Chapter VI

"If your son were to put up at a hotel while I have a house in Madrid, I should be seriously vexed with him, and with you too," _la brigadiera_ Angela had written to her cousin Maria Antonia.

And her cousin replied:--

"I have sent a copy of your letter to Alfonso, and assured him that he would enjoy much staying with you. Although he always rebels against my advice, I hope that this time he will gratify me. But I am afraid, my dear, that his visit may cause you a good deal of trouble, for I don't know what kind of habits he has contracted in Paris; but you have asked for it, and you can try it."

_La brigadiera_ caused the rooms that Miguel had occupied to be put in order with so much care and nicety, worried her daughter Julia so desperately in the details of the appointments, the curtains, etc., that the girl when she spoke of her cousin always spoke of him as "_el nino de la bola_."[16]

Before she made his acquaintance, she conceived a violent antipathy to him. This was caused in no small measure, because the visitor twice disappointed them about coming. The reports that she had heard about him were not very favorable either.

Alfonso Saavedra had lost his father when he was very young: he was the inheritor of a considerable fortune; his mother had not had sufficient energy or ability to train him properly; he had not chosen any definite career; his only occupation was amusement, and allowing free course to his passions, which, according to what people said, could not have been more violent. Very amusing stories were told about him, and some that were extremely displeasing: he had been living in Paris almost constantly since he was a young lad, and there he had largely squandered his estate, but as he had still large expectations from his mother's property, which was even larger than his father's, he lived without apprehension of the future, and spent his money lavishly.

Finally, a telegram was received announcing the departure from Paris of _el nino de la bola_.

And on the morning of the following day he arrived. When Julia heard the bell ring, feeling disturbed, she went to the sewing-room and began to jest with the maid about the style which her cousin affected; then there was heard in the corridor a great commotion of moving luggage.

"What room has he been shown into, Inocencia?" she asked of the girl who came in at that moment.

"He is in the library with your mamma."

In a few moments a powerful ring at the bell was heard.

"The senora is calling," said Inocencia, running.

"Senorita will please come immediately to the library, says your mamma," she announced, on returning.

"Very well," the girl replied, in bad humor. "Are they sitting down?"

"Yes, senorita."

"Then they can wait without hurting them any."

But in a few minutes the pull at the bell was repeated with more violence, and the girl, foreseeing her mother's vexation, arose with a very bad grace, and dropping her sewing, exclaimed with a scornful accent:--

"There now, we are going to see Don Alfonso, Prince of Asturias!"

Don Alfonso was a man of about thirty-five, a gay bachelor, with regular features, with shaven cheeks, and mustaches twisted in the French style; in his wavy, black hair gleamed here and there a thread of silver; otherwise, his fresh and ruddy cheeks, his white and carefully brushed teeth, and his easy, graceful gestures, made him seem like a boy; his travelling-costume was affectedly elegant, with certain Parisian refinements unknown in Madrid. Julita took all this in at one rapid glance. He was not at all the man that she expected to meet. Having heard her cousin spoken of as a spendthrift, she had always imagined him as jaundiced, lean, scrubby, and inflicted with a cough, like some hair-brained Madrilenos whom she knew by sight.

When he saw the young lady, he arose hastily to his feet.

"Oh, what a pretty cousin!" he exclaimed, at the same time taking her hand in a frank and affectionate manner. "You will forgive me for having disturbed you in what you were doing, will you not?"

"I was not doing anything.... Won't you sit down, sir?"

Don Alfonso remained a moment in a state of uncertainty, and then as he sat down, he exclaimed with a gesture of resignation:--

"What a terrible blow to my illusions, aunt! Your daughter has not dared to say _thou_ to me.... These cursed gray hairs!"

Julita flushed a deep crimson.

"That is not the reason!"

"Then it is because you have been prejudiced against me; confess it!... But it is not my fault either that I am old, or that your mamma has disturbed you on my account."

Julita, flushing deeper and deeper, did not know how to defend herself; her mother came to her aid.

