Part 24

"Why should he kill me? I am going to Seville merely to search for my sister. As I imagine that he will not refuse to give her up to me, I shall be back with her by day after to-morrow. The rest will be arranged afterward."

"Will you give me your word that you are going for no other purpose? That you will not provoke a quarrel with him?"

"I will."

The brigadier's son did not mean what he said. Who will blame him for that?

When the moment for his departure came, his wife, breaking into tears, obliged him once more to repeat his oath. Then holding him by the hands, she said to him:--

"Promise me also that you will be kind to Julia; that you will not say a harsh word to her."

"That I also agree to."

With these two promises Maximina allowed him to go. Then she went to the window, and lifting her baby in her arms, showed him to his father, as though still further to compel him not to expose his life.

On reaching Seville, Miguel found that his sister and Don Alfonso had not been there. He called on Saavedra's mother, and was painfully surprised to learn that this lady had known nothing of the deed done by her son, nor even that he had been paying attentions to Julia. All Miguel's doubts vanished. Saavedra had eloped with his sister to make her his.... His mind refused even to express the word.

The first thing that he considered after he had grown a little calmer was to find where he had taken her, since they were not in Seville. It occurred to him that they might have gone to Cadiz, and taken a steamer from there. But after making some inquiries he found that this hypothesis was not supported. Then he determined to return, and ask at all the stations of the road if possibly any one there remembered seeing that couple, a very accurate description of whom he was able to give. He found nothing about them until he reached the station of Algodor.

There a porter remembered having taken from one car to another such a _caballero_ with a young lady such as Miguel described. One sure thing--the _caballero_ had given him the fabulous fee of a duro, and this in fact contributed no little to his having remembered.

As the railway to Andalucia separates at this station from that of Estramadura and Portugal, Miguel felt a strong suspicion, almost amounting to certainty, that they had gone in this latter direction, and he took a ticket for Lisbon. On reaching there he proceeded to ask at the principal hotels after the young Spanish couple, taking it for granted that, if they were there, they would be settled at one of them. In fact, he came upon their track after he had made three or four inquiries.

"Are they at home, or have they gone out?"

"I have not seen them go out," replied the porter in Portuguese. "Does your lordship wish me to announce you?"

"There is no need. I am her brother. What number is the room!"

"Number 16, second floor."

With terrible emotion, such as can be imagined, the brigadier's son went into the hotel, and passed through the corridors until he reached the number indicated. He paused at the door to calm his heart, which was throbbing violently: he listened, and could distinguish his sister's voice. With trembling hand he lifted the latch and entered.

Julia, on seeing him in the mirror, gave that tremendous shriek of which we have spoken; then she turned and threw herself at his feet. Miguel gently lifted her, and took her to the sofa. Then with calmness he closed the door and advanced toward Don Alfonso, who was sitting in the easy-chair, with his legs crossed, and smoking a cigar with affected boldness, though he was extremely pale.

"I have come at last," said Miguel, looking straight into his eyes.

"I see you have," replied Don Alfonso, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

"You will understand that...."

"You want to ask me to explain my conduct?"

"No; I do not care to qualify your conduct now. The only thing that interests me at present is to save my sister's honor. I come to demand that you marry her immediately or fight with me."

A short pause ensued. Don Alfonso replied coolly:--

"I will neither marry your sister, nor will I fight with you."

"We shall see," said Miguel, smiling sarcastically.

"There will be no question about it."

"We will speak about the second afterward. As to the first: When I heard of my sister's abduction, I suspected that you had not undertaken it for any decent motive. Still I could not persuade myself that you would carry out your treachery to the point of being willing to make a lady who is of your own blood your mistress."

Julia uttered a groan. Miguel looked at her with compassionate eyes, and said:--

"Forgive me, Julia; I had forgotten that you were here."

"In declining to marry your sister," replied Don Alfonso, "I am not influenced by anything that could be construed in the least to her discredit. I grant that she is an excellent girl. The only thing is, that it never entered into my calculations to marry either her or any one else. This decision, which I made long ago, neither you nor any one else can alter."

"Is this your ultimatum in regard to the first part of my question?"

"It is."

"Very good; now we come to the second. I suppose that you will not refuse to give me reparation by means of arms...."

"I do refuse. I have injured you deeply; it would be a fine thing if I killed you besides.... And to allow you to kill me--frankly, I have just as little notion."

"There is one infallible means of making you fight: I will slap your face in public."

"I don't doubt that you would do so. I regard you as a man of courage; you would do it even though you thereby signed your own death-warrant. Whatever weapons we should choose, you cannot be ignorant that I have ninety chances to ten of killing or wounding you...."

Miguel made a scornful gesture.

