Part 13

And his amazement increased when he saw his uncle push it away a little as though it were the tumbler, the napkin-ring, or any other of the indispensable paraphernalia of the service; and still more, to see his aunt pay no attention to it, but begin calmly to eat her boiled eggs as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Our hero's imagination began to whirl faster than a wheel, and he was lost in a sea of conjectures; but he did not have the courage to ask what it all meant, although his curiosity was terribly piqued: he understood that such a question would be indiscreet. Not that he gave up the idea of finding out, but merely postponed it till a more fitting occasion.

Breakfast was finished without anything happening to require the use of the deadly weapon which Senor de Rivera kept at his right hand; and this might have been expected, since at one o'clock in the day it is not common for robbers to break into houses.

The conversation was general, although the two elders seldom addressed each other, Uncle Manolo especially, taking evident pains completely to ignore his wife.

She, on the other hand, kept caroming phrases at him indirectly wounding and pinching him, while talking with Miguel.

The chivalrous _caballero_, when the charge hurt him, would give a wrathful look at his sweet enemy; and as she managed very cleverly to avoid it, he would shake his head in sign of wrath, and make an expressive face at his nephew, and then give his attention to what was in front of him.

When breakfast was over, Miguel took leave of his aunt very courteously, and after going back to his Uncle Manolo's room to help the old man put on his coat, they went into the street together.

As soon as they were fairly out of doors, Senor Rivera's ill-humor and the melancholy that had grown upon him during the last third of the meal vanished as by magic; he pulled out his case, gave Miguel a cigar, and lighted another, beginning to puff with satisfaction, while they were passing along San Jeronimo Avenue.

Miguel, however, could not keep the revolver out of his thoughts, and he was possessed to unravel the mystery concealed in it. When they had turned the corner of the Calle de la Puebla, he stopped a moment, and asked him boldly:--

"See here, uncle, though you may call me indiscreet, I am going to ask you a question, because I can no longer stand the torment of curiosity.... What the deuce is the meaning of that revolver that you had beside your plate while you were at breakfast?"

On hearing this, the _ex-gentil caballero's_ face once more darkened; he bent his head until his beard touched his breast, and began to walk on again without saying a word. After a considerable time he heaved a deep and most pitiable sigh, and began to speak in a low voice:--

"You must know, Miguel, that for some months past my life has been a hell! My wife (who, parenthetically, is the most loathsome woman that God ever put into the world) has taken it into her head to be jealous of me! Would you believe that such a piece of trumpery, an old shoe, has the slightest right to be jealous of a man like me? Does it not seem to you that I have done enough in burdening myself with her?

"Now, instead of thanking me for the sacrifice that I made in marrying her, she is foolish enough to believe that I ought to adore her, to be dying with love for her. And as this is the height of absurdity, and cannot be, she is eating out my very soul. When I get up, when I lie down, when I go out of the house, when I come in, when I eat, and when I sleep, never can I enjoy an instant's peace; above all, at meal-time she has been making such a martyr of me that I cannot eat half as much as I ought, and even then it troubles me to digest it. I cannot go on in this way without danger of losing my health. Great evils require heroic remedies; one day I took the revolver, and said to her: 'If at table you say another word to disturb me, I will put an ounce of lead into your head.'

"That was a happy idea, for since that time she has not said a single word more, and to-day only by taking advantage of your presence did she make a few indirect insinuations. My servant has been charged, when setting the table, to place the revolver by my plate.... Perhaps you will imagine that she is jealous of some definite person, and that I am doing wrong not to break loose from this person, and thus avoid all occasion for torment; but there is nothing of the sort. Each day she is jealous of some different woman, and never once hits the truth. Man alive! to show you how stupid she is, I will tell you that day before yesterday a good lady, whom I happened never to mention to her, sent me a couple of dozen tarts; and she, without any more ado, flung the platter on the floor, and began to berate the servant like a sardine-woman. Tell me now if I don't need patience, and if it would not have been better for me to have had all the bones in my body broken than marry this calamity!"

