The Gonzalvos were unable to go on to Spain, for midway on the journey Pilar was seized with symptoms so alarming, such sweats, swoons, fits of retching and exhaustion, that they thought her last hour was at hand, and that it would be fortunate if she reached Paris alive; in which case Doctor Duhamel was not without hope that a few days rest there would restore her strength sufficiently to allow of their proceeding on their way. Miranda, who had thought himself already rid of the dying girl, whom, although he did not nurse her himself, it annoyed him to see others nursing, accepted this change of program with ill-concealed discontent; LucÍa, who could not reconcile herself to the idea of deserting her friend on the brink of the grave, as it were, with a lightening of the heart; and Perico, confident as he was that his sister would lack no attention, with the secret determination to see all there was to be seen in Paris. As for Pilar herself, possessed by the strange optimism characteristic of her malady, she manifested great delight at the prospect of visiting the capital of luxury and fashion, resolving to make her purchases for the winter there that she might be as good as “those affected AmÉzegas.”

They arrived in the great French capital on a dark and foggy morning and were at once assailed by innumerable runners from the hotels, each calling their attention to his omnibus and disputing their possession with his rivals. One of these runners, with a dark face crossed by a long scar, approached Miranda and said to him in good Spanish:

“Hotel de la Alavesa, SeÑor—Spanish spoken—Spanish waiters—olla served every day—Rue Saint-HonorÉ, the most central situation.”

“It would be well to go there,” said Duhamel, touching Miranda on the arm. “In a Spanish hotel a doente will receive better attention.”

“Let us go, then,” said Miranda resignedly, giving the check for his luggage to the runner. “Look here,” he added, addressing Perico, “you and I will go with the luggage in the hotel omnibus, and we will send LucÍa and Pilar in one of those hackney-coaches—they do not jolt so much.”

They carried Pilar almost bodily from the railway carriage to the coach. The runner installed himself on the box after giving many charges and instructions to the postillion of the omnibus, and the driver whipped up his sorry-looking nag. After driving through several broad and magnificent streets they stopped in front of the Hotel de la Alavesa, and LucÍa, springing lightly as a bird to the ground, said to the runner:

“Do me the favor to assist me in helping this young lady out of the carriage, she is ill.”

But suddenly recognizing the man’s face, she cried excitedly:

“Sardiola!”

“SeÑorita!” responded the Biscayan, showing no less joy, cordiality, and surprise than LucÍa had done. “And I did not recognize you! How stupid of me! But one sees so many travelers at that blessed station, meeting them there when they arrive, and taking them there when they are going away, that it is not to be wondered at.”

And after looking at LucÍa for a few moments longer, he added:

“But the truth is, too, that you yourself are greatly changed. Why, you don’t look like the same person as when SeÑorito Ignacio was with you——”

At the sound of this name, so long unheard by her, LucÍa turned as red as a cherry, and dropping her eyes, she murmured:

“We will go at once to our rooms. Come, Pilar. Here, put your arm around my neck—now the other around Sardiola’s—don’t be afraid to lean; there! Shall we carry you in the queen’s chair?”

And the Biscayan and her valorous friend, crossing hands, raised the sick girl gently in the improvised throne, on which she sank like an inert mass, letting her head fall on LucÍa’s shoulder. In this way they went up-stairs to the entresol, where Sardiola showed the two women into a large and airy room, containing the customary marble mantle-piece, the immense beds with hangings, the moquette carpet, somewhat soiled and worn in places, the wash-stand and the traditional clothes-rack. The windows of the room looked out into a small garden, in the center of which was a light kiosk constructed of wood and glass, which served as a bath-house. They placed Pilar in an arm-chair and Sardiola stood waiting for further orders. His eyes, dark and brilliant as those of a Newfoundland pup, were fixed on LucÍa with a submissive and affectionate look truly canine. She, on her side, had to bite her lips to keep back the questions which crowded impatiently to them. Sardiola, divining her thoughts with the loyal instinct of the domestic animal, anticipated her words.

“If the ladies should need anything,” he said hesitatingly, as if fearing to seem intrusive, “let them call upon me at any time. If I am at the station, Juanilla will come; she is the chambermaid of this floor—an obliging girl, and quick as lightning. But if ever I can be of any service—well, it would delight me greatly; it is enough for me to have seen the SeÑorita with SeÑorito Ignacio——”

And as LucÍa remained silent, questioning only with the mute and ardent language of the eyes, the Biscayan continued:

“Because—did the SeÑorita not know? Well it was the SeÑorito himself who got me this place. As the Alavese took Juanilla, who is a cousin of mine, with her and it made me, well—sad, to see those hills which no one but us country lads and the wild beasts had, with God’s help, ever climbed before, overrun by government troops, and, in short, as I was dying of sadness in that station, I wrote to the SeÑorito—his mother, may her soul rest in glory, was still living—and he recommended me to the Alavesa, and here I am at your service, living in clover.”

