It was late before the Swan blew out the tallow candle which Aunt GÁspara placed every day, always with much grumbling, in his brass candlestick. Seated at the little table littered with books, he had before him a sheet of paper half covered with lines of unequal length, variegated with blots and corrections, little heaps of sand, and here and there a flourish. Segundo would not have slept all night if he had not first written down the poem which, from the moment he had left the cross, had been running through his brain. Only that, before taking up the pen, he seemed to have the poem already composed in his head, so that all he had to do was to turn the spigot and it would flow out in a stream, and when he took the pen in his hand the verses, instead of rushing forth, hid themselves or vanished. A few strophes fell on the paper, rounded, fluent, finished, with harmonious and opportune rhymes, with a certain sweetness and sonorousness extremely delightful to the author himself, who scribbled them down hastily before they should take flight. Of others, however, only the first two lines occurred to him, and, perhaps, the fourth—this last rounded, effective; but the third line was wanting and he must hunt for it, fill up the space, graft on the syllables to eke out the meter. The poet paused and looked up at the ceiling, biting the ends of his mustache, and then the idle pen traced, obeying the mechanical impulse of the hand, a cocked hat, a comet, or some other equally irrelevant design. Sometimes after rejecting seven or eight rhymes he would content himself with the ninth, which was neither better nor worse than the others. When a superfluous syllable would cause a line to halt, he must look for another adverb, another adjective. And the accents! If the poet could only enjoy the privilege, of saying, eternÉl, for instance, instead of etÉrnel, it would be so easy to write verses!

Confounded technical difficulties! The divine fire of inspiration glowed and burned in Segundo's mind, but as soon as he tried to transfer it to the paper, to give expression to what he felt—to condense, in words, a world of dreams, a psychic nebula—his mind became a blank. To unite the form with the idea, to imprison feeling in the golden links of rhyme! Ah, what a light and flowery chain in appearance, and how hard to weave in reality! How deceptive the natural grace, the facile harmony of the master! How easy it seems to express simple, familiar images, to utter the chimeras of the imagination and the heart in easy and flowing meter, and yet how impossible it is, for him who is not called Becquer, to give his verse those palpitating, diaphanous, azure wings on which the Becquerian butterfly soars!

While the Swan continues his task of effacing and correcting, Leocadia is in her bedroom, preparing to retire. On other nights she went to her room with a smile on her lips, her face glowing, her eyes humid and half-closed, with deep circles under them, her hair in disorder. And on those nights she was in no hurry to retire; she would busy herself arranging the articles on her bureau, she would even look at herself in the glass of her cheap toilet table. To-night her lips were dry, her cheeks pale, she went at once to bed, loosened her clothing, and let it fall on the floor, put out the light and buried her face in the cool, thick cotton sheets. She did not wish to think, all she wished was to forget and to sleep. She tried to lie still. A thousand needles seemed to pierce her flesh; she turned around, in search of a cool spot, then turned again in search of another, and presently she threw off the sheets. She felt a horrible restlessness, a savor of bitterness in her mouth. In the silence of the night she could hear the tumultuous beating of her heart; if she lay on her left side its noise almost deafened her. She tried to fix her thoughts on indifferent subjects, and repeated to herself with monotonous and persistent regularity—"To-morrow is Sunday, the children will not come." In vain; her brain boiled, her blood burned as before. Leocadia was jealous.

Measureless, nameless torture! Hitherto the poor schoolmistress had not known the accompaniment of love, jealousy, whose barbed sting pierces the soul, whose consuming fire dries up the blood, whose chill freezes the heart, whose restless anguish makes the nerves quiver. Segundo scarcely noticed the young girls of Vilamorta; as for the peasant girls, they did not exist for him, he did not even regard them as women; so that Leocadia had attributed the poet's hours of coldness to the bad offices of the muses. But now! She recalled the poem, "A los ojos azules," and his manner of reciting it. Those honeyed verses were to her gall and wormwood. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she broke into convulsive sobs which shook her frame and made the bedstead creak and the cornhusks of the mattress rustle. Still her overwrought brain did not suspend its activity. There was not a doubt but that Segundo was in love with SeÑora de Comba; but she was a married woman. Bah! in Madrid and in novels all the married women have lovers. And then, who could resist Segundo, a poet who was the rival of Becquer, who was young, handsome, ardent, when he wished to be so?

What could Leocadia do to avert this great calamity? Was it not better to resign herself to it? Ah, resignation, that is easily said! Why had God denied her the power to express her feelings? Why had she not knelt before Segundo, begging him for a little love, describing to him and communicating to him the flame that consumed the marrow of her bones? Why had she remained mute when she had so many things to say? Segundo would not go to Las Vides; so much the better. He had no money; better still. He would accept no position, he would not leave Vilamorta, better and better. But what did it matter if after all Segundo did not love her; if he had turned away from her with a gesture which she could still see in the darkness, or rather in the lurid light of jealousy.

