalets, now untenanted, the ornaments and balconies disappeared to prevent them from being rotted by the rains; in the streets were piled up lime and bricks for the masonry work that no one dared to undertake. summer so as not to litter the immaculate avenues. The luxury goods stores were closing one after another, and their owners and their assortments headed for Nice, Cannes, or some similar winter resort. Some were still left behind, and their windows served as entertainment for Lucía and Pilar when the latter went out for her leisurely strolls. Among them was a store of curiosities, antiques, and works of art, located almost opposite the famous Ninfa, and, consequently , behind the Casino. The store was extremely narrow, barely able to contain the mass of objects crammed into it, which overflowed until they invaded the sidewalk. It was a pleasure to rummage through those corners, scrutinizing here and there, making new and unusual discoveries every moment . The owners of the flea market, idle almost all day, readily agreed to do so. There was a couple; He, a bohemian from the Rastro fair, sleepy-eyed, wearing a worn frock coat, a torn tie, resembling just another curiosity, some used and dilapidated piece of furniture; she, blonde, thin, swaying, agile as an attic shovel as she glided among the precious objects piled to the ceiling. Lucía and Pilar watched the heterogeneous mishmash with great amusement. In the center of the store, a superb Sèvres porcelain and gilt bronze pedestal table strutted its stuff. The main medallion featured, enameled on a background of that special blue of soft paste, the broad, good-natured, and sad face of Louis XVI; around it, a circle of smaller medallions presented the gentle heads of the ladies of the guillotined king’s court; some with powdered hair, with large baskets of flowers crowning their colossal coiffures, others with black lace hoods tied under their chins; all of them shamelessly low-cut, all smiling and composed, with very fresh complexions and carmine lips. If Lucía and Pilar had been strong in History, how much meditation would be provoked by the sight of so many ivory necks, adorned with diamond necklaces or narrow velvet ribbons, and probably later severed by a razor; no more and no less than the neck of the king who melancholically presided over that court! The ceramics were the highlight of the collection. There were many little Saxon dolls, in soft, pure, and delicate colors, like the clouds painted by dawn; pink cupids crossing between sheaves of sky-blue flowers; shepherdesses as white as milk and blonde as candles, tending lambs tied with crimson ribbons; young men and women lovingly soliciting one another among verdant groves planted with roses; Violinists primly wielding their bows, thrusting their right legs forward to dance a minuet step; flower-slingers smiling like fools, pointing at the flower basket they carried on their left arms. Close to these gallant and effeminate whims, the rare products of Asian art projected their strange and deformed silhouettes, resembling idols from a barbarian cult; flocks of bizarre birds crossed the pot-bellied jars, covered with vegetation of yellow leaves and purple or fiery flowers , or monstrous reptiles wound their way; from the dark bottoms of the partitioned vases emerged fantastic scenes: green rivers running over an ochre bed, purple lacquer kiosks with gold bells, mandarins with straight and slender hooves, straight, pendulous mustaches, slanted eyes, and zucchini heads. The majolica tiles and plates of Palissy looked like pieces of the underwater depths, shreds of some deep reef, or the slimy bed of a river; there, among the seaweed and fucus, the glistening, glutinous eel slithered, the clam’s grooved shell opened, the silver sea bream scurried about, the snail straightened its agate cone, the frog raised its cold eyes, and the tenacious crab, resembling a black spider, ran sideways. There was a fountain where Galatea reclined on the waves, and her sea-blue steeds stuck out their webbed feet, while some tritons blew, their cheeks puffed out, into their crooked horns. Amen. Among the porcelains were pieces of heavy, antique silverware, the kind passed down from parents to children in respectable provincial homes: monumental salvers, wide trays, soup bowls topped with massive artichokes; there were wooden chests inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, small iron caskets carved like filigree, earthenware tanks with metal rims, in patriarchal shapes reminiscent of the beer drinkers immortalized by Flemish art. Pilar was especially fascinated by the agate cups that served as jewelry boxes, with the jewels from different eras, including everything from the amulet of a Roman lady to the necklace, with counterfeit gems and fine enamels, from the time of Marie Antoinette; but Lucía fell especially in love with the church objects, which aroused the religious sentiment so apt to move her sincere and vehement soul. Two Apostles, their fingers raised to heaven in a grave attitude, stood out, their outlines edged with brass, against two colored panes of glass, undoubtedly torn from the arched window of some dismantled monastery. In a triptych of rancid, caramelized ivory, appeared Eve, thin and naked, offering Adam the fatal apple, and the Virgin, in the mysteries of her Annunciation and Ascension; all incorrectly crafted, with that divine candor of primitive hieratic art, of the centuries of faith. Despite the crudeness of the design, Lucia liked the figure of the Virgin, the modesty of her lowered eyes, the mystical ideality of her attitude. If she had a significant amount of money, she would certainly give it for a Christ that wandered confused among other curiosities at the flea market. It was also made of ivory, and all of one piece, except for the arms. And nailed to a rich shell cross, he was truly agonizing, his muscles and nerves shrunken in supreme contraction. Three diamond nails pierced his hands and feet. Lucia prayed an Our Father to him every day , and even used to kiss his knees, when no one was looking. She didn’t dislike the paintings; all the more so since she understood them, unlike some artistic objects, which she found quite ugly and extravagant. It was clear that that fierce checkmate, who, sword in hand, rushes at his adversary, is going to split his heart with a good stab. How well things were in that Daubigny! How naturally those Jacques sheep, valued at a thousand francs each—the painting had twelve—grazed. What white little feet the favorite sultana of Cala and Moya dipped in the marble bowl! The girl’s head, in the style of Greuze, was a marvel of innocent grace. And what about the brawl in a Flemish inn? It was laughable to see the shattered flowerpots flying, the copper pans rolling, and Van Oustade’s two peasants, deformed and ridiculous, handing out punches, throwing punches, and exaggerating their sympathetic ugliness with the grotesqueness of their attitudes . But even more than the art bazaar, where so many shapes and colors, styles and artistic ideals ultimately defined her, Lucia enjoyed an open-air street stall, one of the many near the Casino, located at the edge of the sidewalk. These stalls represented small and modest industry; here an old German man hawked crystal drinking glasses, and with a grinding wheel, in full view of the buyer, he engraved his initials into the glass . Over there, a Swiss man was selling toys, dolls, boxes, and folding knives carved in beech wood by shepherds; here, glasses were on sale; over there, combs and stationery. Lucia’s favorite was a seller of pious trinkets from Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Mother-of-pearl Calvaries with naive reliefs, olive-root feather handles topped with the shape of a cross, heads of the Virgin carved on a shell, brooches and pendants with enamel arabesques, cups of black Asfaltites stone, scented lozenges; this was the amount of the portable box. Selling everything was a rather handsome Israelite, black-eyed and very sallow, with his dirty red Arab fez and his trousers baggy trousers; sweet, insinuating, Levantine in every way, a fluent speaker of many languages and a good Spanish speaker, which he handled fluently, only occasionally slipping into the occasional archaic phrase. Lucía took her revenge on him, learning about the holy village of Bethlehem, the divine mansion of Nazareth, Mount Olivet, and all the sacred places, which she hardly believed could be on earth, but rather in some mysterious and remote paradise. A ten-minute intimacy was thus established between the vendor and Lucía every afternoon, in the open air, and even more so when he had told her he was a Christian, a Catholic, catechized and instructed by the Franciscans of Bethlehem. Lucía bought everything she could find at the stand, even a rosary of those greenish, turbid beads like bitter water, which, not without great analogy, are called Job’s tears. “I don’t know why you like that ugly rosary!” Pilar would say. “Look!” Lucía exclaimed. “They really look like tears!” But the Levantine swallow flew away, too, in search of more temperate zones. One day they no longer found Ibrahim Antonio in his usual place: probably tired from a day without sales, he had loaded up his supplies and set off on his way to God knows where. Lucía missed him ; but the movement to withdraw was general; all that was seen were shops being emptied and closed. On the sidewalks there were piles of straw, stacks of scraps of wrapping paper, crates and boxes with large signs that read: “very fragile.” It was the sadness, the disorder, the growing emptiness of a house that has moved. Pilar found Vichy so ugly that she planned unusual walks that kept her away from the main streets. One morning she decided to go see the pastry shop and witnessed the birth of two or three thousand pastries and chocolates; Another wanted to visit the subterranean galleries containing the immense water reservoirs and the formidable tubes through which it rises to feed the baths of the thermal establishment. They descended a narrow staircase, the last steps of which already sank into the darkness of the galleries. The guard preceded them, lighting with a crushed, foul-smelling miner’s lamp; Miranda carried another, and a rascal who had appeared there, fallen from the clouds, took charge of the last. The vault was so low that Miranda had to bow her head to avoid burning her forehead. The narrow passageway made a sharp turn, and they suddenly found themselves in another gallery, open like a mouth, into which the tubes, eaten away by urine thanks to the perpetual humidity, entered. The ceiling sweated pale, shining droplets of watery vapor; on either side, water ran over a bed of residue, alkaline phosphates, white and powdery, like freshly fallen snow. As they advanced through the long underground canal, stifling heat announced the passage of the remains of the Great Gate, a boiling torrent, whose temperature rose even higher in that prison. From the walls, leprous, herpetic, covered in limestone filth, hung monstrous fungi, cryptogams pregnant with poison, their venomous whiteness standing out against the wall, like a pale and sinister pupil on a bruised face. At the bends of the pipes, dusty cobwebs stretched, resembling the gray shroud of forgotten dead. The dislocated paving slabs revealed a glimpse of the black water. Above their heads, the expeditionaries heard the footsteps of people, the heavy thump of beasts’ hooves. Sometimes a vent would open, and through the iron grating the daylight would filter in, livid and cadaverous, yellowing the reddish glow of the lamps. The tubes, the intestines of that humid womb, would spin a thousand times, and one moment they would crawl along the ground, resembling enormous serpents, the other they would rise to the vault, mimicking the black tentacles of an enormous octopus. There was a moment when the expeditionaries left the passageways to a clearer square; it was a kind of circular cave, with a skylight, and at its bottom yawned the wide jaws of the Lucas Well, filled with sleepy, somber, and Deep. The little rascal curiously brought his lamp closer. The warden took his arm. “Hey, little friend, be careful not to fall in there. It wouldn’t be easy to go looking for you at the depth of that hole, a hundred meters deep.” Fascinated, Lucia approached the mouth. The mephitic gases exhaled from the well made the murky flames of the lamps tremble. It wasn’t hot in there, but cold; a thick cold, with no breathable air. They resolutely entered through another gallery, and when an iron door was opened, everyone was frightened, except for the warden, seeing a vast expanse of water around them, a kind of underground lake. They were on a narrow plank thrown like a bridge across the width of the reservoir. Those waters, lying in their stone tomb, had a stillness and gloomy clarity. The light from one of the lamps, left on purpose on the other bank by the guard so the grandeur of the storeroom could be seen, flickered in long rails across the sad transparency of the lake, and , far away, resembled the torch of a hitman in some Venetian prison. So fantastic was that lake, reflecting a granite sky, that their imaginations imagined corpses floating in it. Lucía and Pilar experienced a vague fear, and above all, childishly, or rather, eminently femininely, they were horrified by the idea that they might find rats in the narrow, winding passages. They knew that the storerooms communicated with the sewers, and two or three times they had turned pale, thinking they saw a black shadow cross, which was nothing more than the trembling silhouette of some parasitic plant, drawn on the wall by the lights. Suddenly, they both let out a scream; there was no doubt; it was the sharp, sharp squeal of a rat. Lucía, above all, stood for a moment with her eyes wide open, motionless; there was no way to run and