As I left the train at the northern station in Madrid, the first thing I saw was the red beard and strongly marked features of my Uncle Felipe, who shook hands with me and called a porter to take my trunk. Then he got into a carriage with me and gave the driver the number of his house.

“Are we not going to my boarding-house?” I inquired with surprise.

“You’ll see,” replied the Hebrew, with that hesitation in speaking, and that peculiar contraction of his features, which always accompanied in him a manifestation of avarice. “It is all nonsense that you should stay at a boarding-house, when you have relatives here. I have a spare room in my house, which nobody uses now. We used to keep some old things there. It is a cheerful room, and large enough. You will be better off than in the boarding-house, my boy. And for your studies, as quiet as you could wish.”

I understood his meanness at once. It would cost him more to pay for my board, however cheap it might be, than to lodge me in his own house. But I there! I cannot explain the singular effect the idea produced upon me at first. However, I exclaimed:

“I am quite sure that my aunt will not approve of my taking up my abode at your house.”

“I’ll tell you,” answered the husband. “At first she had an idea that for your purposes the boarding-house would be better. She was quite strenuous about it. But I have convinced her, and now she does not object at all.”

I kept silent. I was feeling the disagreeable impression one experiences on leaving a warm atmosphere for a current of cold air which whips one’s face. My life at Ullosa had been a parenthesis, a pleasant rest, a sort of agreeable sleepiness, and that rude summons to the outside world, to its agitations and changes, just as I was about to take up my studies again, and when I needed all my power of mind and will for my difficult tasks, fairly bewildered me. Nevertheless, youth is so fond of peril, the surf, and the tempest, that I felt a thrill of pleasure when my uncle rang the electric bell, and the door opened behind which was Carmen Aldao.

With what agitation I greeted her! All my blood rushed to my heart, and I perceived the symptoms of “the ancient flame,” as Dante says in speaking of his encounter with Beatrice. My uncle’s wife received me with propriety, displaying neither coldness nor excessive cordiality. Fulfilling her duties as mistress of the house, she led me to my room, found out what I needed, showed me where I could keep my clothing and books, and gave me some practical advice about making the most of the four walls.

“Here you can put your ruffled shirts. You can hang your cloak on this hook. The table you will have here, near the window, where you can study better. Look, here is your wash-stand. Always keep the towels here. I got this lamp with a green shade for you, so that you might not spoil your eyes.”

While she went on explaining all about those details, I looked at her with such eagerness that I fairly drank in her features and fed upon her beloved face. What I was trying to discover, when I scrutinized her, was that revelation which, to a close observer, is stamped on every married woman’s face, and which might be called the running account of happiness. No, no, she was not happy. The dark circles under her eyes did not betray feverish love, but hidden sorrow. Her mouth had a set expression, like that of all who wrestle in secret to mortify the flesh or the mind. Her temples were slightly faded. Her waist was flatter; it had not acquired the graceful and impressive roundness which is perceptible in women after a few months of married life, even if they do not become mothers. No, she was not happy! How my fancy took this supposition for a foundation, and built upon it! It was not long, however, before I became habituated to living at Carmen’s, and my stay there appeared less dangerous to me than at first. Proximity is always an incentive, but dwelling under the same roof does away with all dramatic interest and novelty, with its commonplace meetings, and this perhaps diminishes the danger.

Although the last years of the course in engineering are not nearly so absorbing as the first, and the difficulties lessen as one ascends the steep hill of knowledge, I had to study enough to occupy all my available time. Carmen’s life ran on so far removed from mine that although we were under the same roof we scarcely ever met, except at the customary hours. In the morning we both went out, I to my classes and she to do her marketing and to spend a long time in church. At luncheon I would notice in Carmen a certain animation and strange satisfaction. She had found comfort in the Church; that was evident. My uncle also, contented and talkative, in slippers and without a cravat, would chat with me, would question me, and comment on the events of the night before, his dialogues in the house and in the lobbies with Don Vicente SotopeÑa on the political prospect, the insinuations of the newspapers, the last confidential conversation of the Queen Regent with the Austrian Minister, which had been reported in the Casino by a person who knew all about it.

