CHAPTER XVI.

THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA'S DREAM.

The transfer of the young artillery lieutenant, Ricardo de Peñalta, had not yet arrived. He had applied for it a fortnight before the Señorita de Elorza took the veil. A month had already passed since the great ceremony ... and nothing! The influential personages whom our friend had in Madrid, devoted to his interests, this time took little pains to fulfil his desires.

But why was our hero so anxious to leave Nieva? Be it said in honor of the truth, that when Ricardo asked for the transfer he was exceedingly desirous of turning his back forever upon those places where he had been so happy, and where he was going to be so wretched; but now, after the lapse of a month, the violence of his sorrow had somewhat subsided, and he was beginning to get accustomed to his misfortune. Still he continued to be greatly downcast; the whole town noticed it.

From the day when his betrothed had made him that horrible proposition, which he could not remember without being hot with anger, he understood that he should never be the master of Maria's heart. A secret and implacable voice kept ceaselessly whispering this to him. Thus the letter in which she announced her determination to enter the convent caused him no great surprise; for some time a rumor of this had been current in society. Yet, in spite of his best efforts, he could not help feeling a quick, keen pang and a melancholy that prostrated him completely. The more or less well-founded belief that the beloved woman does not return one's affection, is by no means the same thing as to see it confirmed by a material tangible fact. Not any longer did he retain the right to lose his temper and relieve his wrath by calling her perfidious and treacherous, as happens in the majority of cases. As the sincere Christian that he was, it became him to look with patience, even with pleasure (the letter said so distinctly!), upon that pious substitution of holy, sublime affections for those of earth, noble though they were. Maria was blameworthy in no respect,--absolutely in no respect; her conduct was worthy of all praise, and he saw how the whole city spontaneously and warmly rendered her their tribute. Possibly in this thought the young marquis found the only possible consolation; for the certain thing was, that the beautiful girl had not left him for any other man, but to follow the hard road that leads to heaven, for which, doubtless, it must require the doing of great violence to self. And in this violence our marquis took a little pride by thinking with delight, and at the same time with pain, on the strength which the new bride of Jesus must have employed, to tear up the roots of such a solid and long-established affection. But amid the beautiful foliage of these more or less consoling thoughts, a sad and cruel doubt often raised its odious head. Though Ricardo employed all expedients to get rid of such an idea, he could not help thinking very frequently that Maria had never professed for him a sincere and vehement love, like his for her; that she had been his betrothed through a compromise, through the influence of the peculiar circumstances in which both had found themselves in Nieva; that perhaps she had deceived herself in thinking that she loved him, since if she had really loved him, the idea of taking part in ridiculous conspiracies would never have entered into her head, still less that of proposing to him odious acts of treason; that Maria was a girl of much talent and great imagination, admirably fitted to shine in the world, or to undertake some religious or secular enterprise, of no matter how lofty a character, but incapable, perhaps from the very same reason, of delicacy of sentiments, of constancy, of the modest and humble abnegation which ought to characterize good wives and mothers. Finally Ricardo came to the conclusion that his mistress had more head than heart, or else he did not know what he was talking about.

And gradually under the influence of these doubts, which went almost as far as to be certainties, there sprang up in his mind a strong aversion to the amorous memories, which were a drawback to him. When he thought of the Maria of former times, so joyous, so lovely, so buoyant, his heart would melt within him, and the tears would flow; when his thought went back to the day on which, hidden behind the curtains, he saw her pass by his house unmoved and smiling, without so much as casting a glance at his windows, his heart was filled with a bitterness not free from rancor. And when he saw her in his imagination in the garb of a San Bernardin nun, entirely oblivious of the sweet scenes which had been the enchantment of his life, despising them, perhaps, and looking upon them with horror, as though they had been crimes, our young friend--may God forgive him the sin--began to look with hatred upon the bride of Jesus Christ. These doubts which constantly assaulted him were a genuine cautery for his passion, painful and cruel, like all cauteries, but very salutary in their effects.