"It is neither the one thing nor the other, Alfonso; the trouble is that, as having never met you before, she is confused."

"Is that so?" he asked his cousin, at the same time looking at her with a bright smile.

Julita gave an affirmative gesture, and returned his smile.

"That is not so bad.... But I still feel a keen sense of remorse. It will be very gratifying to me if you will tell me that I am forgiven."

Julita, with difficulty overcoming the timidity that choked her, said in a low tone:--

"I have nothing to forgive you for."

"Thanks, little coz," pursued Don Alfonso, rising, and with an elegant and graceful gesture again shaking hands with her.

Then he began to talk with his aunt about family affairs; asking her many questions about his whole circle of relatives, and learning many particulars of which he had been ignorant.

Then the conversation turned on the customs of Paris, which he described pleasantly and attractively, taking pains to extol Spain, instead of depreciating it as the majority of travellers are in the habit of doing. This appealed to _la brigadiera's_ sympathies. Don Alfonso spoke easily and naturally, but without conceit; on the contrary, in the midst of his talk, he would correct any idea that seemed at all pretentious, and was evidently anxious to show that he had no wish whatever to make himself out a remarkable man.

If he spoke of women, all had "given him the mitten"; if he spoke of art, or gave his opinion about museums and singers, he protested that he had little or no knowledge of painting or music; if by chance he was obliged to refer to any quarrel in which he himself had taken part, he passed over it lightly, and did not fail to have it understood that he had done everything possible to avoid it, and at the same time he made sport of the duel and of duelists.

As Don Alfonso had the reputation of being lucky in love affairs, and many of his adventures had made considerable talk, as he played the piano pretty well, and was accounted one of the crack marksmen of Paris, and had fought more than a dozen duels, this modesty of his in conversation was a refreshing contrast, sure of bringing success in society. These accomplishments were rendered still more attractive by the slight foreign accent which made his words all the more insinuating and suave.

Julita listened to him, gazing at him with that intense and conjuring look by which young girls in an instant analyze all a man's physical and moral nature.

Her cousin made a very favorable showing as the result of the analysis; she had no idea that he was such an amiable and attractive man; the incidents of his life which she had heard before gave him the reputation of being haughty and violent in character, if not even coarse and shameless.

One evening in Seville he was engaged in playing ombre, and because he was not very successful, he became so much excited that he said all sorts of impudent things, and finally told the ladies present that he was going to ride into the parlor on his nag. No one placed any credence in what he said, and he went out without any one noticing it; but in a few minutes he made his appearance on horseback, to the amazement and terror of all, especially the ladies, who began to scream, while he, striking the spurs into his horse, roared with laughter.

On another occasion, being deep in an intrigue with a young woman of the middle class, he went in full dress to the house of her parents, and told them that he wished to speak with them on a very private and serious matter. The father, who was a humble government employe, imagining, as any one might have supposed, that he was going to ask his daughter's hand, received him trembling with emotion; then after many periphrases and circumlocutions, Saavedra ended by asking him to give him a favorable report on a certain matter that he had in his department.

This hateful piece of drollery was noised over the whole town, and put that poor innocent senor in a most ridiculous light.

But Julita, as she saw and listened to him, forgot these and other escapades; unquestionably this young man, who in her presence was so refined and modest, was an entirely different person.

Saavedra after showing such gallantry to his cousin, waited a long time before he addressed her, or even looked at her; he seemed to be absorbed in his conversation with her mother. Thus it was that she had an abundance of time to make a careful scrutiny of his appearance: his shirt-collar, his cravat, his watch-chain, his boots, all were elegant, and proved by their style that they came from the other side of the Pyrenees.

"You will feel like getting the dust off and having a wash, Alfonso," said _la brigadiera_. "Come; we will show you to your room: it is the one which my son Miguel used to occupy."

Don Alfonso could not praise it sufficiently: he found everything to his taste.

"I shall be just like a fish in the water here. You will have trouble in getting rid of me, I assure you!"

"I will warn you," said Julia, "that it was I who made the bed myself. Don't you dare say that you have not slept well."