I seemed to excite the loquacity of the newly-married couple, as Carmen, in her turn, would tell me all the gossip of Pontevedra; the simple tales her friends would write to her; as well as a thousand details regarding the neighbors on the first floor and on the floor above, whom she used to visit evenings, according to the prevalent fashion in Madrid among the middle classes, who improvise every evening a neighborhood party.

In the afternoon my uncle would go out, sometimes alone, and sometimes with his wife. I employed my time in studying or in roaming around with Luis, and so we would not see each other until dinner time. This was a more melancholy affair than luncheon; my aunt would be nervous or excited, or depressed or absent-minded, without being able to disguise it. In the evening she would go up to visit her neighbors, or would do some fancy-work by the fireside, and my uncle would take me out, sometimes to some small theater. So there was no danger there. My close confinement to my studies saved me from the suggestions of idleness. The devil did not know when to tempt me.

You may easily surmise to whom I used to unbosom myself. What are sensible and discreet people like Portal put into the world for, except to listen to the confidential disclosures of lunatics? I believe that my greatest inducement to make a full confession to him was the very fact of the irritation with which Portal would listen to me. His harsh censures were like strokes of the lash or sword thrusts which stimulated me, making me reflect on my situation, and scratch deeper down there in the corners of my spirit.

“My boy,” said my sedate friend one day, “I have discovered now what ails you. I know the medicine for your disease. Take my advice, and you will be well in a quarter of an hour. Your trouble has this technical name: repressed ardor of youth. And the remedy,—guess what the name of that is? It is named BelÉn.”

“BelÉn?”

“What? Have you forgotten her already? BelÉn, that houri with radiant black eyes, who used to paste little angels on cardboard boxes? So you had forgotten all about her? Degenerate one! Well, I have followed the trail. Old fellow, a magic transformation has occurred. You shall behold that creature now at her apogee. She does not drive in her own carriage yet, but she will do so in time.”

“Is that so? Has she found a gran Paganini?” I asked, without the slightest interest.

“I wont tell you anything, so that you may judge for yourself. You will be amazed.”

A few days later my friend conducted me to a fine dwelling in a street both central and retired at the same time. The porch was respectable, the staircase broad and light, and the door of the second story, at which we knocked, had a remarkably serious and discreet air, with its hinges and knobs all shining.

A middle-aged woman, half servant, half housekeeper, dressed in black, opened the door, and, as soon as Luis spoke, invited us into the parlor, saying that she would tell “the SeÑora.”

“Well, what do you think of this?” exclaimed my friend. “‘The SeÑora’ up-stairs, and ‘the SeÑora’ down-stairs. Chairs upholstered in wool, color yellow,—mirror with a rosewood frame,—a good moquette carpet,—fine jute curtains,—two bronze and porcelain vases,—a lamp with an umbrella shade. It appears the stock-broker is not close-fisted.”

“Why, my dear fellow, what a change!”

“You shall see. The times are changed; still, this transformation was to be expected. The girl got tired of decorating cornucopias with orange blossoms; but at that time she had nothing better than your skinflint of an uncle, who made her account for every penny she spent when he gave her money for sweetmeats. Consequently, when the worthy Don Telesforo ArmiÑÓn made his appearance, ready to relieve her distress, you may imagine what followed. The girl thought the heavens had opened. The first thing that the poor creature asked for was a pair of shoes; those your uncle kept her in were all burst out. You know that in Madrid their footgear is what drives them crazy. Now she wears such beautiful shoes!” Here Portal launched a kiss into the air. “There she comes. Stop laughing!”

We heard a rustling of skirts. BelÉn made a dignified entrance. It was true; no one could have recognized her in that disguise. Her hair was dressed in the classic modest fashion of a lady. She had on a straw-colored velvet wrapper, and in her ears gleamed diamond ear-rings. She also wore rings on her hands, now well-cared for; and as she walked along, we caught a glimpse of the famous little shoes, high-heeled, narrow, of dark satin, her apple of perdition.