He did not for an instant cease to frequent the Elorza mansion as before. There he found two human beings whom he pitied and who pitied him. Moreover, it was a habit of his to spend a few hours each day between those four walls, and not only a habit, but a debt of gratitude for the affection lavished upon him, and not only a debt, but also--and why should we not say so?--also a pleasure, a great pleasure, since he could not fail to find it so in being with such an accomplished gentleman as Don Mariano, who had showed that he loved him like a son, and with such a good and beautiful girl as Marta, whom he loved like a sister. Grief had still further limited the circle of his affections. In proportion as the recollection of Maria became less pleasant to him, the sweeter did he find the love of that family, and he clung to it as to the last plank in the shipwreck of his hopes. If he let this plank escape him, he would be left alone. Alone! alone! This word brought back to him that terrible night spent in the train, when he returned to Nieva after his mother's death. Cruel fate sounded it in his ears when he least expected it. Finally, while he stayed in Nieva, it did not ring with such a mournfully and disconsolate accent, because all that he saw and touched in his own house spoke to him of his mother's tenderness; and all that he found in the Elorza mansion, recalled Maria's love; but how would it be in the future?... What would the desert fields of Castilla say to him, across which the swift locomotive would carry him? What would the indifferent multitude in the streets of Madrid say to him?... Therefore Ricardo feared more than he desired the transfer which he had asked for with so much eagerness.

Every day when he reached the Elorza's, Martita asked him, "Has it come yet, Ricardo?"

Sometimes he replied between jest and earnest,--

"Perhaps you are anxious for me to go away, Martita?"

"Oh, no," would be the young girl's reply, with an inflection of voice equal to a poem.

But Ricardo did not have the power of reading it. These love-wrecked men, these men wounded by disenchantment, cannot read other poems than their own.

Marta, after the death of her mother, in whose illness Ricardo had so much aided and consoled her, once more treated him with the same confidence and affection as of old. For some time she had been rather cool toward him. Don Mariano's younger daughter had passed through a terrible crisis, and no one in the house had a suspicion of it. While it lasted she was rather more brusque in her behavior, more restless, more serious and reserved; but at last her calm spirit and her healthy and well-balanced nature came out victorious. Doña Gertrudis's death, which was a more serious and genuine calamity than anything else, had no small effect in calming the disturbances and commotions of her heart. She was once more the same Marta, tranquil, serene, and affectionate as before, always anxious to free obstacles from the path of others, though her own were blocked by an unsurmountable wall. Fortunate are they who in life meet with these blessed beings who found their own happiness in that of others, and who offer the flowers and content themselves with the thorns.

Ricardo spent long hours at the Elorzas'. Whole afternoons, especially, he devoted to Don Mariano and his daughter, going to walk with them when the weather was fair, and staying in the house when it rained. Sometimes, too, he came in the morning, and then Don Mariano would invite him to stay to dinner. While Ricardo refused and the caballero insisted, Marta did not open her lips, but her anxiety was betrayed in her face, and her eager desire to keep him shone in her supplicating eyes. When, finally, he accepted, the girl's joy was evident, and her solicitude was evident in the way that she took charge of everything, going to and from the kitchen any number of times, preparing the dishes which she knew were most to the young marquis's taste, and keeping the servants alert; the _beefsteak à la inglesa_ (for Ricardo had learned in Madrid to eat it rather rare), the cold fish, the boiled rice, the slice of lemon (Ricardo put lemon on almost all his food), the English mustard, the olives, and other things. But where Marta used her five senses was with the coffee. Ricardo was a perfect Arab, a Sybarite in regard to coffee. Thus it was that the girl bestowed a more lively and vigilant care upon the preparation of this liquid than a chemist on the analysis of some precious metal. While she came and went, making all the preparations, the young fellow did not cease to rally her in the same affectionate tone as of old; and this, too, though Marta, if still a little short for her age, was now a real woman, and not among the worst favored, either, as we have already had occasion to remark. She had grown slightly, nevertheless.