Uncle Manolo ceased speaking, and continued silent for a long time, brooding over his sad thoughts. Miguel dared not disturb them, since he knew too well that it was hopeless for him to offer him any advice. Finally, that magnanimous man, richer every day in tribulations, stopped again, and asked his nephew, with severe intonation:--

"Tell me, Miguel, don't you know any place now infested by the cholera or any other contagious disease?"

"No, uncle; I do not," replied Miguel, struggling hard not to laugh. "What a strange idea! Do you wish to murder your wife?"

"Man! no, of course not to murder her. I only thought in any case of letting nature have its perfect work.... But could I have a blacker fate? Just imagine! I learn from a medical friend that Madrid is full of fevers and pneumonia, caused by the bad custom of riding on the Prado in September. Well now, after many entreaties, and 'making myself into syrup' to accomplish it, I succeeded in getting my wife out to drive with me several evenings. 'Come now,' I said to myself, 'if she does not get pneumonia, she may at least catch a bit of a fever, and as she is feeble...." Do you understand?"

"Perfectly! and did she?"

"Hush, man, hush! The one who caught a catarrh, and had to stay in the house four days was ... myself. I haven't got over my cough yet!"

All this time they were walking along the Calle de Peligros, and they saw coming toward them a young woman not at all bad-looking, since she had bright, rosy complexion and red lips; her dress was attractive and rather scanty. As she passed she smiled upon Uncle Manolo, giving him a very expressive salute.

"Who is that girl?" asked Miguel.

"Don't you know her? She is Josefina Garcia, one of the ballet at Los Bufos."

And after they had walked a few steps farther, he added, with some perturbation:--

"See here, Miguel, if you will excuse me, I will leave you.... At five we will meet at La Cerveceria[34], if you say so."

"All right, uncle, all right," he added, without being able to hide a smile; "go where you please. We'll meet again."

And they took leave of each other, shaking hands.

XV.

How much anxiety, how much misery it caused Maximina to make ready for their 'fiesta'! Her slow and painstaking character ill accorded with Miguel's marvellously quick and lively bent. Hence it came about that in arranging the details of the affair little differences of opinion sprang up between the two.

Miguel, not taking into account that it was the first time that she had ever found herself engaged in such a rout, demanded impossibilities of her.

The poor child, seeing his annoyance, made incredible efforts to have everything right, not because the result made much difference to her, but because she feared worse than death any blame from her husband.

Miguel, not noticing it, and being carried away by his impatience, did not spare his criticisms on every occasion, harassing and mortifying her beyond measure; only when, after some remark made in a harsh tone, he saw the tears gathering in her eyes, would he perceive how unjust and cruel he had been, and going to her he would cover her with kisses, and beg her pardon.

Maximina would instantly become happy, and drying her eyes, would say with touching innocence:--

"I will do what I can to satisfy you. You will not scold me any more, will you?"

At last the preparations were all completed. A few new articles of furniture were bought for the parlor, and it was put into elegant condition. The table was laid in the next room, which was the library, and in this task they were greatly assisted by Uncle Manolo. A few extra servants were engaged for the occasion; one of the bedrooms was put into order for a ladies' dressing-room; the stairway was adorned with vases of flowers and brilliantly lighted, and the same was true of all the rooms in the house. The porter was tempted by a good large fee to allow the door to be kept open and the entrance lighted all night.

Likewise nothing that concerned the dress to be worn by Maximina at the party was neglected. Miguel insisted that it should be rich and magnificent, but she was intensely opposed to this; finally it was decided to leave the matter to the dressmaker. And on the very day of the 'fiesta,' early in the morning, that personage herself came with a dress, of great simplicity, to be sure, but of the utmost elegance. But, oh, how unfortunate! the dress was open in front in the form of a heart.