"I know that this does not terrify you; but let us reason about it: What advantage would it give you to die? Would it wipe out your sister's dishonor? It would not only not wipe it out, but it would deprive her of the only support that she has in the world. Then let us suppose--and it is much to suppose--that you killed me. Your sole advantage would be in publishing the disgrace which now with a little caution can remain unknown."

Don Alfonso and Miguel both spoke in low tones, so as not to be heard from the outside; but the gestures and accent of each, and especially of the latter, were so energetic and excited, that they very well took the place of loud words. Julia sat on the sofa, motionless, and with her head bent low.

"Do you imagine that I am going to accept this logic with which you wish to avoid the unpleasantness of exposing your life? Have no such thought, even though there were one probability against a thousand of killing me, it would be a pleasure for me to face you with sword or pistol. How far the set resolution that I entertain of dying or of killing you goes to put us on an equality, you know perfectly well. Therefore drop these arguments worthy only of a coward, and be kind enough to expect to spend as painful hours as those which you have taken so much pains to make us suffer."

"I see that you mean to insult me. Do so with impunity; I grant you the privilege.... But I warn you not to let an ill-sounding word pass your lips in public."

"In private and in public I am resolved to do the same! You wretch!" exclaimed Miguel, beside himself. "Everywhere I shall declare that you are a knave, a cowardly assassin, who fights duels only with those unable to defend themselves. In order that you may see how much fear I have of you, take this."

Saying these words, he leaped like a lion upon Saavedra, who had risen to his feet, expecting some such move. Before he could raise his hand, the Andalusian seized him by the arms, and brutally hurled him back into the middle of the room, so that he reeled. Miguel was just on the point of springing at him again; but at that instant he found himself held by more gentle arms--those of his sister, who, with her face distorted, her eyes flashing, her voice choking with sobs, said:--

"No, Miguel, no; you cannot measure yourself with this man. After what I have just heard I should prefer a thousand times to die, or to spend my whole life in disgrace, rather than to marry such a monster."

"Let go of me! Let go!" cried Miguel, trying to free himself from her arms.

"No, my brother; kill me, put me into a convent, but don't expose your own life.... Remember Maximina and your little son."

Don Alfonso at the same time stretched out his hand, and said calmly:--

"Before beginning a disgusting scene, unworthy of two gentlemen, such as we are...."

"Of a gentleman like this! you are no gentleman," exclaimed Julia, giving him a furious look and clinging to her brother.

"Before beginning a scene like this," the Andalusian went on to say, making a contemptuous gesture at the interruption, "listen to one word, Miguel. I have said that I am resolved not to fight, because _I do not wish_ to run the risk of killing you, nor of dying. From here I am going directly to Paris, and probably you will never see me again in this world. If you insist on detaining me, I will meet force with force; if you insult me, as I am in a strange country where no one knows me, it will be of no great consequence to me. And if you should happen to tell the story in Madrid, besides publishing your own dishonor, no one will believe you; because it is not credible that a man who has fought fourteen duels, five of them to the death, would through fear avoid a challenge from a man who scarcely knows how to hold a weapon. So then understand that my resolution is irrevocable."

"Well, then, I will kill you like a dog," said Miguel, whipping out a revolver from his pocket.

"If you kill me (which I shall take good care that you do not do)," retorted Saavedra, drawing another revolver, "you would go from here straight to jail, and your sister would remain forsaken."

Miguel stood for a moment in doubt; then he shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of sovereign contempt, and said, as he put back the pistol:--

"You are right. The truth is, that as a knave you are quite up to the standard! Come on, Julia, come! I am ashamed to spend any more time wasting words with this _vile wretch_."

And taking his sister around the waist, he drew her from the room.

Don Alfonso watched them as they disappeared: he listened until the sound of their steps was lost; he also shrugged his shoulders, put back his revolver, and, while he arranged his necktie before the glass, previous to going out, he muttered with a diabolical smile:--

"I did not come out of it quite as well as I expected, ... but after all, this adventure has not been so bad!"

XXVII.

As soon as Miguel and his sister reached the capital, they learned of an event which grieved them intensely. Let us relate it from the beginning.

On account of the affectionate preference which Julia had shown on the evening of the party, our heroic friend Utrilla had recovered sufficient spirits to last at least half a year.

His sweet enemy made him drain the cup of triumph at one draught. Intoxicated with love and pride, it took two consecutive months of continual rebuffs, before this glorious young fellow came clearly to understand that her humor had changed a little. It is evident that such a change was not sufficient to affect him very seriously, since he was very certain, now more than ever, of the irresistible fascination which he exercised over the beauty. That closing of the window when he passed along the street, that turning of the eyes in the opposite direction, and not replying to his letters, were for the lad only "open strategies" by which the girl was trying to make him fall in love with her, and keep him more than ever her slave.

As a proof of this, let us say that once, happening to be at the theatre, he took a place opposite to where she was, and not taking his eyes from her through a whole _entr'acte_, a friend, touching him on the shoulder, said:--

"_Hola_, comrade! evidently that little brunette pleases you."