She seemed stouter, her movements quieter and more languid, her complexion even fairer and fresher than before, comparable only to the satin luster of a magnolia leaf.

“Have we come at an unsuitable hour?” asked Portal.

Before answering, BelÉn fixed her eyes upon me; she almost screamed with joy.

“Ah, so the prodigal is found! Is it really you, you scamp? I only had the pleasure of meeting you once, and then you vanished like smoke. So you have been away for the summer? Well, the rest of us have stayed here and put up with the heat and scorching. But how long have you been here?” she added, assuming a still more familiar tone.

“He arrived two days ago,” broke in Portal, “and has been sighing ever since to see such a nice girl as you. He would hardly let me live with his, ‘Come, let’s go and call on BelÉn. Although, as she is now such a fine lady, perhaps she’ll not pay any attention to us poor students. But I shall get sick if I don’t see her. I shall have an attack of something—’”

“Get out, you fraud!” said the beauty, fixing on me her proud and penetrating eyes with an ardent, yet humble look. “He did not remember me at all, nor want to—not a bit. Since the day of our frolic, if I have met you, I don’t remember about it. And I—well what can a girl do? Your uncle never wasted much on me. What a skin-flint he is! They say that he is married. A nice time his wife will have! Well, I am comfortable now; what they call comfortable. This one is of a different breed. Look,” she added, without giving us time to sit down. “Come and see my little house, it is so nice. It has a boudoir with a grate, and all that. We have no fire to-day because it is not cold yet, do you see? But I am going to tell them to light one now. See? You pass through this way to the dining-room; it is small, but very comfortable; and, besides, we have a beautiful kitchen and a room for trunks. Go back this way. Here I have a nice bedroom.”

“My child,” said Portal, to tease her, “you can’t convince me. You have only changed an open skin-flint for a hypocritical one. ArmiÑÓn has more dollars than the sands of the sea, and yet he has not bought you a coach nor given you furniture upholstered in silk. Don’t tell me how generous he is! He owes you a satin divan and a carriage drawn by an English mare, as much as I owe my life to my father. The Sevillana and Concha Rios go about in their carriages dressed like two queens. What good do your beautiful dresses and diamond ear-rings do you if you can’t go to the Retiro to display them?”

“Stop! stop! don’t talk to me about coaches, it makes me sick!” answered the fair sinner, greatly annoyed, in spite of herself, by that about the carriage. “Do you believe if I were to ask him for a coach he would refuse me? But I shall not ask for it. I have too much self-respect, do you know? When I see decent people so different from your Judas Iscariot uncle—my dear fellow, what a creature he is! He cannot be your real uncle. Perhaps your grandmother——”

Afterward she drew us the likeness of her stockbroker.

“The best thing about him is that he comes very seldom to see me. And never until after the stock exchange is closed. And some days he doesn’t appear at all. To-day, for example. He sent me word, and that’s the reason I am taking things so easy.”

“But if he should take it into his head to make his appearance here suddenly?”

“What a difficulty! I would not open the door. He has no latch-key. I assure you there is nobody like him, he is so good. If I were to say ‘a carriage,’ he would answer ‘with six horses.’ Well, if he comes, I’ll tell him in the morning that I went out with Fausta to see my mother and Cinta, and he’ll believe it implicitly.”

“And how are they?” inquired Portal.

“Who, my mother and the other one? Well, my boy, they are unbearable. If you should give them a silver mine they would ask for a gold one. I try all the time to shake them off, for they are like leeches; and how they bleed me! And will you believe it, Cinta has taken it upon herself to preach to me and to say that before she would subject herself to any man for money she would work and make an honest living. She wants to become a singer in comic opera. The trouble is, she will have to learn how first. But I have persuaded my gentleman to rent a piano and pay for a teacher for me, and the girl may come here to take her lessons. One must squeeze the lemon. What is a rich man good for, say I, if not for that? Well, my boy, you must stay here to-day, and do penance in this house. You’ll see what an elegant dinner service and what beautiful silver I have; that is to say, plated, for there is no use in exposing one’s self to being robbed. I’ll put on my nice silk dress, which he gave me a short time ago on his birthday. Nonsense! I want you to see me in my finery. I’ll wear my watch. It does not go well, but it is gold. Luisillo may go off if he wants to, but you must stay here!”