Miguel found his wife in despair on a sofa with the dress in her hands, and almost ready to cry, while the modiste, with difficulty repressing her anger, was arguing that the suggestion to have it filled in was out of the question, and that no lady when she had such a party at her house ever failed to wear a dress more or less _decollete_, and that in this case the front was neither too high nor too low.

To all this Maximina replied sweetly, but firmly, that she had never worn a low-necked dress, and that she should die of mortification if she did so now.

Miguel at first sided with the modiste; but when he saw the sadness painted on his wife's face, he was secretly flattered by her delicate modesty, and suddenly changed his mind, saying:--

"Very well; don't say anything more about the matter. If the dress can be altered for this evening, let it be done; if not, wear one of the best ones that you have already."

It was difficult to persuade the modiste to alter it; but finding that both of them were firmly resolved, she saw nothing else to do, and she and Maximina put their heads together to remedy it as well as they could.

In the evening, after the table was set and Uncle Manolo was gone, the young couple were left alone with the servants.

Maximina shut herself in her room to dress, and Miguel did the same.

When he had finished his toilet he ordered all the lamps to be lighted.

Shortly after the house was illuminated, Maximina came from her room, looking like a rosebud.

"Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Miguel, when he saw her coming into the study, where he was selecting the books to be scattered over the tables.

The young wife smiled and blushed.

"Come, don't make sport of me!"

"Why should I make sport of you, darling, since you are lovelier than ever!"

In point of fact, Maximina, who had grown much prettier since her marriage, now beamed in all the fresh and artless beauty with which Heaven had endowed her.

Her dress was of a delicate brown, and to cover the opening they devised an under-handkerchief of a very fine grenadine.

Miguel took her by the hands and looked at her for several moments, his eyes beaming with love. The maids crowded around the door and looked in to see their mistress.

"Isn't it true that my wife is very pretty?" he asked of them.

"Most beautiful, senorito!"

"She is just a very virgin!" exclaimed Juana.

"Not quite!" replied Miguel, mischievously.

"Stop it, _tonto_, stop it!" she exclaimed, in embarrassment, tearing herself from his hands and starting to run.

They sat down to table as usual, but ate very little: Maximina especially had no appetite for anything; they kept constantly interrupting each other to suggest some detail that was lacking, and more than once Maximina jumped up to attend to it herself.

Then they went to the parlor and waited patiently for their guests. Maximina was trembling with excitement. Miguel showed a nervous joy, for he was not certain that the 'fiesta' would prove to be a success, and he was afraid of anything ridiculous. He gave his wife his arm, and they began to promenade up and down the parlor, glancing at the mirrors as they passed them. Maximina hardly recognized herself: she was surprised to appear such a respectable and elegant senora.

"Do you see!" said Miguel; "everything depends on appearances in this world: these people who are coming are neither more nor less respectable than we are; consequently you have no reason to be afraid."

In spite of these encouragements, Maximina kept growing more timid; each instant she imagined that she heard steps on the stairs.

"Come now; imagine that I am a guest coming this very moment...." (_Miguel went to the anteroom and came back again, making low bows_). "Senora, at your feet!... How do you do this evening? It is a genuine honor and a great satisfaction to be present at this _soiree_, where my friend Miguel wants to show everybody how happy he is in his choice.... But he deserves this happiness ... he is an excellent young man; you also, senora, will have little reason to repent. The truth is, I have been anxious to see him married; and though he is to be envied, all of his friends, including myself, wish him greater happiness every day of his life.... (Come, wife, say something.)"

Maximina, standing motionless in the middle of the parlor, listened, with her mouth open and a smile on her lips.

"Answer, wife.... Come now; I see that you will never be a star of society.... Nor is there any reason why you should be," he added gently.

And suddenly, taking her by the waist, he darted with her through the parlor, making a few turns of a waltz.

At that instant the bell rang. Both stopped as though petrified and instantly let go of each other: Miguel went into his study. The servant opened the door, and a young man made his appearance, who proved to be none other than Gomez de la Floresta.