"Come, _caponcita_,[73] when did you stop growing?" said Ricardo, detaining her by one of her braids of hair, as she was passing in front of him.

The girl smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and continued on her way.

From the day on which he had been vexed with her, Martita had never asked him about the transfer, but whenever he entered the house, all gave him a keen, anxious look, as though trying to read some tidings in his face. As it did not come, the girl recovered her tranquillity and resumed her work, which she rarely failed to have in her hands. Ricardo likewise said nothing about going away; either he did not remember his petition, or affected not to remember it, or wished not to remember it. Perhaps it was a little of all. The Marquis de Peñalta had passed from disconsolateness to melancholy, and from this he was gradually letting himself drift on toward a happier frame of mind. The house where Marta sewed began to inspire jocund ideas of sweet ease and happiness.

One morning, Ricardo, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, as though the tidings did not tear any one's heart, as though it were some mere trifle of little consequence at issue, came into the Elorzas', and said,--

"Yesterday evening at last my transfer to Valencia came!"

Blind! blind! dost thou not see that girl's pallor? Dost thou not notice the painful trembling that runs over her body? Look out! she is going to fall! Run, run to her assistance!

Nothing, the young marquis perceived nothing! He, too, was a little pale. The indifferent tone in which he made the announcement was pure comedy, for I know on good authority that he walked up and down his room the night before, till he was tired out, and that the rays of the morning found him still unable to close his eyes.

Don Mariano made a gesture of disappointment, exclaiming,--

"There, my son, there!... I feel that we are going to lose you!... However, if it is your pleasure...."

Ricardo preserved a gloomy silence. Gladly would he have exclaimed, "How can it be my pleasure? My pleasure would be to ask for a discharge at this very moment, and stay here forever and live calmly near you! Near you, the people whom I love most in this world!" But he had the weakness to hold his tongue, and such weaknesses as these generally cost very dear in life.

"And when do you expect to go?" pursued the caballero.

"To-morrow. I must stop in Madrid a few days to attend to some business. I shall reach Valencia the tenth of next month."

"Are you going to some regiment?"

"To the First Cavalry."

"Ah!"

And there was silence. Sadness ruled them all, choking conversation, which usually was very animated, even though it touched upon the details of domestic affairs. Don Mariano renewed it in a sad and distracted tone.

"Have you ever been in Valencia?"

"Yes, sir; I spent a month there a few years ago."

"It is very pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes; very pretty."

"Many oranges, eh?"

"A great many."

"I think it is a very gay city."

"No, not gay; it seemed to me very melancholy."

"Then, my dear fellow, I should think...."

But they relapsed into silence. Their hearts were oppressed, and the indifferent tone of the words was not sufficient to hide it. Marta had not once spoken during all the time, and, as she sat in a low chair next the window, paid close attention to her crochet work. Ricardo was lounging on the sofa near Don Mariano. A thousand melancholy thoughts sifted through the minds of all three, and that cheerful room, bright in the pure, brilliant morning light, was nevertheless filled with sadness and silence. When the Señor de Elorza spoke to Ricardo again, his emotion shone through his slightly hoarse and tremulous voice.

"And what arrangements have you made about your house?... Are you going to dismiss the servants?"

"All except Pepe, the gardener, and César, the inside man."

"Have you packed yet?"

"No; I shall have time this afternoon and to-morrow morning."

"And your calls?"

"Really, Don Mariano, the only people with whom I am intimate are you here.... Three or four other calls, and I am done.... I shall send cards to the rest.... What I am most sorry about is, to leave the improvements in my garden unfinished, and the two pavilions in the corners just begun...."

"Don't be troubled about that, I will attend to it.... I will attend to it.... I will attend to it...."