"That's an old story," replied the ex-cadet, dryly and with dignity.

"And the girl; how about her?"

"Poor girl!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, and smiling compassionately.

The friend observed, however, that during the whole evening the young girl did not once turn her eyes in that direction, though she often looked toward a lower proscenium box, where there were a number of young aristocrats.

Very far, therefore, from being discouraged, Utrilla was almost happy. He would have been entirely so if, instead of having to keep account of candles put out, he had been occupied in some more congenial business, and had had the good fortune to have killed, or at least dangerously wounded, some one in a duel. But up to the present time, unfortunately, no favorable opportunity had presented itself. Still, he was waiting anxiously for one, for, in truth, his conscience troubled him for being now eighteen years old, and "never having once been into the field."

Of late he had begun to take lessons in the use of the foils at a fencing-school, and in presence of the professor and his companions he had made allusion to some deadly project which he had conceived, and which, in our opinion could not have been anything else than the riddance of his rival Don Alfonso.

Months passed, and at regular hours, with a constancy worthy of a more fortunate result, Utrilla wore out the heels of his boots along the sidewalks of the Calle Mayor.

Occasionally Julita would deign to greet him with a wave of the hand, in answer to the energetic way in which her suitor took off his hat to her from the street. Still, the greater number of times it happened that when the brigadier's daughter caught sight of him looming around the corner, she would hastily close the balcony, and this our young man took as a sign of exquisite modesty and timidity at his penetrating glances. The most that he felt called upon to say in complaint was:--

"This Julita--when will she cease being a mere child!"

The unshaken faith which he had in the fascinating virtue of his smile and his genteel appearance was sufficient to sustain him in this illusion; but it must be confessed that some help was given toward it by the fact that Julita herself, though very mercifully, made use of him on occasion, to wake Saavedra's jealousy, when she was vexed with him. And sometimes at the theatre she would talk with him in the presence of the _caballero_ himself.

This was the position of affairs when the bomb exploded; that is, when Julita eloped that evening with her cousin. The first news of this that Utrilla received was communicated to him by _la brigadiera's_ door-maid, with whom he sustained cordial relations, strengthened from time to time by a chance peseta. As was to be expected, the ex-cadet resolutely refused to believe it. But when he found the evidence overwhelming, he stood like a statue--not a Greek one, however; his nostrils dropped, and his dull, myoptic eyes expressed absolutely nothing except imbecility: his Adam's apple stood out in a manner truly monstrous.

After the first shock was past, Utrilla considered what was befitting for him to do in this most extraordinary juncture. He thought of starting after the fugitives, overtaking them, and killing the seducer with one stab; but above and beyond the great difficulty of overtaking them, in what character should he present himself before them, being neither brother nor husband of the stolen damsel. This project having been rejected, it came to him clear as the day that the only thing left worthy of such a misfortune was suicide. After racking his brains for a whole day he found no other adequate solution.

Jacobo Utrilla, with that marvellous perspicacity with which he was endowed in these delicate matters pertaining to honor, made up his mind that the world would never forgive him unless he put an end to his existence on this occasion. And as a man who valued his dignity above all things, he resolved to sacrifice on this altar his own life, so sweet to all created things.

Melancholy night that which preceded this tragic event! Utrilla was perfectly well aware of what he had to do in such a situation as this; without any trouble at all, he could have written a _Handbook of Suicide_. Thus he spent the time till dawn in writing letters and drinking black coffee.

One of them was to his father, asking his pardon, but, at the same time, making him to see by weighty reasons that if he had acted in any other way, he would have dishonored the noble name that he bore; another, to Julia, very dignified, very courteous, very generous; the only favor that he asked was that sometimes she should place a flower on his tomb; the last was, in fact, to the judge of the police, giving him to understand "that no one was to blame for his death," etc.

Having scrupulously fulfilled those lofty duties, he washed his face and hands, and dressed with all care, and asked for chocolate. Dona Adelaida, who always arose at peep of day, gave it to him, though she was not a little surprised to see him so early in the morning dressed in such elegant style.

"Jacobito, why have you dressed all in black? Are you going to a funeral?"

"Yes, senora.... To the funeral of a friend of yours," he replied with admirable self-control.

"Who is it?"

"You will know in good time."

While he took his chocolate, he was genial and jolly, as never before, making the good senora roar with his anecdotes. Utrilla was not naturally facetious, nor was he apt to be good-natured when he got up early; but he felt that, in these exceptional circumstances, it was very necessary to vary his habits; for he was a practical man, and had no rival as a connoisseur in such matters.

"Come, now, I am going from here to the Campo Santo," said he, putting on his hat and taking his cane.

"But is the service in the cemetery, Jacobito?"