How warm the night was! How restless she felt! She got out of bed and threw herself on the floor, thinking to find some relief in the coolness of the boards. Instead of feeling any alleviation she was seized with a fit of trembling. A lump seemed to rise in her throat that prevented her from breathing. She made an effort to stand up but found that she was not able; she felt a hysterical attack coming on, but she tried to restrain her cries, her sobs, her contortions, in order not to awaken Flores. For a time she succeeded; but at last the nervous crisis conquered; her rigid limbs writhed, she dug her nails into her throat, she rolled about and beat her temples against the floor. Then a cold perspiration broke out over her body, and for a moment she lost consciousness. When she returned to herself she was calm but exhausted. She rose to her feet, went back to bed, drew the clothing over her and sank into a sort of stupor, in which there was neither thought nor feeling. The beneficent sleep of early morning had wrapped her senses in oblivion.

She woke late, unrested, exhausted, and, as it were, stupefied. She could scarcely manage to dress herself; it seemed to her as if a year had passed since the night before, and as for her jealous rage, her projects of resistance—how could she have thought of such things? All that mattered to her, all she desired, was that Segundo should be happy, that he should achieve his high destiny, that he should be famous. The rest was madness, a convulsion, an attack of the nerves to which she had given way, overcome by the sense of her loneliness.

The schoolmistress opened the bureau-drawer in which she kept her savings and the money for the household expenses. Beside a pile of stockings was a slim and flabby purse. A short time ago it had contained a few thousand reals, all she possessed in money. Scarcely thirty dollars remained, and out of these she must pay Cansin for a black merino dress, the confectioner for liqueurs, and some friends at Orense for purchases made on her account. And she would not receive her little income until November. A brilliant prospect truly!

After a moment of anguish caused by the struggle between her economical principles and her resolution, Leocadia washed her face, smoothed her hair, put on her dress and her silk manto and left the house. Being Sunday, the streets were full of people, and the cracked bell of the chapel kept up an incessant ringing. The plaza was full of bustle and animation. Before DoÑa Eufrasia's door, three or four mules, whose clerical riders were in the shop, were impatiently trying to protect themselves from the persistent attacks of the flies and hornets, shaking their heads, stamping their hoofs, and switching their flanks with their rough tails. And the fruit-venders, too, in the intervals between selling their wares and chatting and laughing with one another, were watchful to chase away the troublesome insects that settled on the cherries and tomatoes wherever the skin was broken, leaving uncovered the sweet pulp or the red flesh. But the grand conclave of the flies was held in the confectionery of Ramon. It was nauseating to see the insects buzzing blindly in the hot atmosphere, entangling their legs in the caramels, and then making desperate efforts to free themselves from their sweet captivity. A swarm of flies were buzzing around a mÉringue pie which adorned the center of the shelf, and Ramon having grown tired of defending it against their attacks, the invading army rifled it at their pleasure; around the plate lay the bodies of the flies which had perished in the attack; some dry and shriveled, others swollen and with white and livid abdomens.

Leocadia entered the back shop. Ramon was there, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, exposing his brawny arms, shaking a saucepan gently to cool the egg-paste which it contained; then he proceeded to cut the paste with a hot knife, the sugar fizzing and sending forth a pleasant odor as it came in contact with the hot metal. The confectioner passed the back of his hand across his perspiring brow.

What did Leocadia want? Brizar anisette, eh? Well, it was all sold. "You, Rosa, isn't it true that the anisette is all sold?"

The confectioner's wife was seated in a corner of the kitchen, feeding a sickly-looking infant. She fixed her gloomy, morbidly jealous gaze on the schoolmistress and cried in a harsh voice:

"If you come for more anisette, remember the three bottles that are still unpaid for."

"I will pay them now," answered the schoolmistress, taking a handful of dollars from her pocket.

"Never mind that now, there is no hurry," stammered the confectioner, ashamed of his wife's rudeness.

"Take it, Ramon. Why, it was to give it to you that I came."

"If you insist; but the deuce a hurry I was in."

Leocadia hastened away. Not to have remembered the confectioner's wife! Who would ask anything from Ramon before that jealous tigress, who, small as she was, and sickly as she looked, ruled her burly husband with a rod of iron. Perhaps Cansin——

The clothier was displaying his goods to a group of countrywomen, one of whom persisted in declaring the bunting she was looking at to be cotton, rubbing it between her fingers to prove herself in the right. Cansin, on his side, was rubbing the cloth with exactly opposite views.

"How should it be cotton, woman, how should it be cotton?" he cried in his shrill voice, putting the cloth close to the buyer's face. Cansin appeared so angry that Leocadia did not venture to address him; she passed on, quickening her steps. She thought of her other suitor, the tavern-keeper. But she suddenly remembered, with a feeling of repulsion, his thick lips, his cheeks that seemed to drip blood. Turning over in her mind every possible means by which she might obtain the money she needed, a thought occurred to her. She rejected it, she weighed it, she accepted it. Quickening her pace, she walked toward the abode of the lawyer GarcÍa.