escape. But the rascal and the guard burst out laughing; they knew that hissing sound well, which was none other than the corking of the mineral water bottles on the other side of the wall. Nevertheless, the women breathed a sigh of relief as they emerged from the gloomy maze and saw the light of day again , feeling the fresh air that froze the beads of sweat on their foreheads. Lucía went there alone only one way: to the Church of San Luis. At first, the building pleased the Leonese woman very little, accustomed to the majesty of her superb basilica. San Luis is a petty Gothic rhapsody, designed by a modern architect; inside, it’s ugly because it’s painted in brightly colored charro patterns; in short, it resembles a worldly actress disguised as a saint. But Lucía found a Virgin of Lourdes in the church, which captivated her greatly. She stood in a grotto of blooming rosebushes and chrysanthemums, and above her head was a sign: “I am the Immaculate Conception.” Lucia knew little of the apparitions of Bernadette the shepherdess, nor of the wonders of the sacred mountain; but for all that, the image gently attracted her with some mysterious voice, which drifted amid the sweet aroma of the flowerpots and the flickering of the tall, white candles. The image, smiling, rosy-cheeked, candid, with flowing clothes and a blue mantle, touched Lucia’s soul more than the rigid effigies of León Cathedral, covered in rosy attire. One afternoon, walking to the church, she saw a funeral procession pass by and followed it. It was of a maiden, daughter of Mary. The beadle, officially grave, dressed in black, with a silver chain around his neck, led the way. Four girls followed, in white dresses , shivering from the cold, their cheekbones purple, but very unaware of the important role of carrying the ribbons. Then came the priests, grave and composed in their demeanor, occasionally raising their deep voices, which echoed in the clear atmosphere. Inside the black and white plumed carriage, the coffin, covered in snowy cloth, adorned with orange blossoms, white roses, and lilac cones in abundance, swaying with every sway of the carriage. María’s daughters, companions of the deceased, walked almost smiling, rolling up their muslin skirts so as not to dirty them on the muddy ground. The civil commissioner, in uniform, led the mourners; behind them extended a string of women in mourning, surrounding the family, whose faces were flushed and their eyes swollen from crying. The church bell was sadly ringing when the coffin was lowered and placed on the catafalque. Lucia entered the nave and knelt piously among those mourning a dead woman unknown to her. She listened with melancholy delight to the funeral prayers, the prayers intoned in full, mellow voices by the priests. Those unknown Latin phrases had a clear meaning for her; she did not understand the words; but she understood quite well that they were lamentations, threats, complaints, and at times sighs of very tender and passionate love. And then, as in the park, the secret thought, the desire for death, would return to her mind, and she would think to herself that the deceased was happier, lying in her flower-covered coffin, peaceful, without seeing or hearing the miseries of this rogue world—which rolls and rolls, and with all its rolling never brings a good day or an hour of happiness—than she was alive, forced to feel, think, and act. “Yes, but what about the soul?” Lucía would ask herself. In such a strange way, a poor, ignorant girl was repeating the philosophical monologue of the Danish dreamer! “Oh, and how good it must be to be dead!” Lucía would calculate. “Don Ignacio was right when he said that… that there is no happiness, really. If only one knew what awaits one in the other world! Where is the soul in that body there now?” And what good will it do to die, if in the end one doesn’t cease to exist and remember everything that happens to one! The fact is that these mad imaginations, aided by the nurse’s care, and perhaps some other cause, withered Lucía’s complexion and altered her previously cheerful and peaceful disposition. Miranda, who, deprived of all society, now frequented his wife’s, noticed the mark of melancholy imprinted on her features, and thoughts never entirely extinguished since the ill-fated railroad accident were reborn in him. That thorn, which painfully pricked him in the most sensitive part of his self-esteem, which was also the most vivid of his affections, would never be completely erased . Had Miranda had a more tempered soul, he would have won with love the open and generous heart of the girl from León; but it seems that the devil inspired him to do the most inappropriate things. He began to speak harshly to Lucía and show a certain disdain, as if acknowledging her inferiority. He reminded her with veiled allusions of her social sphere. He spied on her slightest actions, reproached her for the time she had spent caring for Perico’s sister, and, in short, adopted the system of annoyance and violence that is sure to result with easy-going and depraved women, whom he subjugates and enamors. He brought Lucía to the point of despair. A few days before the date set for Perico’s return, Pilar received a letter from him, which she gave to Lucía for her to read. He announced his imminent arrival, recounting at the same time some details of his elegant life at the Château de Ceyssat, and among other news, mentioned the death of Ignacio Artegui’s mother, which Anatole had told him, believing it would interest him since he was a fellow countryman. She added that her son had taken her to Brittany to be buried in the same Hotidan castle where she had spent her childhood. Miranda was present when this paragraph was read, and he must have noticed the quick glance that passed between Pilar and Lucía, and the sudden pallor of his wife. Lucía left that afternoon and went to San Luis, where she would spend about half an hour. She returned to the chalet and entered her bedroom, where she had some writing to do; she wrote a letter, and keeping it close to her breast , she skipped down the stairs and walked briskly toward the main street. Dusk was falling; the first lanterns were being lit, and the urchins, choirboys of civilization, scattered along the stream , shouting the newly arrived newspapers from Paris. Lucía went straight to the red glare of the tobacco shop and, approaching the wooden box that served as a mailbox, dropped the letter into it. At that very moment, he felt something like a clamp on his arm, and he turned around. Miranda was there. “What is this?” he murmured in a muffled voice. “Alone… here… what are you doing? ” “Nothing…” she stammered. “Nothing? Didn’t you just post a letter in the mailbox? ” “Yes, a letter,” she replied. “Why were you lying?” her husband exclaimed in an angry tone, his beard and jealous lips trembling. “I don’t know what I said when you hurt my arm,” Lucia replied, recovering her composure. “The truth is, I posted a letter just now. ” “And why didn’t you give it to me? Why are you coming… alone? ” “I wanted to post it myself.” Some people passing by turned their heads to hear the exchange in irritated voices and a foreign language. “We’re putting on a show,” Miranda said. “Come on.” They went through secluded alleys and maintained an eloquent silence for a few minutes. “Who was that letter for?” her husband finally asked in a brief voice. “For Don Ignacio Artegui,” Lucía replied in a calm and firm tone. “I knew it!” Miranda said through gritted teeth, chewing on an imprecation . “His mother is dead… You heard it clearly today. ” “It is highly indecorous, highly ridiculous,” Miranda pronounced, her voice crackling like burning vine shoots, “for a lady to write like that, without further ado, to a man… ” “I owe Mr. Artegui obligations and favors,” Lucía said, “which obliged me to take an interest in his troubles. ” “Those obligations, if there were any, are my responsibility to acknowledge. I would have written to him… ” “Your letter,” Lucía objected simply, “would not have been of any consolation to him, but mine would have; and since it wasn’t a question of paying compliments, but of…
“Shut up!” cried Miranda, inattentive; “shut up and don’t talk nonsense!” he continued with that conjugal rudeness from which even men of good manners are not exempt. ” Before getting married, you should have learned how to conduct yourself in the world, so as not to embarrass me and avoid making fools of yourself of a vulgar kind; but I don’t know what I’m complaining about; I shouldn’t have expected anything else, marrying the daughter of an oil and vinegar merchant.” Miranda walked with a wild step, dragging rather than leading his wife by the arm; and they were almost at the door of the chalet. At this insulting invective, Lucía, pale and flashing fire, violently broke free and stood still in the middle of the road. “My father,” she exclaimed aloud, with more than two hundred sobs pierced her larynx, “is honest, and he taught me to be so as well. ” “Well, it’s not known,” Miranda replied with an ironic and bitter laugh. “From the looks of it, he taught you to falsify honesty just as he must have falsified food. ” At this last burst of lightning, Lucía ran, crossed the gate, climbed the stairs no less quickly than she had come down, and locked herself in her room, giving free rein to the pain. The following letter, surely not intended by its author for publicity, much less for the applause of future generations , will give an idea of what she thought during that long night, which she spent lying on a sofa : “Dear Father Urtazu: The tantrums you told me about are starting to come, and sooner and in greater numbers than I thought. The worst part is that, now that I think about it carefully, it seems to me that I am somehow to blame. Don’t laugh at me, for God’s sake, because I’m sniffing at my tears as I dip my pen, and even that blot, which you ‘ll excuse, is because I dropped one on the paper. I’m going to tell you everything, as if I were right there at your feet in the confessional. Mr. de Artegui’s mother has died. You already know from my previous letters that this is a terrible misfortune, because it may bring with it others… I don’t even want to imagine them, Father. Anyway, I thought that Mr. de Artegui would be very sad, very sad, and that perhaps no one would remember to say kind things to him, and, above all, to speak to him about God our Lord, in whom he can’t help but believe, right, Father? But whom he will perhaps forget in these cruel times…. Moved by these considerations, I wrote him a letter, consoling him there at my mode… if you could see! It seems to me that some very good and effective things occurred to me… I told him that God sends us sorrows to convert us to him; that they are visits he pays us; in short, everything you have taught me… I also told him that he could well believe that he was not the only one who felt for that poor lady, that saint; that I wept for her with him, although I knew that she was now enjoying glory… and that I envied her… oh, that is true, Father! Who like her! To die, to go to heaven… When will I achieve such fortune! Well, returning to my story, I went to post the letter, and Miranda followed me and took me by the arm and showered me with abuse, insulting me greatly, and what I felt most sorry for, insulting my father. Poor father of my soul! What fault is it of him that I do! Let him not know anything, Father Urtazu, for the love of God. I was so indignant that I answered haughtily and locked myself in my room. I feel like someone who has had a house fall on them. My health is suffering from all these things: tell Mr. Vélez de Rada that when he sees me, he won’t like me anymore… right now I’m going crazy , and I’m experiencing very strong fainting spells. Goodbye, Father; please advise me, because I don’t know what’s happening to me. Sometimes I think I’ve done wrong, and other times I believe I’m free of all guilt. Is mercy a sin? When I look inside myself, I find mercy, and I find nothing else. Forgive the handwriting, for my hand is trembling a great deal. Please reply quickly, for charity’s sake, for we’re leaving soon, and before that, I’d like to have a letter from you. Your respectful daughter in Jesus Christ kisses your hand.—LUCÍA GONZÁLEZ. For those who, knowing Father Urtazu’s verbal style, feel a desire to learn about the epistolary style used by such a lucid man, the following note will be a delight: “Little wolf of my sins: oh, daughter, and how well things look to leave our little person in the most splendid place! Mercy, eh? I ‘ll give you mercy! You did wrong, really wrong, to write that little letter secretly from your spouse, and I’m not surprised he went all out. You should have asked his permission; and if he refused, patience! Didn’t I tell you, woman, that to be a good wife and make the trip in peace, you should pack a couple of arrobas of patience? We forgot, and look at the results… Go on, wretch, buy yourself some patience there and use it to your heart’s content, it will do you good.” Your husband shouldn’t have insulted your good-natured father, although he deserves it, and I know why; but notice that he was angry, and when one gets angry… I have a quick temper, and I consider myself. As I said: patience, and more patience; and no little skeletons for cover-ups, he said. Who puts her in the position of preacher? And don’t worry: God pushes, but He won’t drown you, for He’s no executioner; and perhaps when you least expect it, He’ll send you consolation, just like that, as a gift, and not because of your merits. And goodbye, the mail’s about to go out, and besides, I have the lungs of a frog in the microscope slide, and I’m going to see what kind of breathing these frog ladies are doing. Remember to pray a little, okay? and we’ll calm down. May the blessing of God and Saint Ignatius be with you, child.