As soon as she had said these words, which by their mischievous spirit were perfectly proper, she repented having said them, and blushed. Don Alfonso turned his face upon her, and looked at her with some friendly curiosity.

"That is the very reason that I shall not sleep well. You were unkind to tell me."

Julita blushed more than ever, and to hide her confusion began to straighten the bottles on the dressing-table, and then she left the room. Finally her mother also went, leaving him to himself, and shortly afterward he again appeared in the parlor, in another costume of the latest and most elegant style.

"Julita," said her mother, "tell them to put on the breakfast; you must feel weary, Alfonso."

"No, aunt; I feel hungry, though. The word is more prosaic, but it is nearer the truth."

_La brigadiera_, with a laugh, accepted the arm which her nephew offered her as they went to the dining-room. During the meal he entertained the ladies in the same agreeable fashion, telling them a thousand curious incidents, giving them minute descriptions of the _soirees_ in the fashionable society of Paris. They were most interested in what he had to say about the ladies' dresses and the decoration of the salons.

During the conversation he never once forgot those gallant and thoughtful attentions which were demanded by his situation. By intuition he discovered when Julita's wine-glass was empty; he offered his aunt the olives; he passed her the mustard, cut the bread for her, etc.

Julia was merry, and perhaps rather more talkative than usual; but when she made use of any expression that was a little more piquante than usual, she would feel her cheeks flush under her cousin's steady, smiling, and somewhat ironical gaze.

It was the first time that she had ever forced herself to be witty and sharp and say sharp things. When she said anything that was particularly clever, Saavedra would look up, and his smile would seem to say, "This little girl is bright."

Julia was rather humiliated by his smile at first, but then she read under it an expression of scornful protection, or at least of absolute indifference, scarcely masked by the extreme courtesy which he showed in all his words and gestures. For in this respect Don Alfonso did not weary a single instant; he did not miss a single opportunity of showing them his subordination, and of giving both his aunt and cousin to feel how agreeable he could be to them.

In the days that followed, his gallantry did not in the least relax. _La brigadiera_ wrote her cousin, assuring her that "she would keep her nephew not merely a month, but all his life in her house; that he was a perfect gentleman, and that young men could not in Spain possibly acquire such an admirable education and such manners as he possessed."

A hearty and perfect confidence quickly grew between him and Julia; the girl amused him with her lively and picturesque chatter which recalled to the exile his years of childhood and youth.

Don Alfonso played the guitar as well as the piano, and to his skill and facility in singing Polish and Spanish songs was due in no small measure his social success in Parisian society. But there he played and sang to attract the notice of the ladies and make himself known, while here it was for his own pleasure or to bring to mind happy days or events.

When he came home in the afternoon an hour before dinner, he was fond of sitting by his cousin's side, with the guitar on his knees, and singing his whole repertoire, not only of classic songs, but also of the serenades,[17] _habaneras_, and polkas of his earlier days. Julia recalled some that he had forgotten, and whenever this happened he clapped his hands with delight, and enthusiastically praised his cousin's memory.

She was in her element those days; she had some one to talk with, and she was amused a large part of the day in looking out for the visitor's wants, superintending the ironing of his linen, and seeing that his room was kept neat and clean, and in inspecting with childish curiosity his belongings; and then she heard herself constantly called all sorts of pet adjectives.[18] And what young girl on the face of the earth would not enjoy this? Don Alfonso had certainly remarkable gifts in the way of giving compliments without repeating himself, and without descending to eternal vulgarities, and he was very skilful in finding occasion to say something pleasant about the maiden's charms.... Now it was her hands: "pretty enough to eat"; now it was her teeth: "abroad very few such splendid ones were to be seen"; again, it was her jet-black hair: "I am tired of seeing nothing but tow on women's heads."

Without noticing it, the girl began to wait impatiently afternoons for her cousin's coming, and if anything delayed him, she would keep jumping up from her seat, and then coming back to it again without any reason.

It was during these days that our droll friend Utrilla wrote those famous letters mentioned in the last chapter.