A few days after the call on BelÉn, as Luis and I were walking through Recoletos, my friend said, half in earnest, half in jest:

“All rogues are fortunate. That BelÉn is crazy over you; I never saw so capricious a woman. I had to give her some good advice yesterday, lest she should send off her stockbroker and go back to live in a garret in order to be able to receive you whenever she pleases and with perfect freedom. I have told her to hold on to him until she finds another who is more generous and can give her a carriage and solid silver instead of plated ware. How I did preach to her! Never a mission preacher did better. But you are such a lucky dog! What a fancy that girl has taken to you. And yet you don’t feel contented. You are still wool gathering. If I cut you off a chicken’s wing——”

“Cut me off what you please, my dear fellow,” I answered, frankly, revealing my disenchantment in a heavy sigh. “There are higher pleasures in the world than mere physical gratification. If you push me hard, I will tell you that matter does not exist—that it is a myth; only an idea, and nothing more. Two moments after taking leave of BelÉn, I forget even that there is such a woman in the world. I leave her house feeling penitent and more of a spiritualist than the devil.”

“I can’t bear to hear you say such stupidities,” cried Portal, furiously. “What do I care for your ideas, or your spiritualism, or your pumpkins! Why, where will you find another treasure like BelÉn? For you, BelÉn is the first prize. The trouble is that they have bewitched you at that cursed house of your uncle’s. The atmosphere of dullness and hypocrisy which surrounds you there is wasting away your spirit little by little. Why don’t you come to live at my boarding-house, I’d like to know? You would be like a fish in deep water there. We would drive the blues out of you in short order. Trinito is more amusing than ever, this year. Will you believe it, he not only sings us all the operas but all that he hears at the concerts in the Romero Salon as well. He fills our ears with “Lohengrin,” “TannhÄuser,” and “Parsifal,” till we can hardly stand it any longer. And the best of it is that he intends to become a musical critic. We came near throwing the coffee-pot at him yesterday, for he nearly split our ears with the “Rhinegold.” Come, my dear fellow, come with us.”

“I may be as simple as you choose, Luis, but I can’t bear that girl. I know that she is handsome, that she likes me, and all that; but it makes no difference to me. Let us see whether you, who did up this package, can undo it quickly. First you know, I’ll be telling her to her face that I hate her, which would be needless cruelty. No, no, I shall have nothing to do with it. Vice and folly may amuse us for a while, but they finally fill us with loathing.”

“You simpleton, how do you make out your vice and folly? Why, BelÉn is a treasure for you. She sincerely likes you. She would give up her satin boots and plated ware for your sake. BelÉn has a heart, while your aunt has none; at least, none for you. A fig for your virtuous women! I hate them. A plaster cast is more virtuous than they are, for it neither feels nor suffers.”

“What do you know about it,” I murmured, allowing my hopes to run wild in spite of myself. “How can you be sure that her heart may not be for me? You are too positive. Suppose it should turn out to be for me?”

Portal suddenly became preoccupied and serious. He knit his brow, and said to me in a slightly agitated voice:

“Heaven grant that it may not! I have pondered on that subject, and I swear to you that the best thing that can befall you is that such an event may never occur. Do you hear me? You are a lunatic, fit for the straight-jacket, and you’ll fetch up in Don Ezquerdo’s hands. Suppose that your aunt should really care for you, that the heart you prate about should be manifested as you think it may be. Well, after it had done so, and you had got to loving each other deeply, oh, immensely, like Francesca and Paolo, what would you do then, you hopeless stupid? Let us hear it. Unfold your loving programme. Would you elope with her? Would you hire an apartment for her? Would you desecrate your uncle’s home without any scruple? Answer, you gawk!”