–ALONSO URTAZU, SJ When this admonition arrived, Lucía had already instinctively done what Father Urtazu advised her. Humble and meek as a lamb, her glances begged forgiveness at every step. Miranda averted his eyes from her, treating her with icy disdain. Lucía, exhausted by so much effort, and by her incessant dedication to Pilar, was changing the roses on her cheeks into lilies and was growing noticeably thinner, despite eating with a good appetite. One morning, Duhamel called her aside and said to her in his characteristic babble: “Take care of yourself, _menina…. Take care of yourself. You are going to fall ill… less vigils, less fatigue, a regular sleep…. This attendance _alters the sande_.” “Do you think I’ll catch Pilar’s disease?” Lucía asked with such calmness that Duhamel stared at her. “No, it’s not that…” The doctor lowered his voice even further, engaging her in a long and mysterious conversation. That night Lucía replied to Father Urtazu in these terms: “Dear Father: bless your mouth! It seems you have the gift of prophecy, as you rightly predicted comfort for me. I am deliriously happy, and I hardly know what I am writing. You should know that I am pregnant, according to what Señor Duhamel says, and he is a wise man, and cannot be mistaken in this. What I took for illnesses were the inconveniences of my condition… Yes; now I understand very well; but how foolish I am! How could I not have known before? It seems that I must have guessed such a great thing without anyone warning me. A son! But what a pleasure, Father Urtazu! Starting tomorrow I will begin with the layette, lest the little angel be born like Jesus, without any cloths to wrap him in… I am being silly, and I am whining, but not like the other day… today is a day of pleasure. Tomorrow or the day after we will begin the journey; Miranda and I are going to Paris for a few days before returning to León. I’m so furious to see myself there and tell Father the news. Don’t tell him, I want to take him there, and poor Pilar and her brother, to Spain, if his illness allows it, and he doesn’t have to stop in some town along the way and perhaps die there. Because I’m not fooled by her improvement; she’s marked by death. What I regret is having to leave her perhaps fifteen or twenty days before… Anyway , I’m so happy that I don’t want to think about it. Say a mass for my intention. Chapter 13. It was not possible for the Gonzalvos to continue to Spain, because about halfway through the journey Pilar felt herself seized by such anguish and sweating, with such fainting spells, retching, and fainting spells, that everyone there believed she had reached the point of death. And they even considered it a fortunate outcome that they were able to reach Paris, following the advice of Dr. Duhamel, who had hinted at the hope that perhaps a few days of rest would restore the sick woman’s strength, allowing her to begin her return home. Miranda’s expression soured, for she now believed herself free of the dying woman, whom if she didn’t care for, she was annoyed to see cared for; Lucía’s heart swelled, upset at the idea of abandoning her friend in the antechamber, so to speak, of the grave; and Perico set out to explore Paris, certain as he was that his sister would not be lacking in care. As for Pilar herself, possessed of the strange optimism characteristic of her illness, she showed great joy at visiting the metropolis of luxury and elegance, thinking of doing her winter shopping there, as if to be no less than the Amézagas warblers. They arrived in the great capital of the French Republic on a foggy, cloudy morning, and were besieged at the station by countless inn commissioners, each pointing out their respective buses and vying to take people with them. One of these men confronted Miranda, and showing his swarthy face, which carried a medium-sized snub, said in good Spanish: “Fonda de la Alavesa, gentlemen… Spanish spoken… Spanish servants too… stew served… Rue Saint Honoré, the most central spot… ” “It will be best to go there…” said Duhamel, touching Miranda on the arm. “In that Spanish house they will take better care of the patient… ” “Come then,” replied Miranda resignedly, handing his luggage check to the commissioner. “Listen,” he continued, turning to Perico, “you and I will leave with the luggage on the inn’s bus; But we’re going to dispatch Lucía and Pilar right away in one of those cabs… They’re more maneuverable. They carried Pilar almost in their arms, from the apartment to the sedan, and the coachman whipped the rickety nag. The commissioner settled himself on the box, not without first making many orders and explanations to the postilion of the omnibus. When, after rolling through wide and magnificent streets, the cab stopped in front of the Alavesa Inn, Lucía jumped to the ground, light as a partridge, saying to the commissioner: “I beg you to help me get this young lady out, she’s sick…” But suddenly, looking at the man’s face, he exclaimed with a loud voice: “Sardiola! ” “Miss!” replied the Basque with no less joy, cordiality, and surprise. “I never knew you! Fool that I was! You see, there are so many travelers to carry and bring and wait for and see off at that blessed station… Jesus!” And after scrutinizing Lucía for a few more moments, he added: “No, it’s because you’ve also greatly disfigured yourself… You don’t look the same as when Señor Ignacio accompanied you… ” At this name, which no human voice had made resonate in her ears for so long, Lucía lit up and turned as red as a cherry; and lowering her eyes, she murmured: “Let’s go up to our rooms… Pilar, come. Put one arm around my neck… the other around Sardiola… lean on me without fear, come on… Do you want us to take you to the queen’s chair?” And the Basque man and his valiant friend clasped hands and gently lifted the sick woman onto the improvised throne. Pilar sank down like an inert body, resting her head on Lucía’s neck and moistening it with the viscous sweat of her fever. They ascended the stairs to the mezzanine, where Sardiola led the two women into a large, spacious room complete with a marble fireplace, monumental hanging beds, a somewhat faded and threadbare carpet , sinks, and classic hangers. The room opened onto a small garden, in the center of which a light wooden and glass pavilion served as a bathroom. They placed Pilar in an armchair, and Sardiola stood awaiting orders. His gaze, black and shining like a Newfoundland puppy’s, fixed on Lucía with truly canine submission and affection. Lucía, for her part, bit her lip to hold back the questions that impatiently appeared. Sardiola guessed, with the faithful instinct of a domestic animal, and anticipated the wish. “When the ladies need anything,” he said timidly, like someone who doesn’t dare to do a favor, “always call me,” always… If I’m at the station, call for Juanilla… she’s the chambermaid for this section, a girl as smart as a pepper… But whenever I can be of any use… come on, I’d be very happy; it’s enough to have seen the lady with Master Ignacio… And when Lucía remained silent, questioning only with the silent and ardent language of her eyes, the Basque continued. “Because… doesn’t the lady know? Well, it was Master Ignacio who placed me here!” Since Alavesa brought Juanilla, who is my first cousin… I was, well, so sad to see the columns of foreigners running around those peaks where only, with God’s help, we climbed, the country lads and the wild beasts of the mountains… and in short, I was dying of grief that season… I wrote a letter to the young master… his mother was still alive, may God rest her soul! and she recommended me to Alavesa… and here I am, feeling quite at ease… Lucía’s pupils asked more and more urgently. Sardiola continued: “Well, what I liked most was living so close to the young master… ” “So close?” they asked him, voiceless, their eyes shining. “So close,” he answered complacently, “so close, that it’s a gift!” that crossing that garden, one enters his house…. Lucía ran to the balcony, and this time pale as wax, she stood there gazing with wild eyes at the building in front of her. Sardiola followed her, and even the sick woman turned her head in curiosity. “Do you see?” Sardiola explained. “Do you see this side of the building and the other one that makes a corner with it? Well, that’s the inn. But do you see that other one that forms the third side of the picture? It’s Don Ignacio’s house; it leads down to the Rue de Rívoli…. Do you see those little steps that lead into the garden? That’s where you go up to the dining room… they have it on the ground floor: a very beautiful dining room! The whole house is very good; Don Ignacio’s father earned a lot…. Do you see that little tree there, next to the stairs? That stunted plane tree?” There the young man took out his mother, who seems to have died of something that I don’t know what they call it, but anyway, which is to swell up so much… and since she was sometimes overcome with such violent choking, and was left breathless, like a fish out of water, they had to bring her into the garden… the whole space was too small for her, and she would often stay there for an hour panting… If you could see the young gentleman! That’s what it’s called taking care of a person… he held her head, warmed her feet with his hands, gave her four thousand kisses an hour, fanned her with a fan… come on, it was a sight to see! A finer soul, God didn’t bring her into the world, nor will He bring her back again in this entire century … The day she died, the blessed saint, she looked so smiling… and so natural, and so pretty, with her blond hair… He certainly looked like the dead man; if they put him in the coffin, anyone would bury him. “Shut up,” the eloquent eyes suddenly commanded. And Sardiola obeyed. It was then that Duhamel, Miranda, and Perico were entering. Duhamel examined the room thoroughly and, in his frank Portuguese jargon, declared it warm, comfortable, quite low and well-ventilated, and in every way suitable for the sick woman. Miranda and Perico retired to the next room to wash, and tacitly, without any discussion, it was resolved that the sick woman and the nurse would remain together, and the two men would also occupy the next room together. Miranda did not object to this sacrifice on the part of Lucia, because Duhamel, calling him aside, informed him that the matter was going to be resolved by post, and that he hardly believed the sick woman would last a month. In view of which, he heartily proposed to take the portant within eight or ten days, taking his wife under some pretext. But fate, which had decided in a very different way to tie up the loose ends of these events, arranged, with Perico as its instrument, that Miranda should soon begin to find himself satisfied, entertained, and delighted in that Babylon and Gulf of Paris, through whose reefs and shallows Gonzalvo piloted him with more skill and dexterity than good intentions. “What the devil, what the devil are you doing now, going into León?” Perico exclaimed. “You’ll have plenty of time, plenty of time, to be bored… look, take advantage of it now… You’re so hot! Ten years, ten years, those waters took you away from me.” The rogue already knew what he was doing. Neither father nor aunt seemed very willing to come and take care of Pilar, and he foresaw the setback of having to stay on as a nurse…. His mind, fertile in tricks, suggested a thousand ways to enchant Miranda in that magical city that already entrances all who set foot in it. Lucía’s husband learned the refinements of French cuisine from the best restaurateurs, deafening all talkers; and with the expert taste of his mature age, he came to take great interest in whether the hollandaise sauce was better here than two doors down, and in whether or not the stuffed mushrooms were in the best season to be savored. In addition to these culinary pleasures, he became fond of the comical theatrics that abound in Paris: he was amused by the picaresque songs, the clown’s antics, the playful music, and the light, almost paradisiacal costumes of those blessed nymphs who disguised themselves as saucepans, violins, or dolls. It is even whispered—though there is no data to establish it as a rigorous historical truth—that the illustrious former handsome young man wanted to recall his past glories and pour a little watering can over his dry and withered laurels, and chose as his accomplice a certain stage rat, named Zulma in the learned theatrical academy, although it is established that in less Olympian regions she may have been called Antonia, Dionisia, or something like that. She had the finest wit in the world when it came to singing the refrain refrain of certain chansonnettes; and it was enough to make one burst out laughing when, with one hand on one’s waist, one’s right leg in the air, one’s eyes winked and one’s mouth half open, one let out a scoundrel’s exclamation, a cry that came straight from the fishmongers and markets to rest on one’s purple lips, to the delight and contentment of the spectators. Nor were these the only graces and The singer’s wit, once the best of her repertoire, the quintessence of her antics, was reserved for the sweet intimacy of the fortunate mortals who managed to approach that Danæa of the wings, well-supplied with gold dust. With what feline flattery she would pat her belly, and call serious sixty-somethings “little mice,” ” her little dogs,” “kittens,” “bibis,” and other affectionate and pampering appellations that tasted of syrup and honey! What can I say about the wit and incomparable grace with which she held a Russian cigarette between her pearly teeth , sending up wisps of blue smoke into the air, while the contraction of her lips highlighted her rolled-up nose and the dimples of her rosy cheeks? What of her mastery of occupying two chairs at once without actually sitting on either of them, and since her spine rested on the first, her heels on the second? What of the agility and dexterity