He could say no more. Emotion choked him. Those pavilions had been Maria's idea before the engagement was broken, and this recollection brought in its train many others, all painful, in which his wife, his daughter, and Ricardo were mingled, bringing before his eyes the terrible misfortunes which he had recently suffered. He hastily arose and left the room.

Ricardo, likewise moved and overwhelmed by great dejection, remained with bent head, and silent. Marta kept on busily with her task, as though she felt no interest in what was going on. She did not once lift her head during the conversation, nor even when her father left the room. Ricardo looked at her fixedly a long time. The girl's impassive attitude began to mortify him. He had presumptuously imagined that it would affect Martita very deeply to hear the announcement of his departure, for she had always given evidence of being fond of him. He had blind confidence in the goodness of her heart and the strength of her affections; but when he saw her so serene, moving the ivory needle between her slender rosy fingers, without asking him anything about it, without urging him to postpone his journey for a few days, without speaking a word, he felt a new and painful disenchantment. And he allowed himself, by the weight of his gloomy thoughts, to be drawn away into a desperate, pessimistic philosophy.

"Then, sir," he said to himself tearfully, "you must accept the world and humanity as they are.... This girl whom I believed to be so tender-hearted.... What is to be done about it?... In woman exists only one true affection.... Can it possibly be that this child is in love with some one?"

Ricardo had no reason to be indignant at such a thought. But it is certain that he was indignant, and not a little. He tried to drive it away as an absurdity, and succeeded only in convincing himself that, not only it would not be an absurdity, but would not even be strange. But as he was downcast, indignation very soon gave way to sadness; deep, painful sadness.

"Aren't you sorry that I am going away?" he asked, with a sort of melancholy smile creeping over his face.

"Not if it is your pleasure to go...." replied the girl, not lifting her head.

Confound the pleasure! Ricardo had no longer any desire to go away; he was furious with himself for having asked to be sent. Gladly would he give everything to exchange.... But he did not say a word of what he thought.

His sadness and depression kept increasing. He felt a cruel desire to weep. He dared not say a word to Marta, lest she should notice his emotion. Besides, what reason had he to speak to her?... Such an unfeeling child!

He found himself in one of those moments of dejection in which everything appears clad in black, and he took a certain bitter delight in it; moment, in which one (if the expression be permissible) wallows voluptuously in sadness, endeavoring to add to it by unhappy recollections and expectations. He dropped his head on the pillow of the sofa, and shut his eyes, as though he were meditating. Our hero had been meditating deeply, deeply, for many hours. His nerves had been on the strain for a long time, and he began to feel the attack of a languor akin to faintness. He lifted his head a little, to prove to himself that he still had the power of motion, and he looked once more at Martita, who was still in the same position; but very soon he let it fall again. It seemed to him as if he were seized against his will, and kept lying there, without the possibility of moving a finger. He still had his eyes open, but they were as heavy as if the lids had been made of lead. At last he closed them, and fell asleep. That is, we cannot say that he slept, or only napped. It is certain, however, that the Marqués de Peñalta, thus stretched out, with eyes closed, seemed to be asleep, and his face looked so pale, there were such dark rings under his eyes, and his whole appearance was so lifeless that it inspired alarm.

In the space of a few moments one can dream of many and very different things. All have experienced this phenomenon. Ricardo had not as yet entirely lost the idea of reality, when he found himself in a room like the one in which he really was. However, there was this difference, that in the new one the window had very thick iron gratings, like lattices, and one of the walls was likewise grated, through which there could be seen in the background, gilded altars, images of saints, lamps hung from the ceiling; in fact, a real church. Looking attentively from the sofa, he perceived that a great throng was pouring into the church, causing a low, but disagreeable noise, until they filled it entirely, and there was no more room. Then he began to hear the tones of an organ playing the waltzes of the Queen of Scotland, which made him suspect that the organist was Fray Saturnino, the capellane of San Felipe. Then, rising above the heads of the people, he saw the gilded points of a mitre. The organ ceased, and he heard the nasal voice of a preacher delivering a long sermon, although he could not understand a word of what he said. When the sermon was over, he heard a sweet song which made him tremble with delight; it was Maria's sweet voice, singing with more sweetness than ever, the aria from _Traviata_: "Gran Dio morir si giovane." When this was finished, prolonged applause rang through the church. Then all the people crowded up to the great altar, leaving the spaces near the grating free. Something was going on there, for he clearly heard some voices saying,--

"Now he gives her the benediction ... now ... now."