One afternoon as Saavedra came in, Julia happened to be passing through the vestibule; she affected to go in front of him without greeting him, but suddenly twitched the end of his cravat, and untied it.

"Hold on there, you little witch! Now come and tie it for me again!"

But Julia was already out of sight, laughing. Don Alfonso followed her; he overtook her in the dining-room; when the girl saw him, she started to run again, and went to the kitchen.

"You won't escape me that way!" cried Saavedra.

"Yes I shall too," retorted the girl, again vanishing from sight.

Both ran along the corridor, but when they were near the parlor, Julia turned around, and going a few steps toward her cousin, said:--

"Don't chase me any more; I will tie the cravat, but I won't promise to do it well."

"It is enough if you do it; it is a punishment which I impose upon you."

Laughing, though her hands trembled a little, she arranged the tie.

"What is that you have hanging there?" she asked, bending her head so as to examine a trinket which her cousin wore on his watch-chain.

"A gold heart.... Just like mine!"

And as he said that he bent over and imprinted a kiss on the girl's neck.

Julia straightened herself up as though a pin had pricked her, flushed deeply, and giving him a severe look, said in a muffled voice:--

"I assure you that I do not wish you to do such a thing again!"

Saavedra looked at her with mischievous, mirth-provoking eyes, and not paying any attention to her anger, went on calmly talking to her. Julia, uncertain what course to take, replied gravely to his questions, and did not look at him. Finally his perfect calmness and confidence had their effect upon her, and in a little while she was as gay as ever.

Their relations continued on this friendly footing for a number of days, until suddenly Julia for some occult reason began to grow sober and melancholy. Some afternoons, instead of going to the parlor to talk with the visitor, she left him alone with her mother; if she met him in the corridor, she would give him a serious and furtive glance, and let him pass without a word; sometimes when he addressed her, she would not answer, pretending not to hear him; at other times, if she happened to go into the library, and found him there reading a newspaper, she would turn back in all haste.

All these signs of disregard or resentment, strange as it may seem, had no effect whatever on Don Alfonso, who, as though not noticing them, continued to show her the same gallantry as before, even more pronounced if possible, and he did not in the least alter his habits, nor his hours of entering or leaving the house.

It must not be supposed that Julia was sad every day; there were some, when without the least apparent reason, she would appear extraordinarily gay, filling the whole house with her merry voice, rallying her mamma, her cousin, and every one who happened to be visiting them, and being far more audacious in her witticisms than usual.... But in the midst of this obstreperous gayety, she would suddenly stop for several moments, with her eyes set and ecstatic, and then her face would take on a very strange expression of pain.

On these merry days she would treat her cousin with unaccustomed amiability as though she were anxious to compensate him for the petty disdain that she had shown him in the days gone by.

Don Alfonso stole three or four more kisses, each time receiving an energetic protest on the girl's part, and finally the formal threat of telling her mother. Nevertheless, these were not the days when she was sad and down-spirited.

One evening Julia, Miguel, Maximina, and Don Alfonso formed a little group[19] in the _la brigadiera's_ library. Julia was very happy. Suddenly Saavedra said:--

"See here, Julita, haven't you a sweetheart?"

The girl grew as red as a cherry; then pale. Miguel, seeing her embarrassment, and being absolutely at sea as to the reason for it, hastened to her aid, saying:--

"Julia has not as yet decided upon any man; her character is too fickle...."

"What do you know about it!" interrupted the girl in a fury of passion, casting a look of hatred upon him.

"My dear girl, I thought...."

"Please talk about what you know. You haven't the slightest idea what is going on in my mind," she rejoined, with a severe intonation; and turning to her cousin, and looking him straight in the face, she added:--

"And supposing I had, what of it?"

"Nothing," replied Don Alfonso, calmly. "How glad I should be if you had one worthy of you; but it seems to me that would not be very easy, considering what a nice girl you are, little coz!"

"Oh yes, I am an angel!" exclaimed the girl, in a sarcastic tone.