LucÍa’s eyes continued their mute questioning, more eager than ever. Sardiola continued:

“But what most pleased me was to live so near the SeÑorito——”

“So near?” mutely asked the shining eyes.

“So near,” he said in response, “so very near that—why it is delightful!—you have only to cross the garden there to reach his house.”

LucÍa ran to the balcony, and, as pale as wax, looked with wild eyes at the building opposite. Sardiola followed her to the window and even the sick girl turned her head around with curiosity.

“Look there,” explained Sardiola. “Do you see that wall there and that other wall which joins it at a right angle? Well, those are the walls of the hotel. Now look at that other wall, which forms the third side of the square—that is the wall of Don Ignacio’s house; it opens on the Rue de Rivoli. Do you see those steps leading into the garden? You ascend by those into the corridor on the first floor, into which the dining-room opens—a very handsome room! The whole house is handsome. Don Ignacio’s father accumulated a great deal of money. Do you see that little tree there at the foot of the steps, that sickly-looking plane tree? That is where the SeÑorito used to take his mother to sit to breathe the air; she died of a disease the name of which I don’t remember, but which means—well, that the heart becomes greatly enlarged—and as she had dreadful fits of oppression at times so that she could scarcely breathe, just like a fish when it is taken out of the water; she had to be brought down into the garden, and even then there was not air enough for her, and she would sit for an hour trying to get her breath. If you had seen the SeÑorito! That was what might be called devotion! He supported her head, he warmed her feet with his hands, he kissed her a thousand times in an hour, he fanned her—well, it was a sight worth seeing! A purer soul God never sent into the world nor shall we see another like her in our time. After death the blessed saint looked so smiling and so natural and so handsome, with her fair hair! He it was that looked like a dead person; if he had been lying in the coffin any one would have taken him for the corpse.”

“Silence!” the eloquent eyes suddenly commanded.

And Sardiola obeyed. Duhamel, Miranda, and Perico were entering the room. Duhamel examined the apartment minutely and declared it, in his Lusitanian-French jargon, to be sheltered, convenient, not too high, yet well ventilated, and in every way suitable for the patient. Miranda and Perico retired to the adjoining room to wash themselves after the journey, and tacitly, without debating the question, it was decided that patient and nurse should room together, and that the two men should occupy together also the room in which they were. Miranda interposed no objection to this sacrifice on LucÍa’s part; for Duhamel, calling him aside, informed him that the disease was rapidly nearing its fatal termination, and that he thought the sick girl could hardly live a month longer, in view of which fact Miranda silently resolved to depart with his wife in eight or ten days’ time under some pretext or other. But fate, which had ordained that these events should have a very different dÉnouement, disposed matters in such a way, employing Perico as her instrument, that Miranda very soon began to find himself contented, diverted, and happy in this Parisian Babylon; this gulf among whose reefs and shoals the artful Gonzalvo piloted him with more skill and dexterity than singleness of purpose.

“What the deuce, what the deuce are you going to bury yourself in Leon for now?” exclaimed Perico. “You will have time enough, time enough to bore yourself there! Take my advice and avail yourself of the opportunity. Why, you are well enough now! Those waters have made you look ten years younger.”