with which she slurped ten dozen green oysters in ten minutes, and drank two or three bottles of Rhine, which seemed to have had its throat anointed with oil and tallow to make it smooth and supple? What of the laughing eloquence with which she proved to her friends that such a ring of stones was too tight on their fingers, while it fit her like a glove? In short, if the adventure that was whispered about back then in the wings of a small theater and at the round table of the Alavesa seems unworthy of the traditional prosopopoeia of the Mirandese lineage, it is at least fair to note that the heroine was the most entertaining, witty, and compromising zapaquilda of all those who sang out of tune and catlike on the Paris stages. While Perico and Miranda were thus warding off their bad moods, Pilar’s remaining lung was gradually dissolving, like a board gnawed by woodworm. She didn’t get worse, because she couldn’t be any worse, and her life, more than a life, was a slow, not very painful agony, embittered only by coughing fits that brought the phlegm from her destroyed lung to her throat, threatening to suffocate the sick woman. Life was there like the remnant of flame in the almost consumed wick: the slightest movement, a little air, was enough to extinguish it completely. Partial aphonia had set in, and she could barely speak, and only in a very low, muffled voice, like that of a drum stuffed with raw cotton. She was overcome by persistent, prolonged drowsiness; deep sleepiness, in which her entire body, plunged into a vague apathy, mimicked and sensed the final rest of the grave. Her eyes closed, her body motionless, her feet together as if in a coffin, she remained for hours on end on the bed, giving no other sign of life than her light, wheezing breath. It was the midday hours when comatose sleep would most often attack her, and the nurse, who could do nothing but let her rest, overwhelmed by the thick atmosphere of the room, impregnated with the fumes of medicine and the vapors of sweat, atoms of that human being who was dissolving, would go out onto the little balcony, go down the stairs leading to the garden, and, taking advantage of the shade of the stunted plane tree, spend the idle hours there sewing or crocheting. Her work and patterns consisted of microscopic little shirts, no bigger bibs, and neatly scalloped diapers. The afternoons passed unnoticed in such secret and sweet labor ; and occasionally the needle would slip from her agile fingers, and the silence, the seclusion, the serenity of the sky, the soft murmur of the meager saplings would induce the laborious seamstress into some contemplative rapture. The sun cast golden shafts through the foliage onto the sand of the streets; the cold was dry and mild at that hour; the three walls of the hotel and Artegui’s house formed a kind of natural stove, collecting all the solar heat and throwing it onto the garden. The gate, which enclosed the quadrilateral, faced the Rue de Rivoli, and through its ironwork one could see passing, wrapped in the blue mists of the afternoon, narrow sedans, swift victories, and landaus racing along. A spirited trot of their prized trunks, riders who from a distance resembled puppets, and laborers who looked like Chinese shadows. In the distance, the steel of a stirrup sometimes shone, the color of a suit or a livery, the rapid spin of the varnished spokes of a wheel. Lucía observed the differences in the horses. There were Normans, powerful of haunch, strong of neck, sharp of skin, slow in their maneuvering, which simultaneously pulled the wide carts vigorously and smoothly; there were English ones, long-necked, ungainly, and extremely elegant, which trotted with the precision of marvelous automatons; Arabs, with fiery eyes, impatient and dilated nostrils, polished hooves, dry skin, and lean backs; Spaniards, though few, with opulent manes, superb chests, broad backs, and corveting, rebellious hands. As the sun was setting, the cars could be distinguished in the distance by the flickering sparkle of their lanterns; but, colors and shapes now merging, Lucía’s eyes grew weary of following them, and with renewed melancholy, they rested on the small, unremarkable garden. Sometimes her solitude was disturbed there, not by any traveler, male or female—those who come to Paris don’t usually spend the afternoon working under a plane tree—but by Sardiola himself, who, under the pretext of bringing a watering can to the plants, pulling out a few weeds, or leveling the sand a little with the impeller, would exchange long conversations with his thoughtful compatriot. The fact is that they never lacked for conversation. Lucía’s eyes were no less tireless in asking questions than Sardiola’s tongue was eager to answer . Never were things that were, strictly speaking, very insignificant described in such detail . Lucía was already aware of Artegui’s peculiarities, tastes, and special ideas, knowing his character and the events of his life, which offered nothing unusual. The reader may be surprised at how well-informed Sardiola was about the man he had only known for a short time; but it should be noted that the Basque man was from a place very close to the Arteguis’ estate and a close friend of the old wet nurse, the only one now caring for the solitary house. In their devilish dialect, the two conversed at length, and the poor woman could only recount her child’s pleasantries, which Sardiola listened to as enthralled as if he, too, had held the unmanly office of Engracia. Through this channel, Lucía came to know, in detail, the most minute details of Ignacio’s genius and character: his melancholic and always silent childhood, his misanthropic youth, and many other things concerning his parents, family, and estate. Is it true that sometimes Fate is pleased that, by strange means, along winding paths, two existences meet, and they stumble at every step, influencing one another, without cause or reason? Is it true that just as there are threads of sympathy that unite them, there is another thread hidden in the facts, which finally brings them together in the material and tangible sphere? “Don Ignacio,” said the good Sardiola, “was always like that. Look, they say he never suffered from anything about his body… not even a toothache!” But Mistress Engracia assures us that from the cradle he had one, sort of an illness… beyond the soul or the understanding, or who knows what! As a child, he would be seized with fears at dusk and at night, for no one knew what! his eyes would get bigger, like this, like this… Sardiola would trace an ever-bigger O in the air with his thumb and forefinger, and he would curl up into a ball in a corner of the room without crying, and spend time like that , quietly, until God came up… He didn’t want to mention his visions; but one day he confessed to his mother that he was seeing terrible things, everyone in his house with dead faces, bathing and splashing beautifully in a pool of blood… Anyway, a thousand absurdities. The strange thing is that in sunlight the young master was always a lion, as we all know… in war he was a joy to see… thank God! He would get into bullets as well as candy… He never used weapons, but a satchel hanging from which there were I don’t know how many things: scalpels, lancets, tweezers, bandages, taffeta… Besides, his pockets were stuffed with lint, rags, and raw cotton… I tell you, miss, if one were to earn rank by not being disgusted with liberal gherkins, no one would earn them better than Don Ignacio… Once a bomb fell, just like that, two steps from him… he stood there staring at it, no doubt waiting for it to explode, and if Sergeant Urrea, who was standing very close by, hadn’t grabbed him by the arm… He wouldn’t back down from bayonet charges, either . In one of these, a foreign soldier, curse his lineage!, went straight for him with his skewer in hand… What are you saying my Don Ignacio did? Not even the devil could think of anything… He brushed it away with his hand as if brushing away a mosquito, and the barbarian lowered his bayonet and let himself be brushed away. The young gentleman had a face then… Good heavens, what a face! So serious and yet kind, that soul of a pitcher must have been cut off. Then there were details about the son’s care of his mother during her final illness. “I seem to be seeing them… There, there, where you are, Señora Doña Armanda; and he, here, like this, just like me, with all due respect…” Well, he would get down, raise her feet and rest them on a stool… like this, like this, and place behind her head up to a dozen pillows, cushions, and bolsters, of different sizes and shapes, all to accommodate the poor lady’s breathing… And the syrups, and the potions… digitalis here, atropine there… oh no! Not even then… the poor thing finally died… Do you believe Don Ignacio didn’t go to any extremes? He’s a pit; He keeps everything to himself, and thus he suffocates what he keeps enclosing, enclosing… He didn’t fool me with his serenity… because when he said to me: “Sardiola, you will accompany me tonight to watch over her,” I remembered, look here, miss, what nonsense! Well, I remembered a bugler in our ranks, who played some famous reveilles on his instrument, which was so clear and so full and so beautiful… and one day he played badly, and when we were making fun of him, he took the bugle, and blew into it and said to us: “Boys, she’s had a moment of grief and she’s blown her top, my poor thing…” Well, look, the same difference in tone that I noticed in that fool Triguillos’ bugle, I noticed in the young man’s voice… you know he has a very sonorous sound, it would be a joy to hear him give orders… and that day… his voice was cracked, come on. In short, he shrouded Doña Armanda, and he and I held a wake for her, and at dawn… boom! A special train was off to Brittany with the body in a coffin made of rosewood trimmed with silver: to the castle made of I don’t know what, to bury the poor lady with her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. Lucía, who had laid her work on her lap and was listening with all her life and soul, put all her eyes on the floor to silently ask Sardiola something. The
intelligent Basque responded immediately: “He hasn’t returned since then, and it’s unknown what he plans to do… Engracia doesn’t know the world’s plans… Although he never says anything to anyone in this world about what he plans, nor… Engracia is all alone there, because she saw the other servants off very well rewarded when she left… She tidies up the little… the nothing that needs tidying up there… Open the windows sometimes so the damp doesn’t have fun with the furniture… dust them with a feather duster… Lucía turned her head and looked at the windows, closed at the time, through which she could see at intervals the figure of an elderly woman crossing, her head adorned with the traditional Guipuzcoan coba, held in place with two golden pins. “The house deserves to be looked after,” continued Sardiola, “because that blessed Doña Armanda kept it like a silver cup… very well adorned, and very capable… And now that I think of it,” he exclaimed, fiercely slapping himself on the forehead, “Miss… why don’t you go and see it? I’ll tell Engracia… she’ll show us the whole thing… come on, decide for yourself. ” “No,” Lucia answered weakly, “why… ” “To see it! Of course… You’ll see Señorito Ignacio’s room, with his books and his little toys, which are all ” Good , Sardiola,” Lucía responded, as if asking for a truce. “Someday I’ll get in the mood… Today I’m not in the mood for it. I’ll let you know. ” Lucía was, in fact, quite brooding, due to a circumstance that mattered to no one but her. Duhamel had informed her that Pilar’s end was imminent, and Pilar, not suspecting it in the least, gave no indication of wanting to prepare her soul for the terrible step. They spoke to her about God, and she answered, in a barely audible voice, about fashions or travels; they wanted to remind her of sad things, and the unfortunate woman, almost without a breath of life, would share some festive remark, which took on the color of a cemetery as it passed through her livid lips. All of Lucía’s pious rhetoric shattered before the invincible and beneficial illusion of the final hour. She went to Miranda and Perico demanding help, and both shrugged their shoulders, declaring themselves completely inexperienced and ill-suited to such matters. The very day she decided to speak to them about the matter, they had arranged to have dinner with Zulma and her fellow non-martyrs in Brébant’s warmest and most secluded office. What a brave thought to think about such things! However, someone got Lucía out of this mess; and it was none other than Sardiola, who knew a fellow Jesuit, Father Arrigoitia, and brought him over in a jiffy. Father Arrigoitia was as tall as a reed, bent at the waist, sweet as syrup, and as affectionate and insinuating as his fellow countryman, Father Urtazu, was brusque and unloving. He entered under the pretext of a visit from Pilar’s aunt , returned expressing great interest in the sick woman’s physical health, brought earth from the holy grotto of Manresa and pectoral tablets from Belmet, all together and wrapped in many little papers, and in short, he displayed such skill and artistry that a week after meeting and treating him, Pilar spontaneously asked for what the Jesuit and the nurse so desired to give her. As Father Arrigoitia left the room of the woman we can rightly call dying, after having pronounced the words of absolution, he heard behind the door the howling of a distressed chest, and heard a voice saying: “Thank you… thank you very much… Lucía was there, weeping profusely. “To God be given… ” the Jesuit replied affably. “Come on, don’t worry, my lady Doña Lucía… on the contrary. We are in luck. ” “No… no, it is with joy,” the nurse replied. And as the black cassock and the high, swathed waistline moved away, he softly