She remained a moment lost in thought, then, jumping up, left the room.

Miguel had been surprised by his sister's answer, not so much at the significance of her words as at the violent and scornful tone which till that time she had never used toward him. And stopping to think a moment, he was not slow to fathom what was passing through the girl's mind.

She came back again after a few moments, with smiling face, the same as before, and began to enliven the _tertulia_ with her witticisms. She did not sit down, but kept moving about the room with the lithe grace and liveliness characteristic of her.

Miguel noticed, however, that there was too much excitement underneath her gayety: she went rapidly from one subject to another; she asked questions and answered them herself, and laughed boisterously at the slightest excuse. She sat down at the piano and began to play very loud; then she sang a romanza from an opera, and this she suddenly changed into a Spanish song, which she did not finish either. Then she quitted the piano to frolic with Maximina, whom she obliged to dance a polka whether she would or no; presently she accosted her brother and kissed him again and again, saying to Maximina:--

"You aren't jealous, are you now?"

Don Alfonso's eyes followed her in all these evolutions keenly and persistently, with a peculiar expression of gentle irony. Miguel noticed it, and made a slight gesture of dissatisfaction.

In the following days Julia's avoidance of her cousin increased, and was shown in a very unpleasant manner. He had only to come where she was for her immediately to leave the room: if he asked her to sing, or play the piano, she would give him a flat refusal; she did not address a single word to him, and if he asked her a question she would answer curtly and without looking at him. _La brigadiera_ noticed these shortcomings, and chided her severely, but without any effect. Don Alfonso pretended not to notice them, and continued imperturbably to treat her with his exquisite courtesy, and finding every opportunity to give her praise which, of course, she received with very bad grace.

One day at dinner time, while they were still at dessert, _la brigadiera_ was conversing socially with her nephew. Julita preserved an obstinate silence, making little balls of bread and looking steadily at the table.

They were talking about a ball to be given by a certain duke, one of Saavedra's friends, where they were going to revive the ancient and classic minuet. In fact, they had been practising it several days, and Saavedra had ordered an elegant costume of doublet and hose, the details of which he was carefully describing to his aunt.

Julita looked up, and giving him a saucy glance, said with peculiar malice ill-concealed:--

"It seems like a falsehood for you to engage in such things."

"Why, little coz?" asked Don Alfonso, smiling amiably.

"Because you are already an old man," rejoined the girl, with a scornful accent. A moment of silence followed that impudent thrust. It was _la brigadiera_ who broke it, and she was so furious that she could not complete her sentences:--

"You wicked girl! Insolent! Aren't you ashamed? How could you dare.... I feel as though I should sink through the floor!... (_standing up, in high dudgeon_). The idea!... Leave the room this very moment, you shameless creature!"

Don Alfonso, smiling with unchanged calmness, endeavored to pacify her, saying:--

"But what is the harm in her remark, senora? Julia has only told the truth. It is what I say to myself every morning when I brush my hair.... The worst of it is, that I am getting to be a boyish old man."

_La brigadiera_ would not listen to him, but pointed her daughter to the door, with extended arm; Julia, bursting into tears, but still with haughty and lofty face, left the room.

Don Alfonso went on trying to calm his aunt, who not having relieved her mind, as she usually did, in a more brutal fashion, in order to find compensation, heaped reproaches on her daughter. After she was somewhat relieved she got up and went to enjoy her _siesta_ for a little while.

Her guest likewise arose, with his cigar in his mouth, and with slow, lazy steps went to the sewing-room, hoping to find his cousin there. He was not disappointed; she was there, reading a book, with her head resting on one hand, and the other hanging over the back of the chair.

Don Alfonso halted at the threshold, and gazed at her for a while with an indefinable smile playing over his lips.

Julia sat motionless, rigid; the frown on her brow grew a trifle deeper. Don Alfonso slowly approached her, and bending his head humbly, touched his lips to the girl's hand, at the same time saying:--

"Pardon!"

Julia gave a jump, knocking over the chair, and vanished like a vapor.