The sly fellow knew very well what he was about. Neither her father nor her aunt had manifested any very great desire to come and take care of Pilar, and he foresaw that on him would devolve the disagreeable office of sick nurse. His mind, fertile in wiles, suggested a thousand artifices by which to charm Miranda in that magical city that of itself turns the heads of all who set foot in it. LucÍa’s husband made acquaintance with the refinements of the French cuisine in the best restaurateurs, (close your eyes, ye purists!) and the experienced gourmet of middle age came to take a profound interest in the question as to whether the sauce Holandaise were better in this restaurant or in the one two doors below, and when the stuffed mushrooms had their richest flavor. In addition to these gastronomic enjoyments he took pleasure in frequenting the variety theaters, of which there are so many in Paris. He was amused by the comic songs, the contortions of the clown, the rollicking music, and the airy and almost Eden-like costumes of the nymphs, who went disguised as saucepans, violins, or puppets. It is even stated—but on evidence insufficient to establish it as a historical fact—that the illustrious ex-beau sought to recall his past glories and to refresh his dry and withered laurels, and selected for his victim a certain proscenium-rat, in the high-sounding language of the stage, called Zulma, although every one was well aware that in less exalted regions she might be called Antonia, Dionisia, or the like. This creature sang with inimitable grace the refrains of certain chansonnettes, and it was enough to make one split one’s sides laughing to see her when, with her hand on her hip, her right leg in the air, a wink in her eye, and parted lips she uttered some slang expression—a cry from the fish-stands or the market, repeated by her rosy mouth for the delectation and delight of the audience. Nor were these the only graces and accomplishments of the singer, for the choicest part of her repertory, the quintessence of her art, she kept rather for her hours of dalliance with those fortunate mortals who succeeded in obtaining access, well-provided with gold-dust, to this DanaË of the stage. What feline wiles did she employ with her adorers; calling grave men of sixty her little mice, her little dogs, her little cats, her bÉbÉs, and other endearing and delightful names, sweeter to them than honey. And what shall I say of the incomparable humor and grace with which she held between her pearly teeth a Russian pipe while she sent into the air wreaths of blue smoke; the contraction of her lips, accentuating the curves of her retroussÉ nose and the dimples of her puffed-out cheeks? What of the skill with which she balanced herself on two chairs at once without sitting, properly speaking, on either of them, since her shoulders rested against the back of the one and her heels on the seat of the other? What of the agility and dexterity with which she swallowed in ten minutes ten dozen of raw oysters, accompanied with two or three bottles of Rhine wine, so that it almost seemed as if her throat had been annointed with oil to let them slip down smoothly? What of the smiling eloquence with which she proved to some friend that such or such a diamond ring was too small for his finger while it fitted hers as if it had been made for it? In short, if the adventure that was then whispered in the corridors of a certain variety theater and at the table d’hÔte of the Alavesa seems unworthy of the traditional splendor of the house of Miranda, at least it is but just to record that its heroine was the most entertaining, cajoling, and dangerous of the feline tribe that then mewed discordantly on the Parisian stage.