said, “Ce, ce.” The Jesuit turned. “I too, Father Arrigoitia, want to confess, soon, soon. ” “Ah! Good, good… but you are not in danger of dying, thank the Lord… at Saint-Sulpice, confessional on the right, just inside… always at your service, my lady. I will return, I will return to see our sick girl… there’s no need to cry… You look like a Madeleine!” That afternoon, Lucia went down to the garden as usual. But her limbs and spirit were so tired that, resting her head against the trunk of the plane tree, she fell asleep. She soon began to dream: and the strange thing about it is that she didn’t dream of finding herself in any new or unknown place , but right there, in the little garden; only the capricious representations of the dream transformed it from a small and narrow dream into an enormous one. It was the garden itself, but seen through a colossal magnifying glass. The fence could only be seen from a fabulous distance, like a row of bright points on the horizon; and such an increase in size heightened the sadness of the small garden, making it seem more like a dry and parched wasteland. Walking through it, Lucía fixed her gaze on the facade of Artegui’s house, from one of whose windows a pale hand emerged, beckoning to her. Was it a man’s or a woman’s hand? Was it a living person’s, or a corpse’s? Lucía didn’t know; but the mysterious calls of that unknown right hand drew her ever closer, and running, running, she tried to get closer to the house; but the wasteland stretched on, behind some streets. From the sand came others, and after walking for hours and hours she still saw before her a very long row of spindly plane trees, the end of which was nowhere to be seen, and Artegui’s house further away than ever. And her hand made impatient and furious signs, like the right hand of an epileptic shaking in the air: her five fingers were blades incessantly turning, and Lucía, disheartened, panting, was running at full speed, and each plane tree was succeeded by another, and the house far away… far away… “Fool that I am!” she exclaimed at last; “since I’ll never get there running… I’ll fly.” No sooner said than done: as one flies so quickly in dreams, Lucía raised herself and… pim! into the air with a leap. Oh pleasure! Oh glory! The wasteland was below; She soared through the surrounding region, pure, serene, blue, and now the house was not far away, and now the eternal plane trees were ending, and now she could make out the body that owned the hand… it was a slender body without being thin, worthily topped by a manly and melancholy head… but which then smiled affectionately, with infinite expansion… How Lucia flew! How she breathed with pleasure in the serene atmosphere! Cheer up, she was almost there… Lucia listened to the beating of her own wings, because she had wings; and the precious freshness of their feathers cooled her heart… She was now close to the window… Suddenly she felt two sharp pains, like a twin wound made by two weapons at the same time: she saw an enormous pair of scissors hovering over her ; she saw two white and bloody dove wings fall to the ground; and, although not as powerful, she fell too, but from a prodigious height; not to the garden floor, but to a precipice, a very deep, very deep chasm… There at the bottom two little lights burned, and the compassionate eyes of a woman dressed in white looked down at her… No more and no less than she was falling into the grotto of Lourdes… it could not be anyone else; it was just as she had seen it in the church of Saint Louis in Vichy; even the Virgin had the same rosebushes, the same chrysanthemums… oh, how fresh and beautiful the grotto was , with its murmuring little spring! Lucia longed to arrive… but the anguish of the fall woke her, as always happens in nightmares. Chapter 14. A few days after Pilar had confessed, she expired. Her death was almost sweet and completely unexpected, in that it lacked agony. A phlegm greater than any other stopped her breathing for a few seconds, and the weak light of life went out in the exhausted lamp. Lucía was alone with her, holding her head to cough, at which point, suddenly bending her neck, the consumptive gave up her soul. This horrible disease of consumption has such diverse phases and aspects that some patients, upon dying, count the moments remaining in their existence, and others fall, surprised, into eternity, like a wild beast in a noose. Lucía, who had never seen dead people, could not imagine it was anything but a profound fainting spell; she believed that the spirit did not abandon its mortal garment without a struggle and greater longings. She ran out screaming and calling for help; Sardiola came first to her voice, and shaking his head, said: “It’s over. ” Miranda and Perico arrived shortly; they were just home, just around eleven, time to change their beds for lunch. Miranda raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them, and said, lowering his voice to a deep note: “He was something to be feared, something to be feared… Yes, he was very ill… But so suddenly, sir… it seems impossible… As for Perico, he hid his head in his hands and murmured more than three dozen “Jesus, Jesus… Good heavens, good heavens… What a misfortune, what a misfortune…” and I must add, in honor of the sensitivity of the illustrious chicken, that his face changed considerably, and a few drops of what poets call the dew of the soul struggled to emerge from his tear ducts, and finally emerged . I did not want to omit these details, so that no one might think that Perico was bad, when, according to research and curious statistical data, it appears that he was still worth more than two-thirds of Adán’s offspring. Truly sad and gloomy , he allowed himself to be led by Miranda to his room, and it is also a known fact that during the whole course of that day no more people entered his body. food than two cups of tea and a boiled egg, which her extreme weakness forced her to sip late into the night. Father Arrigoitia and the doctor Duhamel, in agreement with Miranda and telegraphically authorized by the disconsolate Gonzalvo family, provided the deceased with everything she needed: a shroud and a coffin. Pilar, dressed in the habit of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, was laid out in the coffin on her own bed; they lit the lights and left her, Spanish-style, in the mortuary chamber, disregarding the French custom of converting the portal into a chapel, exposing the body there so that anyone who passed by could sprinkle it with a boxwood branch floating in a cauldron of holy water. The burial, obsequies, and funeral were to take place the following day. Everything was done with such speed and skill that it was no sooner than three in the afternoon when, in the now tidy room, near the open balcony, Father Arrigoitia was reading the prayers for the dead from his Breviary, and Lucia answered him between sobs, “Amen.” The flame of the candles, consumed by the glorious brightness of the sun, was nothing more than a reddish point, in the center of which the black line of the wick could be distinguished. In the distance, the dull roll of the carriages could be heard, announced beforehand by the rattling of the windows; and dominating the murmurs of the street, the voice of the Jesuit said: “Qui quasi putredo consumendus sum, et quasi Vestimentum quod comeditur a tinea.” Protesting against the chant of death, the beautiful winter sun sent its rays to the priest’s bowed, gray-haired head, and lit up with warm tones the nape of Lucia’s neck, also bowed. And the prayer continued: “Heu mihi, Domine, quia pecavi nimis in vita mea.” A brighter and more direct ray of light crept into the chamber and settled on the deceased. Pilar was wasted and a thin blackbird; death added neither majesty nor beauty to that residue of organism devoured by exhaustion and fever. The white headscarf emphasized the greenish pallor of her gaunt face. She seemed to have shrunk and diminished in stature. Her expression was vague, between a smile and a grimace. Her ivory teeth were visible. On her chest, the brass of a crucifix that Father Arrigoitia had placed in her hands gleamed in the sunlight. The Jesuit and his friend prayed for about an hour; but after that time, the Father rose, saying that in order to return to her wake, he needed to go home and attend to some urgent matters that required him. He looked at Lucía, and seeing her pale complexion and swollen eyes, he said kindly: “Go back a bit, daughter, and rest… you’re the color of death. God doesn’t command you to treat yourself like this. ” “What I’ll do, Father,” Lucía replied, “is go down to the garden for a while to get some fresh air… Juanilla will stay here… My head is burning, I need some air.” The Jesuit fixed his gaze on her again, and quickly, approaching her ear and spelling out words as if in the confessional, he murmured: “Now that that poor thing is dead… you know my advice, don’t you? Land in the middle, daughter! This neighborhood… this air doesn’t suit her. León… If they send me there… I must congratulate her.” And as Lucía looked at him most eloquently, he added: “Yes, yes… land in the middle. How many sick souls have I cured with that alone! Well, see you later… see you soon. Yes, my dear daughter, yes; God records all those things in heaven… ” “Father… I wish I were that one…” Lucía murmured, pointing to the dead woman. “My Virgin! No, daughter… to live to serve God… fulfilling His will… See you later, eh?” When Lucia went down to the garden, it seemed to her eyes, tired of crying, less weak and arid than usual. The yuccas raised their majestic heads, perpetually crowned; the ivy gave off a faint country scent, always more pleasant than the smell of wax. The sun was already retreating, but it still gilded the spearheads on the fence. Out of habit, Lucia sat under the plane tree, which, bare from winter, had already lost a single leaf to provide shade. The repose of that lonely little corner brought back familiar thoughts. No, Lucía couldn’t cry anymore; her dry eyes held no tears; what she longed for was rest, rest…. God and nature had forbidden her to think about death; so, employing an ingenious subterfuge, she thought of a very long sleep, one that would have no end…. Absorbed, she saw Sardiola running toward her. “Miss… miss…” The good Basque was suffocating. “What’s up?” she said, and languidly raised her head. “He’s there,” Sardiola said, choking. “He’s… there…” Lucía stood up straight as a statue and placed both hands on her chest. “Young master… young master Ignacio…. He arrived this morning… he’s leaving tonight… to an unknown place… he wouldn’t see me… Engracia says he’s more distraught than when he left for Brittany… ” “Sardiola…” Lucía pronounced with difficulty, her heart no bigger than a walnut. “Sardiola… ” “I have to go up, they’re needing me at every step… with today’s misfortune , there are a thousand errands… Do you want anything, miss? Nothing…” And Lucía’s muffled voice expired in her throat. Her ears were buzzing, and the fence, walls, plane trees, and yucca spun around her. Thus there are supreme moments in life when sentiment, hidden for long hours, rises roaring and overpowering, and proclaims itself the master of a soul. It already was; but the soul perhaps ignored it or only suspected it; until a sudden brand of reddened iron comes to reveal its slavery. Although the simile may seem profane, I will say that this is something that happens with conversions: the spirit floats undecided for a time, without knowing which direction it is taking or what is causing its unease, until a voice from on high, a dazzling light, suddenly dispels all doubt. The assault is soon, resistance is null, victory is assured. The sun was rapidly descending into its setting, shadow was falling over the garden; Sardiola, the faithful greyhound that had given the alarming bark, was no longer there. Lucia looked around with vague eyes and raised her hands to her oppressed throat. Then she turned her gaze to the façade, as if its massive walls could by magic turn to crystal and reveal what was hidden within. She was fascinated, stifling a scream before it could even begin. The dining room door was ajar. This was what happened many afternoons, whenever Mistress Engracia decided to take a moment to cool off on the threshold, chatting with Sardiola; but at that moment, Lucía felt the half-open door penetrate her with icy terror and ardent joy at the same time. Her brain, devoid of ideas, contained only a monotonous , rhythmic drone, repeating like the pendulum of a timetable: “He came this morning, he’s leaving tonight…” And finally, the repetition irritated her so much that she only heard the word “night, night, night,” a word that seemed to vibrate, like those luminous points one sees in the darkness during insomnia, which approach and recede, without any movement , by the mere shaking of their molecules. She pressed her temples as if to stop the tenacious pendulum, and slowly, step by step, she made her way to the hall of Artegui’s house. As she set foot on the first step of the stairs, the buzzing music of her blood sang in her ears like a chorus of a hundred bluebottles. It seemed to be saying, “Don’t go, don’t go.” And another hissed and mysterious voice, the voice of the wind in the dry branches of the plane tree, murmured to her in a prolonged whisper, “Go up, go up, go up.” She went up. When she reached the second step, she tripped, stepping on her dress , and only then did she realize that her black merino dressing gown, stained from attendance, wrinkled from long vigils, was very ugly and rather carelessly cut. She also saw that the cuffs of her dress were a rag, soaked with tears, and her skirt was strewn with threads from her work. She moved mechanically with both hands, shaking out the ends of the thread, and slightly straightened her cuffs as she reached the door. Here she hesitated still; but the semi-darkness