Miguel had forgotten that the reading of his drama was the pretext for the party, and he felt some slight vexation to see him, manuscript in hand; but he received him no less cordially.

The three sat down in the study and talked for a long while, as the poet was far ahead of time.

The next to arrive was Utrilla, the ex-cadet of the military school, whom Miguel had taken pains to invite, not only on account of the friendship that existed between them, but also because of his pity for his blind love for Julita, and the hope that she might at last come to return it. He was in evening dress, the same as Gomez de la Floresta.

Then came in quick succession his cousins Enrique and Serafina, Mendoza, Julita and her mother, with Saavedra, _Rosa de te_ and Merelo y Garcia, the De Ramirez ladies, and Miguel's cousins, Vicente and Carlitos; Asuncion and two other young ladies whose names we do not remember, and a few other guests.

What Miguel had foreseen came to pass: Maximina, smiling and blushing, received the people without any of those meaningless and polite phrases which are customary on such occasions; but her naturalness and modesty made a great and very favorable impression on every one. La Senora de Ramirez said to Miguel in an aside:--

"How good your wife must be, Rivera!"

"What makes you think so?"

"It is enough to see her face."

"Yes; she is very _simpatica_," said one of the girls, with a condescending tone.

The guests formed groups, and were conversing gayly. Gomez de la Floresta was burning with impatience.

At last Miguel, not so much to gratify him, as to have everything pass off in good form, invited him to begin the reading of the play: he took his stand by the side of the fireplace, under a gas-fixture; the people scattered themselves at their convenience on the chairs and sofas; a servant brought on a waiter various refreshments, and placed them as well as he could on the mantel-piece near the poet.

Gomez de la Floresta coughed two or three times, cast a troubled glance over his audience, and then began the reading of his drama, which was entitled _The Serpent's Hole_, and was cast in the time of Carlos II.,[35] the _Bewitched_.

As we know the author, there is no need of saying that the lyric note prevailed in it; that it was couched in sonorous verse, that it abounded in elegant and exotic adjectives; in writing it he had put under contribution the beautiful and picturesque phrases of our _Esmaltes y Camafeos_,[36] of Theophile Gautier, and the no less beautiful but more spontaneous ones of our own Zorilla.

The result was a composition of beautiful words in diapason, producing a notable musical effect, alternating with some phrase or sentence _a la_ Victor Hugo. Not a single character said anything in a straightforward manner: instead of telling who they were and whence they came, they drowned themselves by anticipation in a river or cascade of Oriental pearls, moonbeams, dewdrops, perfumes of Arabia, sunsets and sapphires and emeralds, so that the thread of the discourse was lost, and no one could gather the least idea of its character and tendency.

When he was half through the act, the Countess de Losilla and her two daughters came in, later than all the rest, since they lived the nearest of all. Their entrance for a few moments interrupted the reading; all arose, and Maximina hastened to greet them.

All the ladies looked sharply and eagerly at the young ladies' dresses and jewelry, which were in the highest degree elegant and original, especially that of Filomena, who had a remarkable genius for inventing and combining adornments, departing from the fashion when she pleased, or changing it according to her own caprice; she knew how to make the most of her extreme slenderness by wearing dresses such as would have been unbecoming to any other girl, and she took pains by her extraordinary manner of brushing her hair to make the strange originality of her face more brilliant.

During the interruption the poet fortified himself with a glass of currant juice.

Then the reading began anew. At the end of the act, there were signs of approbation, especially among the young ladies, to whom, though they had not understood a word, it had sounded very fine. A few gentlemen remained in the parlor while the dramatist was resting: he and one or two others had gone into the corridor to smoke.

"What does _Rosa de te_ think about it?" asked one of the gentlemen, addressing the young critic.

_Rosa de te_ reddened, and spoke a few incoherent words.

"Leave him, leave him alone with his grief!" said Miguel, who happened to be in this group. "When the heroes of comedies and novels do not adopt resolutions, it makes him desperate."

