RITA was niece to the marchioness and the general. An orphan since her birth, she had been brought up by her brother, who loved her with tenderness; and by her nurse, who adored and spoilt her,—without which she might have made a good and pious young girl. The isolation and independence in which she had passed the first years of her life, had impressed on her character the double seal of timidity and decision. Slightly brilliant, because she detested noise and Éclat, she was proud and at the same time good; simple and capricious, a mocker and reserved.

To this piquant character was added an exterior the most beautiful and attractive. She was neither too large nor too small; her form, which had never been submitted to the precision of the corset, had all the suppleness and flexibility which French romances falsely give to their heroines, fastened in by narrow strips of whalebone. It is to this graceful suppleness of body and of movement, united to that frankness of manner, so natural and enchanting when elegance and good nature accompany it, that the Spaniards owe their charming attractions, which we may call their distinctive characteristic. Rita had the tint of unpolished white; it was of the purity and regularity of a marble statue. Her admirable head of black hair, and those large eyes of dark brown, surmounted by eyebrows which seemed painted by the hand of Murillo, were most attractive. Her mouth, of extraordinary freshness, and almost always serious, opened from time to time to let escape, between her white teeth, a joyous burst of laughter, which her habitual reserve made her as soon take back; for nothing was to her more painful than to attract attention, and when by chance that happened she could not conceal her displeasure. She had made a vow to the Virgin of grief to wear a habit: it was for this she was always clothed in black, with a belt of polished leather; and a little golden heart, pierced with a sword, ornamented the upper part of her sleeve.

Rita was the only woman whom her Cousin Raphael seriously loved; not with a passion elegiac and weeping, which no way belonged to his character, the least sentimental the east wind ever blew upon, but of a true affection, earnest, sincere, and constant. Raphael, an excellent youth, loyal, judicious, as noble in manner as in birth, and possessed of a handsome patrimony, pleased in every way the family of Rita; notwithstanding, the young girl, spite of her brother’s surveillance, had surrendered her heart to another without his knowing it.

The object of her preference was a young man of an illustrious origin, a handsome boy, but a gambler; and that was sufficient for Rita’s brother to oppose her love, and he had forbidden her to see or speak to him. Rita, with her firmness of character and Spanish perseverance—which she could have better employed—quietly waited, without complaint, without sighs or tears, the attainment of twenty-one years of age, when she would have the right to marry whom she pleased, without scandal, and in spite of her brother’s opposition. During this time, her lover walked the streets, exhibiting to everybody his national costume of majo (gallant), and riding superb horses. It is useless to explain here that the two lovers had established between them a daily correspondence.

This evening, as usual, Rita had arrived at the reunion without making any noise, and was seated in her accustomed place, near to her aunt, to witness the card-playing.

Raphael glided behind his cousin, and whispered in her ear:

“Rita, when can I demand the dispensation?”

“When I give you notice to do so,” she replied, without turning her head.

“And what can I do to merit the advent of that happy moment?”

“Recommend yourself to my patron saint, who is the advocate of impossible things.”

“Cruel! you will one day repent having refused my white hand. You lose the best and most grateful of husbands.”

“And you—you will lose the most ungrateful of women.”

“Listen, Rita,” continued Arias: “our uncle, who is opposite to us, how is it that he prevents you turning your head towards those to whom you speak?”

“I have a stiff neck.”

“This stiff neck is called Luis de Haro. Are you always occupied with him?”

“More than ever.”

“And you will let me die?”

“Under my frowns.”

“I will make a vow to the devil to gild his horns, if one day he will carry off Luis de Haro.”

“Wish him evil! the wishes of the envious fatten.”

Raphael rose up furiously.

“I know what is the matter with you, Raphael,” said a young girl, before whom he passed, to him in a languishing tone.

This new speaker had arrived from Madrid.

The journey had completely modernized her. Reading French novels was her incessant occupation. She professed for the world a kind of worship; she adored music, and looked with contempt on all that was Spanish.

“What, then, is the matter with me?”

“A deception,” murmured Eloise.

“A deception! I have them by hundreds; but the fact cannot be disputed,” said Raphael, “that you are most beautiful with this coiffure, and that your toilet is in perfect taste.”

“It pleases you?” cried the elegant Eloise, smirking.

“It is not extraordinary,” continued Raphael, “that this Englishman, whom you see here opposite to you, is dying for Spain and for the Spaniards.”

“What bad taste!” said Eloise, with a gesture of disdain. “He said there was nothing more beautiful in the world than a Spanish lady with her mantle, her fan, her little feet, her black eyes, and her walk, so sprightly and so graceful.”

“But does this gentleman not know that we consider ourselves as Parias.”

“Do you seek to convert him? I will present you.”

Arias left precipitately, with this thought: Eloise has a tender heart; and more, she has become very romantic. She has every quality to please the major.

The countess, during this time, asked the duke if his Filomena of Villamar was handsome.

“She is neither handsome nor ugly,” replied the duke. “She has a tint very brown, and her features are not absolutely regular; but she has very beautiful eyes, and the ensemble does not differ from what you see everywhere in our country.”

“Since her voice is so extraordinary,” said the countess, “we must, for the honor of Seville, make her a prima donna at once. Can we not hear her?”

“When you like,” replied the duke. “I will bring her here one of these evenings with her husband, who is himself an excellent musician, and who has been her teacher.”

The hour to retire had arrived.

When the duke approached the countess to take leave, she held up her finger in sign of menace.

“What does that mean?” demanded the duke.

“Nothing,” she replied. “It only says: Take care!”

“Take care of what?”

“Do not feign not to understand me. None are so deaf as those who will not hear.”

“You puzzle me keenly, countess.”

“So much the better.”

“Will you, as a favor, explain to me?”

“I will explain myself, since you oblige me to do so. When I said to you, Take care, I meant, Do not enchain yourself.”

“Ah! countess,” replied the duke with warmth; “for God’s sake, let no unjust and false suspicion tarnish the reputation of this woman before any person knows her. This woman, countess, is an angel!”

“Without any doubt: one is not smitten of love by a devil.”

“And yet you have a thousand adorers,” replied the duke, smiling.

“I am not a devil,” said the countess; “but I have the gift of second-sight.”

“To go past the mark is not to attain it.”

“I will give you six months, invulnerable Achilles!”

“Cease, for goodness, countess; that which on your lips is but a light jest, would become a mortal poison in the mouths of those vipers who multiply in society.”

“Have no fears; it will not be I who will cast the first stone. I am indulgent as a saint, or as a great sinner, without being either the one or the other.”

This conversation did not completely satisfy the duke. Near the door he was stopped by Gen. Santa-Maria.

“Duke, have you ever seen any thing like it?”

“What thing?” replied the duke, almost irritated.

“You demand what thing?”

“Yes, and I desire a reply.”

“A colonel of twenty-three years old!”

“Indeed, it is a little precocious.” And the duke smiled.

“It is a blow struck at the army.”

“Certainly.”

“A solemn lie given to common sense.”

“Evidently.”

“Poor Spain!” sighed the general, pressing the duke’s hand, and lifting his eyes to heaven.