that now reigned gave her courage. She pushed open the doors and found herself in a large, gloomy room , which was none other than the dining room. Because the walls were covered with an imitation of antique Cordoban leather, it seemed much more somber, aided by the tall carved oak sideboards and similarly carved benches. “This is the dining room,” said Lucía aloud. And she looked around in search of the door. It was at the far end, bordering the garden, and Lucía raised the thick curtain and placed her trembling hand on the latch, stepping out into an almost pitch-black corridor. She found herself breathless, and what was worse, without knowing where she was going. Then she cursed a thousand times her stubbornness for not having wanted to visit the house sooner. Suddenly she heard a noise, a loud stumble, a clash of dishes and crockery… Housekeeper Engracia was undoubtedly scrubbing the plates in the kitchen. How did Lucía guess so quickly? Understanding sharpens during critical and extraordinary hours. Guided negatively by the noise, Lucía continued walking in the opposite direction, toward the end of the hallway, where silence reigned. The carpeted floor muffled her stride, and with both hands outstretched, she felt the two walls searching for a door. Finally, she felt the wall give way, and, still with her hands in front of her, she entered a room that seemed small, and where as she passed, she tripped over several objects, including some metal bars that looked like a bed. From there, she went to another, much larger room, still lit by a faint sliver of daylight coming in through a high window. Lucía didn’t doubt her accuracy for a moment : that room must be Artegui’s. There were shelves laden with volumes, precious animal skins tossed disdainfully onto the carpet, a divan, a panoply of rich weapons, a few anatomical figures, an enormous writing table with papers in disarray, terracotta and bronze statues, and on the divan a portrait of a woman whose features were indistinguishable. Lucía sank onto the divan, half fainting, crossing both hands over her left breast, which was raised by the disordered beating of her heart, and saying aloud: “Here.” She remained like that for a while, without thinking, without desiring, surrendered only to the pleasure of being there, where Artegui lived. The darkness grew, and at last it would have been complete if the glow of a border street lamp hadn’t broken across the windowpanes. The sight of the light made Lucía jump on the divan. “It’s nighttime,” she exclaimed aloud. A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind. Surely they had already asked for her at the inn. Perhaps Father Arrigoitia was back; and they would go mad looking for her in the garden, in her room, everywhere. She herself didn’t know why she remembered Father Arrigoitia before Miranda; but the truth was that her main fear was that she would come face to face with the affable Jesuit, who would say to her smilingly: “Where do you come from, my child?” Harassed by such thoughts, she staggered to her feet , muttering between her teeth: “It isn’t fair that the dead woman should be alone…” And she looked for the exit, but suddenly she stopped, paralyzed, like an automaton whose windup has run out… She heard footsteps in the corridor, footsteps approaching , strong and resolute footsteps: they were not, no, those of Mistress Engracia. The door of the large chamber opened, and a person entered. Lucía was already in the small chamber and remained behind the curtain. This one was n’t completely closed. Through the crack, she saw the newcomer light a match and then a candle; but the light was abundant, and now, without it, she had recognized Artegui. Now she could see him clearly; it was him, but even more dejected and haggard than when she had last seen him; his face was veiled in crimson , and his black beard cast a shadow over him; his eyes shone as if he were feverish. He sat at the desk and wrote two or three letters. He stood face to face with Lucía, and she devoured him. with his eyes. With each letter Artegui closed, he would say to himself: “I’ve seen him now; let’s go.” And he would stay. Finally, Artegui stood up and did something strange: he went up to the portrait hanging over the divan and kissed it. Lucía looked anxiously at that place, and seeing the face of a lady, but similar to Artegui’s, she murmured: “His mother.” After which, the pessimist opened a drawer in his writing table and took out a long, shining object, which he recognized with the greatest care… He was absorbed in his occupation when he felt someone seize his arm with convulsive force, and he saw before him a pale woman, paler than he, her eyes burning and fixed like two burning coals, her mouth open to speak… but mute, mute. He dropped the pistol, which fell to the carpet with a dull thud, and clasped the woman close. Her waist swayed like a broken flower, and he found himself holding Lucía, lifeless, in his arms. Astonished, he placed her on the couch and, bringing a bottle of lavender from his dressing room, poured it all over her temples and wrists, breaking the buttonholes of her gown at the same time in his haste to loosen her corset. It didn’t occur to him to call Mistress Engracia; on the contrary, he murmured very softly: “Lucía… can you hear me? Lucía… Lucía… it’s me, just me… Lucía!” She opened her eyes, still cloudy and vague, and answered, also very softly, but clearly: “I’m here, Don Ignacio. Where are you? ” “Here… right here… can’t you see me? Here, beside you… ” “Yes, yes, I see… Is it you?” “Explain to me this… this miracle, Lucía, for God’s sake. How did you get here?” “Explain… explain, I can’t, Don Ignacio… my head is like this… Since you were here… I wanted to see you… and I said: Well , I must see you… No, not me, a hundred thousand little birds inside me said so… They said it. And I came. I don’t know any more. ” “Rest,” Artegui said in a very sweet voice, speaking softly, as one speaks to children. “Put your head on the cushion… Do you want tea… anything? Do you feel better? ” “No, rest, rest. Like this… like this…” Lucía closed her eyes, and leaning back on the couch, fell silent. Artegui looked at her anxiously, his pupils dilated, still trembling with surprise and astonishment. He straightened her tattered dress and placed a stool at her feet, stretching her gown so that it covered them. Lucia remained motionless, murmuring words under her breath, still rambling a little, but now with more connection, and clearer speech. –I don’t even know how I got to the room… I was afraid, very afraid of running into someone… into Mistress Engracia… but I said: go ahead: Sardiola assures me that he’s leaving today… and if he does… you too will go to León… and then, for the rest of your life, and for eternity, Lucía, if you don’t see him in heaven, I don’t know where you’ll see him… When you think about things like that you have courage… I was trembling, trembling like a man with mercury: maybe I’ve broken something in the little room… I would feel sorry for it… and I will also feel sorry if Father Urtazu and Father Arrigoitia criticize my behavior… they will criticize it, yes they will criticize it… I will tell them that I only wanted to see him for a minute… as the light was falling on his face, I saw him very well: he is so pale… always pale! Pilar is too… and I… and everyone… and the world, yes, the world has turned a color that… used to be pink and sky blue… but now… well, since I wanted to see him, I came in…. The dining room is large. Housekeeper Engracia was washing the dishes…. I did run. It was a coincidence that I came across his room. It’s a very pretty room. It has a portrait of his mother: poor lady! Duhamel is a great doctor, but there are illnesses that can only be cured, I say… in the pit. Everything is cured there. How good it must be there… and here too. It’s very good… it makes you want to sleep, because… “Sleep, Lucía, my soul and my life,” she murmured in a passionate and vibrant voice. ” Sleep, under my protection and do not be afraid. Sleep: not even in your childhood bed, watched over by your mother, did you sleep more safely. Let them come, let them come to “I’m here to look for you.” Like a doe treacherously wounded by an arrow, Lucía sprang at the sound of those words, and opening her eyes and passing her hand over her brow, she stood before Artegui, looking in all directions, her cheeks flushed with a sudden blush, her gaze and understanding now clear. “But…” she exclaimed in a different tone, “I’m here… yes, now I know why I came, and what I came for, and when… and now I remember too… Ah, Don Ignacio, Don Ignacio! You will be astonished, and with good reason, to have found me when you least expected it… What an instant I came in! Thank you, my Virgin and mother; now I have my five senses and my sanity at my command, and I can throw myself at your feet, Don Ignacio, and say to you: for God’s sake, sir, for the memory of your lady mother, who is in heaven, for… I don’t know why!” In any case, don’t come back…. Promise me that you won’t think of taking your life again, you can use it so well!… If I knew how to talk and were as wise as Father Urtazu, I would say it better, but you understand me… don’t you? Promise me… not to come back… not to come back… And Lucía, disheveled, pathetic, beautiful, threw herself at Artegui’s feet, embraced his knees, and crawled on the carpet. The pessimist barely lifted her. “You know,” he said, confused, “that I thought little of life… I mean, that I hated it ever since I came to understand its emptiness and what a useless burden it is to man… and now, with my mother dead and no one to miss me…” Two streams of tears and the yearning for a breast were the answer. Artegui lifted Lucía up onto the couch and sat beside her. “Don’t cry,” she said, dismissing him once more, “don’t cry, rejoice, for you have won. How wonderful, if you represent the dearest illusion to man, the unique illusion worth a hundred realities, the illusion that only dissipates in the lap of death! The most tenacious and invincible of all those nature disposes to cling us to life and preserve our species! Listen to me. I don’t want to tell you that you are my happiness, because happiness doesn’t exist and I won’t deceive you, but what I do affirm is that for you it may be worthy of a noble spirit to prefer life to death. Among the delusions that attach us to earth , there is one that deludes us most sweetly with sweetest honeys, with gifts so ineffable and intoxicating, that it is lawful for man to surrender himself to a good that, although feigned, thus beautifies and gilds existence. Hear me, hear me.” I always fled from women, because, knowing the sad mystery of the world, of the transcendent evil of life, I did not want to attach myself to this miserable earth for them, nor give birth to creatures who would inherit suffering, the only legacy that every human being is certain of transmitting to their children…. Yes, I considered it a duty of conscience to act in this way, to lessen the sum of pains and evils; When I thought of this enormous sum, I cursed the sun that engenders life and suffering on earth, the stars that are only orbs of misery, this world, which is the prison where our sentence is carried out, and finally, love, the love that sustains and preserves and perpetuates misfortune, breaking, to eternalize it, the sacred repose of nothingness… Nothingness! Nothingness was the port of salvation to which my embattled spirit sought to arrive… Nothingness, disappearance, absorption in the Universe, dissolution for the body, eternal peace and silence for the spirit… If I had faith, how beautiful, attractive, and sweet the cloister would seem to me! No will, no desire, no senses, no passions… a sackcloth, a walking dead man underneath… But… Artegui leaned toward Lucía uneasily. “Do you understand me?” he suddenly asked. “Yes, yes…” she said, and her body trembled. “But… but I saw you…” Artegui continued. “I saw you by chance, and by chance too, and through no fault of my own, I was by your side for some time, I breathed your breath, and without meaning to… without meaning to… I understood that… I didn’t want to confess your victory to myself, nor did I know it until I left you in someone else’s arms…” Oh ! How I cursed my foolishness for not having taken you with me then ! When I received your letter of condolence, I was almost on the point of going to find you… Artegui paused briefly. “You were the illusion… Yes, it was through you that inexorable and tenacious nature once again took hold of my soul… I was defeated… It was no longer possible to obtain the peace of mind, the annihilation, the perfect and contemplative tranquility to which I aspired… that is why I wanted to put an end to my life, which was becoming more and more unbearable… He interrupted himself again and added, seeing that Lucía remained silent: “Perhaps you do not understand me well… These things, although so true, are obscure to those who hear them for the first time… But you will understand me if I tell you plainly that I will not die, because I love you, and you love me, and now, whatever happens, I live.” He said this with an impetus more violent than loving, and threw his arms around Lucía’s neck, pulling her close with superhuman strength. She thought she felt two sweet pincers of fire melting and scorching her whole body, and gathering her nervous vigor, she freed herself from them, standing trembling and erect before the pessimist. Her tall stature, her expression of supreme indignation, would have made her look like beautiful antique marble, if the black merino dressing gown hadn’t erased the classic resemblance. “Don Ignacio,” stammered the woman from León, “you’re mistaken, mistaken… I don’t love you… I mean, not in that way, never. ” “Dare to swear it,” he roared. “No… no, it’s enough for me to say it,” Lucía replied with growing firmness. ” Not that.”
