THE woman and Quentin were left alone.

“If you don’t want me to stay here,” said Quentin—“tell me so.”

“Do you hate me so much for last night?” she said.

“I? No, SeÑora; but since this chamber is so narrow that one can scarcely move in it, you must let me know if I’m in your way.”

“No; you’re not in my way.”

Quentin seated himself upon a chair, took out his note book and pencil, and made up his mind to attempt one of the most disagreeable and difficult things in the world for him—making verses. Not by any chance did a consonance occur to him, nor did a single verse come out with the right number of feet, unless he counted them upon his fingers.

The good woman, with her crimped hair covered with little bow-knots, and her white wrapper, was contemplating the roof of the garret with desperate weariness.

Thus they remained for a long time. Suddenly the woman exclaimed in a choked voice:

“SeÑor!”

“What is it, SeÑora?”

“I seem very ridiculous in your eyes, do I not?”

“No, SeÑora,—why?” asked Quentin, and mumbled to himself: “nude, crude, stewed, conclude—No, they don’t seem to come very easily.”

“I am very unhappy, SeÑor.”

“Why, what’s the matter, SeÑora?” and Quentin went on mumbling: “rude, gratitude, fortitude.... No, they do not come easily.”

“Will you listen to me, my good sir? At present you alone can advise me.”

“Speak, SeÑora, I am all ears,” answered Quentin, shutting his note book, and putting away his pencil.

The woman heaved a deep sigh, and began as follows:

“I, my good sir, am called Gumersinda MonleÓn. My father was a soldier, and I spent my childhood in Seville. I was an only child, and very much spoiled. My parents satisfied every caprice of mine that was within their means. It was ‘Sinda’ here, and ‘Sinda’ there—as they had abbreviated my name.... As I imagined myself at that time to be a somewhat exceptional person, and believed that I was out of my proper sphere in the modest home of my parents, I took up reading romantic novels, and I think I was by way of having my head turned by them.

“I lived with all the personages of my books; it seemed to me that all I had to do was to reach Paris and ask the first gendarme for Guillaboara, and he would immediately give me her address, or at least, that of her father, Prince Rudolf of Gerolstein.

“With my head full of mysteries, bandits, and black doctors, a suitor came to me—a rich young man who was owner of a fan-making establishment. I dismissed him several times, but he came back, and, with the influence of my parents, he succeeded in getting me to marry him. He was a saint, a veritable saint; I know it now; but I considered him a commonplace person, incapable of lifting himself to higher spheres above the prosaic details of the store.

“After we had been married two years, he died, and I became a widow of some thirty-odd years and a considerable fortune; not to mention the fan-making establishment which I inherited from my husband. A young widow with money, and not at all bad looking, I had many suitors, from among whom I chose an army captain, because he wrote me such charming letters. Later I found out that he had copied them from a novel by Alfonso Karr that was appearing in the feuilleton of Las Novedades. Handsome, with a fine appearance, my second husband’s name was Miguel Estirado. But, my God, what a life he led me! Then I learned to realize what my poor MonleÓn had been to me.

“Estirado had a perfectly devilish humor. If we made a call upon any one, and the maid asked us who we were, he would say: ‘SeÑor Estirado and his wife,’ and if the girl smiled, he would insult her in the coarsest way.

“After six months of married life, my husband quit the active service and retired to take care of the store. Estirado had no military spirit; he sold the gold braid from his uniform, and put his sword away in a corner. One day the servant girl used it to clean out the closet, and after doing so, left it there. When I saw it, I felt like weeping. I grasped the sword by the hilt, which was the only place I could take hold of it, and showing it to my husband, said: ‘Look at the condition your sword is in that you used in defence of your country.’ He insulted me, clutching his nose cynically, and told me to get out; that he cared nothing for his sword, nor for his country, and for me to leave him in peace. From that day I realized that all was over between us.

“Shortly after that Estirado dismissed an old clerk who used to work in the store, and hired two sisters in his place: AsunciÓn and Natividad.

“Six months later, AsunciÓn had to leave and spend a few months at a small village. She came back with a little baby. Not long after her return the trip was repeated.

“They talked of nothing else in the whole neighbourhood. On account of the attitude of the two sisters toward me, I dared not go down to the store, and they did just about as they pleased.

“One day, after six years, my husband disappeared, taking Natividad, the younger sister, with him. The other girl, AsunciÓn, brought this news to me with her four children hanging on her arm; and she told me a romantic tale about her mother, who was a drunkard, and about her sweetheart. She reminded me of Fleur de Marie, in ‘The Mysteries of Paris,’ and of Fantine, in ‘Les Miserables;’ so I comforted her as best I could—what else was I to do? Time passed, and Estirado began to write and ask me for money; then the letters ceased, and after half a year my husband wrote a letter saying that Natividad had run away from him, that he was seriously ill in a boarding house in Madrid, and for AsunciÓn and me to come to take care of him. I realized that it was not honourable, nor Christian, nor right, but at the same time I gave in, and we, his wife and sweetheart, went and took care of him until he died. At his death I granted a pension to the girl, left Seville, and came to live in Cordova. That is the story of my life.”

“SeÑora, I think you were a saint,” said Quentin. “What astounds me is how, after such an apprenticeship, you managed to get mixed up in this adventure.”

“Well, you see I did not learn by experience. I met Pacheco one day in the country, when he entered my farm. He reminded me of a novel by FernÁndez y GonzÁles. We spoke together; his life fascinated me; I wrote to him; he answered my letter, assuredly through civility; my head was filled with madness, even to the point of disguising myself as a man and following him.”

“Fortunately, SeÑora, you have encountered extremely trustworthy persons,” said Quentin, “who will not abuse your faith.”

“What advice do you give me?”

“Why something very simple. Tonight Pacheco and I shall probably leave here. You must come with us; we’ll leave you at your house; and that will be an end to the adventure.”

“That’s true. It’s the best thing.”

“Now let’s see,” said Quentin, “if El Cuervo has put any ballast in the basket.”

He climbed upon a chair and opened the window.

“It’s heavy,” said he, jerking the cord; “ergo, there are provisions. Cheer up, DoÑa Sinda,” he added, “and get the table ready.”