At her first knock Aunt GÁspara opened the door. What a meaning contraction of the brow and lips, what a sour face greeted her! Leocadia, abashed and covered with confusion, stood still on the threshold. The old woman, like a vigilant watch-dog, barred the entrance, ready to bark or bite at the first sign of danger.

"What did you want?" she growled.

"To speak to Don Justo. May I?" said the schoolmistress humbly.

"I don't know. I'll see."

And the dragon without further ceremony shut the door in Leocadia's face. Leocadia waited. At the end of ten minutes a harsh voice called to her:

"Come on!"

The heart of the schoolmistress bounded within her. To go through the house in which Segundo was born! It was dark and shabby, cold and bare, like the abode of a miser, in which the furniture is made to do service until it falls to pieces with old age. Crossing a hall, Leocadia saw through a half-open door some garments belonging to Segundo hanging on a peg, and recognized them with a secret thrill. At the end of the hall was the lawyer's office, an ill-kept, untidy room, full of papers and dusty and uninteresting-looking books. Aunt GÁspara withdrew, and Leocadia remained standing before the lawyer, who, without inviting her to be seated, said to her with a suspicious and hostile air, and in the severe tones of a judge:

"And what can I do for you, SeÑora DoÑa Leocadia?"

A formula accompanied inwardly by the observation:

"I wager that the scheming schoolmistress has come to tell me that she is going to marry that crazy boy and that I shall have to support them both."

Leocadia fixed her dejected gaze on GarcÍa's face, trying to discover in his dry and withered features some resemblance to the features of a beloved countenance. His face, indeed, resembled Segundo's in all but the expression, which was very different; that of the father's being as cautious and suspicious as the son's was dreamy and abstracted.

"SeÑor Don Justo——" stammered the schoolmistress. "I am sorry to trouble you. I hope you will not take this visit amiss—they told me that you——SeÑor—I need a loan——"

"Money!" roared the lawyer, clenching his fists. "You ask me for money!"

"Yes, SeÑor, on some property——"

"Ah!" (sudden transition in the lawyer, who became all softness and amiability). "But how stupid I am! Come in, come in and sit down, DoÑa Leocadia. I hope you are quite well. Why, anyone might find himself in a difficulty. And what property is it? Talking together people come to an understanding, SeÑora. Perhaps the vineyard of La Junqueira, or the other little one, El Adro? Of late years they have yielded little——"

The business was discussed and the promissory note was signed. Aunt GÁspara meanwhile walked uneasily and with ghost-like tread, up and down the hall outside. When her brother issued from the room and gave her some orders she crossed herself hastily several times on the forehead and the breast. She then descended stealthily to the cellar, and, after some little delay, returned and emptied on the lawyer's table the contents of her apron, whence rolled four objects covered with dust and cobwebs, from which proceeded, as they struck the table, the peculiar sound produced by coin. These objects were an earthern savings-bank, a stocking, a leathern sack, and a little muslin bag.

That afternoon Leocadia said to Segundo:

"Do you know what, sweetheart? It is a pity that for the sake of a new suit or some such trifle you should lose the chance of establishing yourself and obtaining what you wish. See, I have a little money here that I have no particular use for. Do you want it, eh? I will give it to you now and you can return it to me by and by."

Segundo drew himself up and, with a genuine outburst of offended dignity, exclaimed:

"Never propose anything like that to me again. I accept your attentions at times so as not to see you breaking your heart at my refusal, but that you should clothe me and support me—no, that is too much."

Half an hour later the schoolmistress renewed her entreaties affectionately, availing herself of the opportunity, seeing the Swan somewhat pensive. Between him and her there ought to be no mine or thine. Why should he hesitate to accept what it afforded her so great a pleasure to give? Did her future by chance depend upon those few paltry dollars? With them he could present himself decently at Las Vides, publish his verses, go to Madrid. It would make her so happy to see him triumph, eclipse Campoamor, NuÑez de Arce, and all the rest! And what was there to prevent Segundo from returning her the money, and with interest, too? Talking thus, Leocadia filled a handkerchief tied at the four corners with ounces and doblillos and centenes and handed it to the poet, saying in a voice rendered husky by her emotion:

"Will you slight me?"

SegundiÑo took the unbeautiful, ungraceful head of the schoolmistress between his hands, and looking fixedly in the eyes that looked at him humid with happiness he said:

"Leocadia, I know that you are the one human being in this world who loves me truly."

"SegundiÑo, my life," she stammered, beside herself with happiness, "it isn't worth mentioning. Just as I give you that—as I hope for salvation—I would give you the blood from my veins!"

And what would Aunt GÁspara have said had she known that several of the ounces from the stocking, the savings-bank, the sack, and the bag would return immediately, loyal and well-trained, to sleep, if not under the rafters of the cellar, at least under the roof of Don Justo?