And at the same instant Don Maximo appeared in the door of the room, and said,--

"What are you doing, lying down here? Didn't you know that Maria is being married?"

"Whom is she marrying?"

"Jesus Christ! Come and see the ceremony!"

He desired to arise, but could not. Then the physician said,--

"Well, since you cannot move, I will go into the church, to see if I can persuade the people to stand aside a little so that you may see from here."

And in fact, he soon perceived that the congregation was making a sufficiently wide passage from the grating, so that he could see afar away, over the steps of the great altar, Maria's proud figure in bridal array. At her side stood another little human figure holding her by the hand. The bishop was giving them his blessing. It was no more Jesus Christ than it was a pumpkin! The person whom Maria was marrying was neither more nor less than Manolito Lopez, that most impertinent and uncongenial of urchins! He was like one who saw a vision! Could it be possible that a girl so beautiful and wise, would unite herself to this cub and leave him, who in every respect was a man abandoned to despair? The truth is, he had reason for serious and painful reflections. But just as he was getting deeper and deeper involved in them, behold the same Maria enters the room in the garb of a San Bernardo nun, and coming directly to him said, sweetly smiling,--

"Art thou sad because I marry?"

"Why should I not be?"

"Fool," says the young woman, coming still closer, "though I am wedded to Jesus Christ, yet I love thee the same as before."

Then Ricardo began to sigh and groan.

"No, Maria, you do not love me; you love Manolito Lopez."

"Come, Ricardo mio, don't talk nonsense. How could I love this urchin?"

"Have you not just married him?"

"You must be dreaming; don't say any more absurd things.... Wake up, man--wake up ... or wait a little, I am going to wake you. But see in what a sweet way!"

And in fact, the beautiful nun came even closer still, and took his face between her dainty hands with an affectionate gesture. Then she brought her own close to his slowly, and gave him a warm and prolonged kiss on the brow.

Oh! wonderful chance! Ricardo noticed with amazement, that just as she gave him the caress, Maria's face had suddenly changed into Marta's. Yes; it was her bright black eyes; her fresh rosy cheeks; her dark hair falling in ringlets around her brow. But her face seemed so sad and mournful that he could not do less than cry,--

"Marta, Marta! what ails thee?"

And the very cry that he made awoke him.

Marta still sat in the low chair beside the window, apparently absorbed in her work. And nevertheless, the young man, though awake, was sure that he had cried out. All that had passed was a dream; but neither the cry nor the warm, moist lips which he felt imprinted on his brow were imaginary; though he were killed, he could not be convinced of it.

What was it? What had passed?

He remained some instants looking at Martita, while he slowly collected his ideas. At last he decided to speak to her. The girl lifted her face which was flushed and disturbed.

"Did I not just cry out?"

Martita grew still more flushed and disturbed, and scarcely could she answer in trembling voice,--

"No.... I heard nothing."

Ricardo looked at her steadily and with surprise: "Why was that girl blushing so?"

"I was asleep, but I would take my oath that I cried out ... and I would also take my oath--such a strange thing!--that you gave me a kiss."

Marta's color, when she heard these words, suddenly changed from rosy to pale, betraying a profound consternation. Her tremulous hands could not hold her crochet work, and dropped it in her lap. At the same time her eyes rested on Ricardo with such an expression of fear, of tenderness, of supplication, of dismay, that he felt a strong shock, like that caused by an electric discharge.

It was the same look--the same that he had just seen in his dream.