And she took two steps toward the door. “Listen to me for a moment,” he insisted, stopping her. “Just for a moment. I have plenty of fortune; my trip, everyone believes, will take place tonight. We are in a free country, we will go to an even freer one. In the United States, no one asks anyone where they come from, or where they are going, or who they are, or what they do. We are going together. Life together, you hear? Life . Look, I know you want it. You are dying to say yes. I know for a fact that you are not happy, or well married, and that you are deteriorating, and suffering… Don’t think I don’t know. Only I love you, and I offer you…” Lucía took two more steps, but she went toward Artegui, and with one of those quick, childlike, festive movements that women tend to make on the most solemn and serious occasions, she tightened her loose gown around her waist, and showed off the already somewhat swollen curve of her graceful hips. He shook his head and said, “Do you believe that? Well, Don Ignacio… God will send whoever loves me! ” Ignacio lowered his head, overwhelmed by that cry of triumph from victorious nature. It seemed to him that Lucía was the personification of the great mother he had slandered, cursed by him, who, smiling, fruitful, provident, and indulgent, presented him with the inextinguishable life enclosed within her womb and said, “Foolish pessimist, look what you can do against me. I am eternal.” “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, resigned and humble. “For the same reason… I will serve as his father, Lucía; I will respect your sacred rights as your husband will not. We will be three fortunate people instead of two… nothing more. ” He took her by the skirt and gently forced her to sit down. “Let’s talk like this, calmly… But why don’t you want to? I don’t understand you,” he said with renewed vehemence. Wasn’t it love, wasn’t it love what you showed on the road and in Bayonne? Isn’t it love to come here today… alone… to see me? Oh! You can’t defend yourself…. You’ll weave a thousand sophisms, you’ll devise a thousand subtleties, but… it’s obvious! You’re lying if you deny it, you know? I didn’t believe that lying was possible in your innocence. Lucía raised her head. “No, Don Ignacio; I’ll tell the truth… I think it’s better for me to tell it, because you’re right, I came here… Yes, sir; listen to me. I’ve loved you like crazy, since Bayonne… not since I saw you… You hear me now. It’s not my fault; it was against my will, God knows… At first I thought it wasn’t possible, that you only gave me … pity… and so… much gratitude for your kindnesses.” with me… I believed that a married woman could only love her husband… If someone were to tell me what this was… I would insult them, for sure… But after thinking about it… no, I didn’t guess right, not even by a long shot … It was someone else, it was someone who knows and understands more than I do about the mysteries of the heart… Look, if I had known you were happy, I would have been cured… and also if someone had shown me compassion in turn … Charity! Compassion!… I have it for everyone… and for myself… no one, no one has it… So… Do you remember how happy I was? You assured me that my presence brought you joy… Well… I’ve gotten used to thinking things as dark as you… And to wishing for death. If it weren’t for what I’m hoping for… I ‘d have the time of my life if you would put me where Pilar is. I was strong and healthy… I don’t have a single good hour left. This has been as if a lightning bolt had scorched me all over… It’s a scourge from God. The bitterest thing of all is to think of you… that you will be unhappy in this world, a reprobate in the next… Artegui listened, half jubilant and half compassionate. “Then, Lucía…” he said with a certain expression. “Then you, who are good and most honorable, because if you weren’t I wouldn’t love you so much, are going to let me go… and if not, I’ll leave, even if I jump out the window. ” “Unhappy woman!” he murmured grimly, returning to his former dejection . “You’re hitting the nail on the head with happiness! That is to say, not happiness, but at least its shadow, and such a beautiful shadow nonetheless…” He sat up suddenly, shaking and writhing like a lion in agony. “Give me a reason,” he cried. “If not, I’ll kill myself in front of you. Let me at least know why.” “Is it for your father? Is it for your husband? Is it for your son? Is it for the world? Is it? ” “It is,” she murmured, getting down with great sweetness. “It is… for God. ” “God!” moaned the pessimist. “And if there weren’t…” A hand covered her mouth. “Do you still doubt that today, by a miracle… you said it, by a miracle… he has preserved your life! ” “But your God is angry with you,” he objected. “You offended Him by loving me; you offend Him by continuing to love me; by coming here, you offended Him further… ” “With one foot on the edge of the abyss about to fall, with my body already half-sunk in the flames of hell… my God saves me and forgives me, if my will is converted to him…” “Now, now I am going to ask him to save me. ” “And he will not save you,” replied Artegui, taking her hands; It will not save you, because wherever you go, even if you flee from me until you hide in the very center of the earth, even if you hide in a convent cell, you will love me, you will adore me, you will offend him by remembering me. No, your sincerity does not allow you to deny it. Ah! If one could love or not, at will! But your conscience tells you amply that, whatever you do, I will always be with you… always. Look: for the very reason that horrifies you… for the very reason that will happen. And I tell you more: a day will come when, like today, you will long to see me, even if it is only for the space of a second… and trampling over every obstacle that offers itself, and scorning every hindrance that impedes you, you will come to me… to me. Saying this, he shook her by the wrists, as a hurricane shakes a tender bush. “God,” she murmured weakly. God knows more than you, and I, and everyone… I will ask him to protect me, and he will; it is in his best interest to do so; he will, he will. “No,” Artegui responded forcefully. “I know that you will come, that you will come dragged like a stone, by your own weight, to fall into this abyss… or into this sky; you will come, you will come. Look, I am so certain of it, that you should no longer fear that it will kill me… I do not want to die, because I know that it is the law of things that one day you will come to me, and on that day–which will come–I want to still be in the world to open my arms to you like this.” Had Lucía not turned her back to the light, Artegui could have seen the joy that spread across her face, and her eyes that for a second were raised to heaven in thanksgiving. Artegui’s arms, open and waiting, Lucía bent down, and faster than the swallows, when at crossing the seas that touch the water, she rested her head on Artegui’s shoulders for a moment. Then, and with no less speed, she went to the table, and taking the candlestick and handing it to Ignacio, she said in a calm and steady voice: “Light it up.” Artegui lit it without saying a word. His blood had suddenly cooled , and all that remained from the terrible crisis was tiredness and melancholy deeper than ever. They crossed the bedroom and the hallway, without parting their lips. Once in the hallway, Lucía turned around for a moment and looked at that face as if she wanted to etch it with indelible and powerful characters on her retina and in her memory. Artegui’s head, fully illuminated by the light she held in her hand, stood out against the dark background of the patterned leather that covered the wall. It was a beautiful head, more for its expression and character than for the regularity of its features. The blackness of his beard enhanced his striking pallor, and his dejection made him resemble the dead heads of St. John the Baptist, so valiant in their dark light, created by our tragic national school of painting. He, too, looked at Lucía with such sorrow and pity that she could bear it no longer and ran to the door. At the threshold, Artegui probed the depths of the garden with his gaze. “Shall I accompany you?” he said. “Don’t go any further… turn off the light, close the door immediately.” Artegui did the first thing; but before doing the second, he murmured in Lucía’s ear: “In Bayonne, you once told me: ‘Are you going to leave me alone?’ Now it’s my turn to repeat it to you. Stay… You still have time. Have compassion on me, and on yourself.” “Because I have it…” she replied, choking. “That’s why… Goodbye, Don Ignacio.” “Goodbye,” a barely audible voice replied. The door closed. Lucía looked up at the sky, where the stars shone, and felt a sharp chill. She knelt in the vestibule and pressed her face against the door. At that moment, she remembered a childish circumstance; the door was lined inside with dark red brocade, the dull tones of leather. She didn’t know why she remembered such a detail; but that’s how it usually happens; at moments like this, ideas come to her that have no importance and bear no connection to the decisive events taking place. Miranda had gone out that afternoon for a walk, to clear his head, he said. When he returned to the hotel, he went up to the mortuary chamber and there he found Juanilla, overcome with fear and exhaustion, keeping vigil over the deceased. The maid told her, in a complaining tone, that Miss Lucía had asked her to keep vigil for a while, but that the time was already very long, very long, and that she couldn’t take it anymore. Miranda’s suspicious spirit didn’t send a shadow of suspicion then, and she said naturally: “The young lady must have gone to sleep; she’s very tired… but go, girl, I’ll send Sardiola.” She did so, and immediately hearing the bell calling for the round table, she went down to the dining room, feeling an excellent appetite that day, something unusual for her weakened stomach. The second and third sacramental rings were still pending before the soup was served. There were groups of guests waiting and chatting; most of them spoke of Pilar’s death in low voices, out of consideration for Miranda, whom they knew; only a group of three or four Navarrese and Basque people were talking loudly, their subject of conversation being one of those that held no mystery. Nevertheless, Miranda’s attention was so riveted by what they were saying that, motionless and completely focused on hearing, she could hardly breathe. After ten minutes of listening he knew everything he didn’t want to know: that Artegui was in Paris, that he lived in the house next door, that he could go to his house through the garden, since one of the Basques declared that he had done so that morning in order to visit him…. The waiter who was crossing at that moment with a tray full of plates of steaming soup, indicated to Miranda that he could sit down, and he, instead of listening to him, went upstairs like a frantic, and entered without No respect in the mortuary chamber. “Where is Miss Lucía?” he brutally asked Sardiola, who was keeping watch. “I don’t know…” The faithful dog raised his eyes and contemplated the discomposed features of his husband, and a quick intuition told him dozens of things. Miranda shot out like a rocket and ran through the rooms, shouting for Lucía. Profound silence. Then she resolutely went out onto the balcony and went down to the garden. A black figure was descending the stairs from the hall of Artegui’s house. In the light of the stars, now in the light of the distant street lamps, its hesitant gait could be seen, now the hands that she frequently raised to her face. Miranda waited, waited like a hunter on the prowl. The figure was getting closer. Suddenly a man emerged from within a hedge of bushes and a coarse curse was heard, which, translated into the language of friendly people, might have sounded like this: “Bad woman!” There were violent gestures, and a body fell… Just then, another human figure, also coming from the hotel up the stairs, came running up and , intervening, bent down to pick up Lucía. Miranda took action and, in a hoarse voice, strangled and stuttering with rage, said, giving the devil all his courtly bearing: “Get out of there, you uncle… you nosy… what… what have you got to do with it?