His friendly interest in me blinded and irritated him. His protruding eyes stared at me angrily, as though gazing at a naughty boy who was about to cut his fingers playing with a knife.

“I don’t know what to answer, old chap,” I answered, meekly. “What I do know is that I should be happy, do you hear me? completely happy, if that angelic being should love me. Oh, if she would love me! I would ask no more. I would leave her, I would go off to the North Pole, if only I could be sure of her love. That is what I hope for and what I live for. I respect her like a saint,—but I want her to love me, to love me.”

“To love me, to love me!” chanted Portal, mimicking my voice and manner. “Why, it is the most senseless folly, by Jupiter, and I can’t stand your talking so. It is needless to add that I don’t speak in this manner out of any fantastic regard for morality or inflated consideration for home. Pshaw! As for morality, let everybody settle that question for himself. Home! that is a worn-out institution nowadays, and the one who does most to scuttle it is most deserving of reward from his countrymen. It is not that, by Jove! But it is a question of advantage,—your own advantage. You are losing your mind, and will waste a year’s time in your studies, and all for what? For a figment of your imagination! At our age we all dream about women, and it is natural enough that we should; but we ought to dream about a woman of our own make and not about the very one who would make us unhappy if we were to be united to her. Grant that your aunt is very good, very pure and saintly! Her goodness is only passive—submission to her destiny, a moral routine, my boy—and that’s the end of it, that’s the end. If you were married to Carmen, you would act just as your uncle does; you would not talk to her at table, and would leave her alone as much as possible, because you would not understand her, neither would she understand you, and you would not be able to endure each other. A more complete divorce of soul would never have been seen before. Believe me, and don’t indulge in stupid illusions. Could you become an intimate friend of a neo-Catholic, without culture and full of prejudice? Well, neither could you be a friend to your wife. And what you consider a virtue in her, would surely appear to you like affectation in the neo-Catholic.”

“But,” I exclaimed, “how dare you deny the heroism of a woman, who, in order not to countenance her father’s indecencies, sacrifices her youth, and marries a man whom she cannot love? We have already discussed this subject, and I feel indignant that you do not appreciate the merit of her sacrifice.”

“Why, that’s just it! that’s just it!” vociferated Portal, beside himself. “I will twist the argument around: how dare you characterize as virtuous the action of a woman who accepts a repulsive husband, and does not prefer to sing in a theater, like Cinta, or scrub floors like the scullion who waits on us at DoÑa Jesusa’s? Why, what difference is there between your ideal angel and BelÉn, for instance? BelÉn puts up with her hateful protector, because it is for her interest to do so, in that she eats and spends and has a fine time. And that fine lady, your aunt——”

“Keep still, keep still!” I cried, getting excited in my turn. “If you say another word about that I shall believe that you are a worthless scamp, and will give you a beating, as sure as my name is Salustio. Don’t you dare to mention CarmiÑa in the same breath with BelÉn. Don’t you enrage me!”

“You are the one seeking a quarrel, you fag-end of——”

“Take care what you say!”

“Oh, well, you leave me alone—”

“You leave me alone, that’s all I want—”

And so forth. I do not add another detail, for the discreet reader will easily imagine what two good friends in a passion would say to each other. For two weeks I did not see Luis. The truth is, it seemed as though I had lost something, the practical reason of my life, the Sancho who used to moderate my quixotic flights. I did not know myself without his observations, his jests, his anger, and his preachings. At the hour when I used to go to his boarding-house in search of him, I would feel discontented and uneasy, and even homesick. I missed the habit which had become second nature—the pleasant, friendly intercourse, the intellectual friction, the disputes even. There were days when I actually thought that his old friendship was more to me than my lover’s dream. “Confound it,” I said to myself, “I did not know that he was so necessary to me. But the fact is I am not myself without him. No, indeed, I am not. But I will not give in. Let him come to me, if he wants to.”