He felt himself inundated by a great light, a divine light. At that supreme moment he saw everything, he comprehended all. The mist that blinded his eyes faded away, and he saw himself face to face with the scene in the garden, when Marta seemed so offended because he kissed her hands ... and he saw and comprehended. The strange dismay following that scene he likewise saw and comprehended. Then he went back in imagination to the beach on the island. The sun pouring floods of light over the sand; the blue and white waves girdling a peninsula where two young people had been long sitting; the sob which broke the silence of the tunnel; then a girl falling into the water, and a young man plunging in after her and saving her. "Thanks, Señor Marqués, it is not so bad down below there." This also he saw, he comprehended. Then a sudden and extraordinary estrangement: a pair of eyes that did not look at him, two lips that did not speak to him, a pair of hands that did not touch him.

Ah, yes; he saw all; he understood all.

He sprang up hastily from the sofa, and bringing his face close to Marta's, said to her in sweet, affectionate tones, but with innocent petulance,--

"Don't deny it, Martita; you just gave me a kiss!"

The girl raised her hands to her face, and broke into a passion of tears. A thousand emotions of fear, of penitence, of affection, of doubt, of joy, of anxiety, instantly crossed the heart of the young marquis who bent his knee before her, exclaiming in accents of emotion,--

"Marta, for God's sake, forgive my stupidity.... I am a fool!... I just dreamed such sad things, and they suddenly all ended so well!... I could not resign myself to let happiness escape so ... an absurd idea came into my head, inspired by the very idea of seeing it realized.... But no ... no! I cannot be happy on earth.... I was born to be unfortunate.... Luckily I shall die early, like my father ... and like my mother.... Forgive me that momentary folly, and don't weep.... Do you want to know what I was dreaming?... I am going to tell you, because perhaps it will be the last time that you will see me.... I dreamed ... I dreamed, Marta, that you loved me."

The girl opened her hands a little, and ejaculated with a certain wrathful, but adorable intonation these words, which were immediately cut short by sobs,--

"You dreamed the truth, ingrato!"

The Marqués de Peñalta, beside himself, entirely carried away by his emotions, his heart ready to burst, pressed her in his arms without being able to speak a word. At last, very softly, very softly, with the sublime incoherence of the heart, like a murmur of celestial harmony, he whispered into the ears of his friend the hymn of love. Dios mio! how sweet sounded that hymn in Marta's ears! I do not intend to repeat it: no; the pen cannot reproduce that mysterious language which comes directly from the heart, scarcely touching the lips,--accents escaping from heaven and hastening to take refuge in the breast of virgins,--for the earth does not understand them, notes perhaps lost from the song with which the angels celebrate their immortal bliss.

Marta listened. Tremulous, confused, she hid her head in her lover's breast, shedding a flood of tears. Ricardo pressed her closer and closer to his heart without wearying of repeating the same phrase,--the most beautiful phrase that God ever suggested to man. Once the girl raised her head to ask in low and tremulous voice,--

"You will not go now, will you?"

Little desire had Ricardo at that moment to go away! Not for all that was precious in earth and in heaven would he go away. His spirit did not dare to pass by even the window-panes, fearful lest it should lose the bliss in which it was bathed. Nevertheless, he had sufficient self-control to tear himself away a moment and rush to the door, crying,--

"Don Mariano! Don Mariano!"

The Señor de Elorza, alarmed, nervous as he had been for some time, came in haste, fearing some new misfortune. Ricardo's face, wherein shone the deep emotion which overmastered him, was not calculated to calm any one. What was the matter? Why did they call him?

"Don Mariano," said the young man, and his voice stuck in his throat.... "I have the honor of asking the hand of your daughter Marta."