… I’ll k… I’ll slap you because I pu… pu… can and I feel like it … I’m her husband. If you don’t leave, I’ll split you in half… I’ll split you open… If Sardiola were some kind of wall of stone and mortar, he would pay more attention to Miranda’s invectives than he did. With sovereign indifference and Herculean strength, he hoisted the beautiful, lifeless bundle onto his shoulders and, pushing the husband away with a vigorous shove, headed upstairs, not pausing until he had deposited the precious burden on a sofa in the mortuary chamber. The madman entered after him, but he checked himself somewhat upon seeing the spirited attitude and flashing eyes of the former Carlist volunteer, whose body served as a shield for the fainted woman. “If you don’t leave…” Miranda howled, holding out his fists. “Let me go!” Sardiola replied placidly. “It’s good for me to go! So you can suffocate her and stay so cool! Bad man! You should be ashamed to touch the hair on the young lady’s clothes.” –But you… what authority do you have here?… who put you in there?… and Miranda’s angry head had a senile tremor… Go away! –she shouted with renewed fury, or I’ll look for a weapon. The husband’s bloodshot eyes scanned the room until they came across the corpse, which, at the sight of that scene, still retained its vague funereal smile. Sardiola, meanwhile, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, took out a medium-sized knife, undoubtedly used to chop tobacco, and threw it at his adversary’s feet. –Here,–he said with that chivalrous grace so frequently found among the Spanish plebs… God has given me good fists. Miranda remained undecided for a moment, and then, howling again, he poured out his anger in torrents, exclaiming: “Look here, I’ll get her… I’ll get her… Go away, don’t tempt my patience… ” “Take her,” replied Sardiola, smiling with pure disdain… let’s see how they show off their courage… because to think that I should have to leave… unless the young lady herself ordered me to… ” “Go, Sardiola,” said a weak voice from the sofa; and Lucía opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on the waiter with recognition and authority. “But, young lady, this about leaving, and… ” “Go, I say.” And Lucía stood up, apparently calm: Miranda was clutching the knife in her right hand. Sardiola, throwing himself at him, snatched it from him, and taking a desperate resolution, went out into the corridor shouting: “Help, help! the young lady has become ill.” He clashed hands with two people who were coming up the stairs and, upon hearing him, rushed into the mortuary chamber. They were Father Arrigoitia and Duhamel, the doctor. They found a strange group: at the foot of the bed where the dead woman lay, a woman was holding out her hands to protect her flanks and breast from the blows a man was delivering with his closed fist. With vigor beyond belief in his frail, reedy body, Father Arrigoitia intervened, catching, if the chronicles do not lie, a few slaps on the venerable tonsure; and in turn, Duhamel, emulating the Jesuit’s composure with scientific courage, took the furious man by the arm, managing to stop him… It was a great pity that no stenographer was able to record the witty and eloquent speech that the good doctor delivered to Miranda in a very broken French-Portuguese-Brazilian mix, with the aim of showing him how barbaric and cruel it was to beat a _menina_ in Lucía’s circumstances… Miranda listened with an increasingly grim face, while Father Arrigoitia lavished the battered woman with the most affectionate care and consolation. Suddenly the husband confronted the doctor and asked him gruffly: “Are you saying… that woman is pregnant? You said so. ” “Yes,” replied Duhamel, nodding his head affirmatively with rhythmic precision. “How many months? ” “Accrescent than four. The exact time it will take for her to get married.” Miranda cast his gaze all around, staring at his wife, the Jesuit, the doctor. Then he took these two by the hand and stammeringly begged them to grant him a conference of a few minutes. They went into the next room, and Lucia was left alone with the corpse. She could have believed that everything that had happened was a terrible nightmare. The open balcony revealed the dark masses of the trees in the garden; the stars shone, inviting sweet meditations; The candles were burning in front of Pilar, and light could be seen on Artegui’s facade through some curtains… To go down ten steps and find herself in the garden; to cross the garden and find herself on a loving chest that to her was softest wax, but steel to her enemies… Horrible temptation! Lucía clutched her heart in her hands, digging her nails into her chest… One of the blows she’d received hurt a great deal; it was on her collarbone, and it seemed as if there were a screw there twisting her muscles so that they would burst. If Artegui were to appear then… To cry, to cry with her head resting on his shoulders… At last she remembered a prayer that Father Urtazu had taught her, and she said: “My God, through your Cross, give me patience, patience.” She spent a long time repeating between moans: “patience.” Father Arrigoitia finally appeared, alone. His ivory forehead was covered with wrinkles and shadows. Lucía and he spoke for a long time on the balcony, neither feeling the cold, which was more than moderate. Lucía finally opened a wide channel to her pain. “You see, I would lie… there, in front of that corpse… I could go with him right now, Father… and if God weren’t in heaven… ” “But he is, he is… and he’s looking at us…” the Jesuit responded, affably caressing her frozen hands. “Enough of this delirium… Don’t you see how he’s already beginning to punish you? You are innocent of what Señor Don Aurelio accuses you of, and yet, your atrocious suspicion… has, appears to have a basis… because you yourself gave it to him, going to that man’s house today… God is punishing you in what He loves most; in that little angel who has not yet come into the world… ” Lucía sobbed bitterly. “Come on, take heart, poor thing, my little daughter,” the spiritual father continued, becoming more and more sweet and consoling. And, for God’s sake, holy mother! Off to Spain, to Spain tomorrow morning. “With him?” asked Lucia, horrified. “He’s packing his bags to take the night train… He’s going to Madrid… He’s leaving you… If you would throw yourself at his feet, and with humility and repentance… ” “Not that, Father… ” cried the haughty Castilian woman. “He will believe I am what he calls me… No, no.” And more gently, she added: “Father, I have behaved like a good man today, but I am exhausted… Don’t ask me for more today. My strength is failing me… Mercy, Lord, mercy. ” “I ask, yes, I ask for the love of Jesus Christ… that you go to Spain tomorrow morning… I will not leave you until I have left you on the train…” Go, my dear daughter, with your father. Don’t you see I’m right? What will your husband think of you if you stay here… with the wall between you… you are too discreet and good-natured even to try. For that little creature! Let your father be persuaded… because he will be persuaded, with time and by your conduct, of you… Ah! Let no man separate what God has joined! He will return, he will return to his wife’s side… don’t doubt it. Today in his anger… he allowed himself to be dragged along… but tomorrow… Deeper and more heart-rending sobs were the reply. Father Arrigoitia affectionately clasped the hands of the afflicted woman. “Do you promise me…?” he murmured with ardent entreaty, with all the authority in his voice, accustomed to commanding spirits. “Yes,” replied Lucia…. “I will leave tomorrow… but let me now unburden myself… I am dying.” “Cry,” the Jesuit replied. “Broaden your heart. I’ll pray in the meantime.” And entering the room again, he knelt beside the deathbed, took out his breviary, and by the flickering light of the candlesticks, he read in a loud, composed, and grave voice the melancholic clauses of the Office for the Dead. For more than two weeks, the singular event of Lucía González’s arrival, alone, sad, wasted, and pregnant, at her father’s house provided fodder for the idle tongues of León. Lies like castles were invented to explain the mystery of her return, the seclusion in which she had taken to living, the tremendous sadness that clouded Uncle Joaquín González’s face, the disappearance of her husband, and so many other things that transcended scandal and marital drama. As often happens in similar cases, a few ounces of truth were scattered, wrapped in a pound of lies, and something was said that wasn’t entirely off the mark; but for lack of secret information linking the known information, public opinion stumbled, and there I fall, and here I rise, it ended up going completely astray . It’s clear that the professional skinners did theirs with diligence and extreme zeal, and some criticized the mature, green-footed man who sought a bride of a young age, others the vain and foolish father who sacrificed his daughter out of a desire to make her a lady, others the crazy girl who… In short, they imparted so many morals to Lucia’s story that I believe I can refrain from adding any. What people criticized most vehemently was this modern requirement for a honeymoon, a foreign and vicious custom, good only for generating disturbances and horrors of every kind. I suspect that with Lucía’s sad example, traditionally preserved and repeated to marriageable girls for the remainder of the century, no married couple from León will dare to leave their homes even a little, at least in the first ten years of marriage. Thank you for joining us on this literary journey through ‘A Honeymoon Trip’. Emilia Pardo Bazán has offered us a profound and entertaining look at the customs and society of her time. We hope you enjoyed this story as much as we did. Don’t forget to subscribe to Ahora de Cuentos to continue exploring more classics of Spanish literature. See you in the next story.
📚 Bienvenidos a Ahora de Cuentos, donde la literatura cobra vida. Hoy les traemos un relato fascinante de la escritora española Emilia Pardo Bazán: *Un viaje de novios*. 🌍💑
En esta obra, la autora nos sumerge en el viaje de una joven pareja por España y Francia, combinando con maestría la crítica social y las emociones humanas. A través de sus reflexiones, *Un viaje de novios* nos invita a cuestionar la sociedad de la época y a explorar las complejidades del amor y el matrimonio. 🌟
🔹 *Resumen de la obra*:
– La novela sigue a una pareja que, durante su luna de miel, recorre distintos lugares de Europa, mientras reflexionan sobre la vida, el amor y la realidad social.
– Pardo Bazán utiliza este escenario para profundizar en las luchas literarias de la época, especialmente la controversia entre el realismo y el romanticismo.
– La obra también ofrece una visión crítica sobre las costumbres y las expectativas sociales que afectan a los individuos en su vida cotidiana.
🔹 *Temas tratados en la obra*:
– **Reflexión social**: Una crítica a las normas sociales de la época, con especial énfasis en las clases altas y sus actitudes.
– **Amor y matrimonio**: La visión compleja del amor y las relaciones dentro del contexto de la sociedad de finales del siglo XIX.
– **Realismo vs Romanticismo**: Un análisis de las tensiones entre estos dos géneros literarios y cómo se reflejan en la vida cotidiana.
🔹 *Lo que aprenderás de esta obra*:
– Cómo las costumbres sociales influencian las decisiones personales y emocionales.
– La importancia de la crítica social en la literatura como forma de reflexión histórica.
– La visión de una autora pionera del realismo en la literatura española.
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🔹 **Hashtags**:
#UnViajeDeNovios #EmiliaPardoBazán #LiteraturaEspañola #Realismo #Viaje #Romance #Matrimonio #Amor #LiteraturaClásica #Novela #LiteraturaDeViaje #CuentosDeAmor #FicciónClásica #ClásicosDeLaLiteratura #España #ViajeRomántico #Lectura #CulturaEspañola #LunaDeMiel #Reflexión #NovelaClásica #RealismoLiterario #HistoriaDeAmor #CríticaSocial #LetrasHispanas #CuentosDeViaje #NarraciónDeCuentos
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