Finally he did come, proving once more that he represented, in our friendship, good common sense, or whatever you may like to call that modest and pleasant quality which does not allow us to go beyond bounds, and teaches us not to make life bitter by foolish obstinacy or dramatic fastidiousness. Our reconciliation was effected in the most natural manner. One morning, as we were coming out of recitation, Portal nudged my elbow, and asked with a smile:

“Has the trouble gone away? Shall we make a treaty of peace?”

I confess that I embraced him with all my heart, stammering:

“LuisiÑo, my dear fellow!”

But he laughed, and said:

“Oh, stop it, you foolish boy; you act as though you had just returned from America after twenty years of exile.”

We went off arm-in-arm, and chatted more than ever that afternoon.

“I will no longer oppose you,” said my friend with a comic air of resignation. “You may fall as deeply in love as an African dromedary or as Marsilla did with the fellow from Teruel, and I will not try to stop the current. You will have to convince yourself of the folly of your illusions. In order to be happy we need well-informed women, who think as we do and can understand us. Well, I believe that it is so; but you have got it into your skull that we ought to have wives like the ladies of the thirteenth century, or the Gothic saints painted on a golden background. All right, go ahead! You will find out your mistake. Aside from the fact that your aunt—well, my boy, don’t depend on that. The struggle against fate will wear you out. There, now, don’t begin to fume. Tell me how your love affair progresses; unburden that dear little heart.”

“Luis,” I murmured, mysteriously, “I don’t know whether she loves me or not; but I am certain of one thing—mark my words! Her husband is hateful to her.”

“That proves her good taste.”

“I am not mistaken; no, indeed! I observe her closely, LuisiÑo. The poor girl has lost her color and her appetite. In the morning, when she goes to church, and, above all, on the days when she communes, she appears to be somewhat tranquil; but at night! Oh dear, I believe she has the intermittent repugnance!”

“But her husband? Does he amuse himself elsewhere?”

“I don’t think so. He goes to bed at a reasonable hour, even though he may go out to hold a conference with SotopeÑa or to the club. He does not attempt to see BelÉn; she says so. My uncle is close-fisted, as you know very well, and on the score of economy is capable of being contented at home. Luis, I don’t say much, but it consoles me to see that she is sad and is suffering.”

“A nice consolation that is! Perhaps you are wrong, and that woman gets on with her husband perfectly.”

“If I were to see her cooing like a turtle-dove with him, I don’t know what would happen to me.”

“Why, that maggot would quit your brain. May the Old Nick get you!”

This conversation took place as we were leaving Mayor Street and were entering the famous Viaduct, or place for suicides. The quiet beauty of the afternoon tempted us to go up to the high iron grating and enjoy the view, perhaps the finest in Madrid.

Without stopping to look over the old books, text-books mostly, the greater part of them greasy and falling to pieces, which an old man who looked like a maniac had for sale in the open air and right on the ground, we put our faces close to the grating and delighted our eyes first with the glorious panorama on the left, the red palace of Uceda, with its white shields tenanted by fierce lions,—the thousand cupolas and domes of churches and houses, above which rose, elegant as a palm-tree, the Moorish tower of San Pedro. Then we turned to the right, enchanted with the fresh verdure of the garden, which stretched out far below us like a rug of pine trees and flowery shrubs. Far in the distance, the Manzanares traced a silver S upon the green meadows, and the GuadÁrrama reared its shining white line behind the hard, sharp outlines of the nearest ridges. But what fascinated us, the sublimest note of all, was Segovia Street at a fearful depth below us; down, down, down! Luis clutched my wrist, saying:

“My boy, this viaduct explains clearly the numerous suicides which have occurred on it.”

“It does, indeed, tempt one to throw himself over,” I replied, without ceasing to look down into that paved abyss, and already feeling in the soles of my feet the tingling that goes with dizziness.

“Look at that suicide, my dear boy,” suddenly exclaimed Portal, pointing to a man of squalid appearance, who was also leaning over the railing. “A man like that is liable to fling himself over at any moment.”