That was a thunder-stroke; but what the devil! Had he gone crazy?... What did it mean, sir? We shall see, we shall see! Nothing; Don Mariano could say nothing, could do nothing, could think of nothing, for before he could say, do, or think of anything, his daughter's arms were around his neck, and she was weeping as though her heart would break.... What was left for the noble caballero? To weep likewise. Why, this was exactly what he did, pressing his beloved child with one arm, and squeezing with his other hand the Marqués of Peñalta's.

"You will not abandon me, will you, my children?" entreated the venerable man, lifting his noble, manly face bathed in tears.

Ricardo pressed his hand more warmly. Marta clung to his neck more fondly.

There were a few moments of silence, during which all the angels of heaven swept through the room, which was bathed in the morning sun, and gazed with radiant eyes of joy upon that interesting group. But now Martita lifts her face a little from her father's breast, and, smiling through her tears, asks her lover coyly: "Will you dine with us to-day, Ricardo?"

"Yes, preciosa mia," replied the young marquis, falling on his knees, and kissing the girl's hands again and again; "I will to-day, and to-morrow, and every day forever!"

Marta hid her face again on the paternal breast! Her heart was so full of joy! The three shed tears in silence; but what sweet tears!

O eternal God, who dwellest in the hearts of the good! are they perhaps less pleasing to Thee than the mystic colloquies of the Convent of San Bernardo?

THE END.

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FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Anglice_, oil of birch.

[2] _Paraphernalia bona_, in Spanish _bienes parafernales_, are the goods and chattels brought by a wife independent of her dower.

[3] _tertulia_.

[4] _buenas noches_.

[5] _pataches_ and _quechemarines_.

[6] _palomita_.

[7] _mi corazón_.

[8] _cordera_.

[9] 1 John ii. 1.

[10] Psalms xxxiv. 8.

[11] _gracias_.

[12] _criatura_.

[13] _Buenas noches_: _que usted lleve feliz viaje!_

[14] _querido_.

[15] _vaya gracias á Dios_!

[16] _licenciado_.

[17] _chica_.

[18] _Fulanito_, diminutive of _Fulano_, such an one; hence, little master, little miss.

[19] _mira_, _chica_.

[20] _secretas y santas fantasías_.

[21] _quinque_.

[22] _con mil amores_, literally, with a thousand loves.

[23] _tonta_.

[24] _mi palomita del alma_.

[25] _monina_, literally, little monkey.

[26] _pasacalle_.

[27] _pesado_.

[28] The epoch of _novatada_.

[29] _antiguos_.

[30] _nuevos_.

[31] _Dios mio_.

[32] _novetada_.

[33] _chica_.

[34] _majadero_.

[35] _un adan_.

[36] _ayuntamiento_.

[37] Luke xiv. 26.

[38]

_Ay! quién podrá sanarme!_ _Acaba de entregarte ya de vero,_ _No quieras enviarme_ _De hoy mas ya mensajero_ _Que no saben decirme lo que quiero._

[39] _El Tiempo_.

[40] _Calle de la Industria_.

[41] _Doña Fulana de Tal to Don Zutano de Cual_.

[42] _Ez uzté mu bonita, pero ez uzté mu redondita_.

[43] _tertulianas_.

[44] _mestiza_.

[45] _Ay Dios_.

[46] _Caramba con el agua_.

[47] La Isla.

[48] _tonta_.

[49] _Ay, Dios mio_.

[50] _aaaguanta_.

[51] _aduana_.

[52] _ponerle en Berlina_.

[53] _persona mayor_.

[54] _jéfe de orden publico_

[55 1] _hasta luégo._

[56] _junta._

[57] _boinas blancas y polainas._

[58] _guardias civiles._

[59] _fábrica de armas._

[60] _casas consistoriales._

[61] _vosotros, not te._

[62 1] _soplo: literally breath._

[63] _corazón mio._

[64] _boina._

[65] _tunantes._

[66] _pendanga._

[67] _fiscal._

[68] _cantar de plano_.

[69] _chiquita_.

[70] _pichona_.

[71] _locutorio_.

[72] _riquita_.

[73] little stopple.