While Perico and Miranda kept off the blues in this way, Pilar’s remaining lung was gradually being consumed, as a plank is consumed with dry-rot. She did not grow worse because that was now impossible, and her existence, rather than life, was a lingering death, not very painful, disturbed only by an occasional fit of coughing which threatened to choke her. Life was in her like the flickering flame of a candle burned to the socket, which the slightest movement, the least breath of air will suffice to extinguish. She had lost her voice almost entirely, so that she could speak only in soft, low tones, such as a drum stuffed with cotton might emit. Fits of somnolence, frequent and protracted, would overpower her, periods of profound stupor, of utter exhaustion, which simulated and foreshadowed the final repose of the tomb. Her eyes closed, her body motionless, her feet side by side as if she already lay in her coffin, she would lie for hours and hours on the bed, giving no other sign of life than a faint, sibilant breathing. It was generally at the noonday hour that this comatose sleep took possession of her, and her nurse, who could do nothing for her but leave her to repose, and who was oppressed by the heavy atmosphere of the room, impregnated with the emanations from the medicines and the vapor of the perspiration—atoms of this human being in process of dissolution—would go out on the balcony, descend the stairs leading into the garden, and seating herself in the shade of the stunted plane tree, would pass there the hours of the siesta, sewing or crocheting. Her work consisted of diminutive shirts, bibs equally diminutive, petticoats neatly scalloped. In this sweet and secret occupation the hours passed by unnoticed, and occasionally the needle would slip from her skillful fingers and the silence, the solitude, the serenity of the heavens, the soft rustle of the sickly looking trees would tempt the industrious needlewoman into a pensive revery. The sun darted his golden arrows through the foliage across the sanded paths at this hour, and the air was dry and mild. The walls of the hotel and of Artegui’s house formed a sort of natural stove, attracting the solar heat and diffusing it through the garden. The railing which shut in the square bordered the Rue de Rivoli, and through its bars could be seen pass by, enveloped in the blue mists of evening, coaches, light victorias, landaus, whirled rapidly along by their costly teams, equestrians who at a distance looked like puppets, and workmen who looked like shadows cast from a Chinese lantern. In the distance gleamed at intervals the steel of a stirrup, the gay color of a gown or of a livery, the varnished spokes of a swiftly revolving wheel. LucÍa’s attention was attracted by the many varieties of horses. There were Normandy horses with powerful haunches, strong necks and lustrous coats, deliberate in pace, that drew, with a movement at once powerful and gentle, the heavy vehicles to which they were harnessed; there were English horses with long necks, ungraceful, but stylish, that trotted with the precision of marvelous automatons; Arabian horses, with flashing eyes, quivering and dilated nostrils, shining hoofs, dry coats, and thin flanks; Spanish horses—although of these there were but few—with luxuriant manes, superb chests, broad loins, and forefeet that proudly pawed the air. As the sun sank lower in the west, the carriages could be distinguished in the distance by the scintillation of the lamps, but their forms and colors all blending together confusedly, LucÍa’s eyes soon wearied of the effort of following them, and with renewed melancholy she fixed her gaze on the puny and consumptive-looking plants of the garden. At times her solitude was broken in upon, not by any traveler, either male or female—for visitors to Paris as a general thing do not spend the afternoon under a plane tree working—but by Sardiola, in propria persona, who, under pretext of watering the plants, plucking up a weed here and there, or rolling the sand of the path, held long conversations with his pensive compatriot. Certain it is that they were never in want of a subject on which to talk. LucÍa’s eyes were no less tireless in asking questions than Sardiola’s tongue was eager to respond to them. Never were matters insignificant in themselves described with greater minuteness of detail. LucÍa was now familiar with the eccentricities, the tastes and the ideas of Artegui, and knew by heart his traits of character, and the events of his life, which were in no wise remarkable. The reader may find matter for surprise in the fact that Sardiola should be so well acquainted with all that related to a man with whom his intercourse had been so slight, but it is to be observed that the Biscayan’s native place was at no great distance from the family estate of the Arteguis, and that he was the intimate friend of Ignacio’s former nurse, on whom the care of the solitary house now devolved. The pair held long and intimate conversations together in their diabolical dialect, and the poor woman never wearied of relating the wonderful sayings and doings of her nursling, which Sardiola heard with as much delight as if he had himself performed the feminine functions of Engracia. Through this channel LucÍa came to have at her finger’s ends the minutest particulars regarding the disposition and character of Ignacio; his melancholy and silence as a child, his misanthropy as a youth, and many other details relating to his parents, his family, and his fortune. Does fate indeed at times please herself by bringing together mysteriously and by tortuous ways two lives that constantly come in contact with and influence each other, without apparent cause or reason? Is it true that, as there are secret bonds of sympathy between souls, so there are other bonds connecting events, which link them together in the sphere of the material and the tangible?

“Don Ignacio,” said the good Sardiola, “was always so. You see they say that he never had any bodily ailment, not even so much as a toothache. But his nurse Engracia says that from the cradle he suffered from a kind of sickness of the soul or the mind, or whatever it may be called. When he was a child, he was subject to strange fits of terror when night came, without any known cause for them. His eyes would grow larger and larger like that” (Sardiola traced in the air with his thumb and forefinger a series of gradually widening circles) “and he would hide in a corner of the room, huddled up like a ball, and stay there without budging until morning dawned. He would never tell his visions, but one day he confessed to his mother that he saw terrible things—all the members of his family, with the faces of corpses, bathing and splashing about in a pool of blood. In short, a thousand wild fancies. The strangest part of the matter was that in the daytime the SeÑorito was as brave as a lion, as everybody knows. At the time of the war it was a pleasure to see him. Why bless you! he would go among the balls as if they were sugar plums. He never carried arms, only a hanging satchel containing I don’t know how many things—bistouris, lancets, pincers, bandages, sticking-plaster. Besides this he had his pockets stuffed with lint and rags and cotton batting. I can tell you, SeÑorita, that if promotion were to be earned by showing no disgust for those good-for-nothing liberals, no one would be better entitled to it than Don Ignacio. On one occasion a bomb fell not two steps away from him. He stood looking at it, waiting for it to explode, no doubt, and if Sergeant Urrea, who was standing beside him at the time, had not caught him by the arm—— Why, he would not retire even when the enemy charged on us with the bayonet. In one of these charges a guiri[B] soldier—accursed be every one of his race—charged at him with his bayonet. And what do you suppose Don Ignacio did?—it would not have occurred even to the devil himself to do it—he brushed him aside with his hand as if he had been a mosquito, and the barbarian lowered his bayonet and allowed himself to be brushed aside. The SeÑorito gave him a look. Heavens! such a look, half-serious, half-smiling, that must have made the boor blush for shame.”

[B] Government.