I approached the man out of curiosity. The supposititious suicide turned around. How long it was since I had seen his noble and expressive face, his dirty and tattered clothes, his black eyes and graceful bearing! Poor Botello! I felt a singular and extraordinary joy at meeting that ineffectual being, that social residuum, so inoffensive and useless.

“Were you going to commit suicide?” I asked, smilingly, after we had exchanged warm greetings and embraced each other.

“No, indeed,” replied Pepita’s boarder; “I was only thinking, to pass away the time, how wise a thing I should do if I did throw myself over headlong. That street with its hard stones was calling me loudly. There I might put an end to all trickery and poverty—don’t you know? Pepa has almost put me into the street. I scarcely ever smoke now. I still have a room where I can sleep, but that matter of eating is a luxury I am not acquainted with. The landlady is furious because Don JuliÁn has vanished like smoke, and will no longer maintain me. They have stopped my allowance. Will you treat to a beefsteak?”

We went out to Bailen Street, and were not long in settling ourselves in an eating-house before some very appetizing broiled chops. The prodigal, in a melancholy tone, said to us:

“Some days I feel so desperate that I even think of going to work at something. But at what? Besides, that is a foolish idea, produced by weakness or brandy. No, when I have a quarter in my pocket I wager it and win a hundred. I am not meant for the ignominy of working. Keep that for negroes. Besides, one can always find good friends, who wont refuse a fellow a dollar when he asks for it. Don’t think I live by cheating, boys; cheating comes in when one promises to pay, and I never do anything so foolish as that. The man who loans me anything, makes me a present.

“Do you know what a trick Mauricio Parra and Pepe Vidal played on me during Carnival? Do you know them? One is in the School of Architecture, the other in the School of Mines. They board at Pepe Urrutia’s. Well, we had a boarder there, a fine-looking lady, a widow from CÓrdova, and a most attractive woman. I was making up to her a little. One night I heard that she was going to a masked ball at the Royal——, and I without a cent!

“But Mauricio and Pepe encouraged me, bought tickets, and went with me to the ball. Well, the masked lady came up to us. I recognized her at once.

“‘I am thirsty,’ she said; ‘will you treat me? Let us go to the supper-room.’

“I saw the heavens opened before me, and the infernal regions at the same time, because I did not have a single penny. I put my hand behind me, and made signs to Mauricio and Pepe. I felt them put a coin in my hand. Heavens! What could it be? A dollar, without doubt, although it seemed somewhat smaller. I slipped it into my pocket without looking at it, and up I went as brave as a lion. She began to eat cakes and drink sherry, while I was trembling for fear the bill would amount to more than a dollar. It seemed as if the good lady would never stop gorging herself. At last she concluded to stop, and I took out the money from my pocket and gave it to the waiter with a lordly air, saying:

“‘Take out what I owe.’

“‘Why, sir, you have given me a copper!’

“Well, you may imagine what a row there was. I thought they would march me straight off to the station-house. What a joke! Well, that is the way I live, and always shall; more dead broke to-day than yesterday, and to-morrow more so than to-day. Of course, you must know that my Portuguese friend went home; but I have found a provincial deputy in exchange, who has taken it into his head to be a dramatist; and I go with him behind the scenes, because he fancies that I know the actresses and actors intimately. And in fact I do know them. Who does not get acquainted with the whole human race in Madrid? But I don’t know what part I play at the Lara, or Eslava, or Apolo. Anyhow, at the box-office they take me for an actor. The actors think that I am a played-out actor; and meanwhile, there I am, at my ease with my provincial deputy, determined that they shall put his farce, or review, or whatever you may call it, on the stage.”

“Don’t you really know what it is?”

“No. He has tried to read it to me more than a hundred times, but up to the present I have parried the blow. We’ll see if I can continue to do so. Farewell, my saviors; my idea of committing suicide has now evaporated. Thanks!

As he declaimed this, little Dumas held out to us his dirty, greasy hands, and went away.

“There you have romanticism,” murmured Luis, disdainfully, shrugging his shoulders. “What a pity that he and all the rest like him couldn’t have a course of lectures on common-senseology!”