The drama was finished at eleven o'clock, to the great and ill-concealed satisfaction of each and all of the company.

During the last act the girls yawned in an angelic manner; the gentlemen exchanged expressive winks under the poet's very nose. Then came encouraging and prolonged applause! All broke out into eulogies, and predicted great things for the piece.

Gomez, overwhelmed, flushed, and trembling from head to foot, acknowledged the compliments by laying his hand on his heart, really believing that his work was already saved from the "claws of the public."

The poor fellow had no idea that many of those who were applauding him had all ready a howl for the "first night" of his play, in vengeance for the forced applause that they had given him.

After this the ladies went to the library, where supper was served. The gentlemen took their places in the rear, and there began that buzzing of flat and conventional phrases between both sexes, which constitutes what has been called the "witchery of the salon."

At that moment, after Gomez de la Floresta's drama, nothing that was said could fail to seem clever or to excite the mirth of the guests; something, and it is not extravagant to say much, was contributed to this desirable state of things by the sight of the well-laden and decorated table, which in its final state was the work of Uncle Manolo.

Saavedra had been sitting the whole evening behind Julia, whispering clever things in her ear, while Utrilla, seated not far from them, and suffering as though they were roasting him on a gridiron, gazed at them fiercely, and planned how he might call his rival to one side, and demand an explanation as soon as the chance presented itself. We already know that in the matter of explanations he was no amateur.

It is befitting that we say a few words in regard to the state in which Julia's relations with her cousin and the ex-cadet were placed.

Don Alfonso had spent a few days at the Astillero with his aunt and cousin, and during this time he had settled his love-affair with Julia on a firm basis.

Then he went to Paris, intending to arrange his business, and return to Spain for good. In the first days of September he really returned to Madrid, but he did not lodge at his aunt's; reasons of delicacy, which he explained to Julia, compelled him to this.

While he was in Paris he wrote few letters, and these in the fluent terms of cousinly rather than lover-like affection. Julia's pride forbade her asking any explanations; but when he returned he hastened to give them, telling her in rather obscure terms that he wanted to keep his relations with her secret for a time, so as conveniently to settle his affairs, and announce their engagement to his family at the earliest possible moment, and thus realize the union which he so eagerly desired.

This secret and somewhat underhanded conduct, instead of dampening Julia's ardor, each day made her more and more her cousin's slave.

Don Alfonso, when he was not sleeping, spent almost all the hours of the day at his aunt's house; he was often there to dinner, and likewise often went to drive or to the theatre with them.

As for our _bizarre_ cadet, his fate could not have been more desolate. Julita had broken off entirely with him; and on this account he had fallen into such a decline that it was pitiful to see him: his sallow complexion had turned green; his bones could be counted even at a long distance; only one thing had grown in his body, and that was his Adam's apple; this had reached really fantastic proportions.

As Miguel was going along the vestibule, he felt that some one touched his shoulder.

It was Utrilla.

"Don Miguel, I want to ask a favor of you."

"You shall, my dear boy."

"It is absolutely necessary that you and some other friend this very moment carry my challenge to this Senor Saavedra. I thought of doing it myself, but I am rather excited, and I do not care to let myself cause a scandal in your house."

Miguel remained a moment undecided, and then said:--

"My dear fellow, you must understand that as Senor Saavedra is my sister's cousin, and as the motive of the trouble is for her sake, I could not possibly mix myself up in such an affair.... But as you are my very dear friend, and as I would desire to save you annoyance, I will do what I can for you. It is necessary, however, that you promise not to take any step in this business, and to leave the entire direction of it to me."

"I promise you."

Miguel wanted to gain time and save the poor lad, and his own family as well, a serious unpleasantness.

"I ought to warn you," he said afterwards, with a smile, "that Saavedra is one of the most famous of marksmen."

"That makes no difference to me," rejoined Utrilla, making a gesture worthy of Roland or Don Quixote.

The brigadier's son looked at him surprised at such valor, at once ridiculous and heroic.