"No; there is a mass in the chapel.... You would not like me to remain there, would you?"

"Where?"

"In the cemetery."

"_Ave Maria!_ What jokes you do make, Jacobito!"

He gave a laugh that partook of an hysterical character. He took his gloves from his pocket; but before putting them on, he drew off a finger ring and handed it to the housekeeper, saying:--

"This ring you will please send to Don Miguel Rivera's house, and ask them to give it to him when he returns."

"Is it a present?"

"Yes; in return for the many favors that he has done for me."

Immediately this great-souled and punctilious young man sallied forth from the house with firm step, bent upon accomplishing his duty. Neither the beauty of the day, which was more than usually bright and glorious, nor the sight of the pleasures to which life invited him, nor the tender recollection of his father, caused him to pause in his serene and majestic march. As he passed near the Cibeles fountain, a hand-organ was playing a waltz-polka which reminded him of a certain experience that he had had in the saloon of Capellanes. He felt a little melancholy; but his heroic soul immediately recovered from this impulse of weakness.

He reached the Retiro: he was alone. He walked along with deliberate step in search of a hidden and mysterious spot. When he had found such, he sat down on a stone bench, took off his hat, and laid it carefully by his side; then he opened his frock coat and threw one leg over the other, taking care to pull down his trousers so as not to expose his stocking. Then thrusting one hand into his pocket and assuring himself that his letters were in their place, he drew out a small nickel-plated revolver.

At that moment a powerful temptation assailed the young lad's constant soul. It occurred to him that perhaps there was no reason for him to commit suicide; that it would be better to let things run their course; that the world had many revolutions to make, and he was too young to deprive himself of existence. If Julita had run away, that was her own affair: to kill himself was a serious, a very serious matter!

Still his bravery, which had never yet played him false, was able to conquer this horrible temptation. "No," he said to himself, "I cannot live honorably any longer. All those who were acquainted with these relations of mine would have the right to laugh at me. And Jacobo was not born that any one should laugh at him!"

He leaned back, placed his left elbow on the back of the bench, with his head poetically resting on his hand. With his right hand he aimed his revolver at his temple and fired.

Either because his hand trembled a little (a suspicion which would not amount to anything if it were not regarding this invincible youth of indomitable courage), or because the pistol did not shoot quite accurately, at all events Utrilla fell, badly wounded, but not killed. He was taken to the hospital,[61] and thence home. His condition was very serious.

When Miguel arrived from Lisbon three days after this tragic event, he immediately went to see him. He was deeply and painfully impressed. The bullet had cut the optic nerve, and the unhappy boy was hopelessly blind. The consultation of doctors had not given a favorable verdict. As the ball was still in the head, very near the brain, they judged that it was impossible for him to live very long. Any movement might bring with it instant death.

But the strange and terrible part of the affair was, that the hapless lad, already blind, lying in his bed suffering tremendous and unceasing anguish, did not want to die. With lamentable cries, which tore the heart and brought tears from all who were present, he begged his father and brothers to _make_ him live--to live under any circumstances, even though he should be blind.

It was impossible. In the course of twelve days that intrepid and unfortunate young man had passed away. Miguel was with him till the very last.

XXVIII.

By the advice of all, it was determined that _la brigadiera_ and her daughter should leave Madrid and go to live at the Astillero of Santander. It was the only place, as they already had a house rented, that offered them immediately a secret refuge where to hide their shame.

After they had taken their departure, Miguel remained more calm. Nevertheless, a deep sadness had taken possession of his heart, which neither his wife's love nor the infantile graces of his baby were sufficient to dissipate. And the reason was that, beyond the grief caused by his sister's disgrace, he lived tormented by the thought of his impending ruin. He could not hide the fact that Eguiburu was crouching like a tiger, ready to leap upon him and tear him to pieces.

He saw Mendoza very rarely; he noticed that he avoided meeting him, and when this was unavoidable, their conversation was short and embarrassed on both sides.

One day he went home at night-all, pale enough. Maximina, who, as always, came to meet him, with the baby in her arms, did not notice it because it was so dark. He kissed his child affectionately again and again, and then went into his study. His wife stood at the door, motionless, gazing sadly at him.

"A light," said he, in imperious tones.

Maximina ran to the dining-room, left the baby in Juana's hands, and she herself brought the lighted candles. Miguel paid no attention to her, and began to write. When after a few moments he lifted his head, he saw her leaning against the mantel-piece, looking at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Why are you here? What is the matter?"

The little wife slowly approached him, and laying one hand on his shoulder, said, with a melancholy attempt at a smile:--

"Have I done anything wrong, Miguel?"

"Why so?"

"Always when you come in you give me a kiss, but to-day you don't pay any attention at all to me!... You have kissed the baby more than...."

Miguel leaped to his feet and strained his wife to his heart.