MARISALADA, instructed in her toilet by her hostess, presented herself accoutred in a manner the most ridiculous. She wore a dress of silk, handkerchief pattern, too short, and blending colors the most extravagant; her coiffure was most ungracefully intermingled with red ribbons of unheard-of stiffness; a mantle of tulle, white and blue, garnished with Catalan lace, exceeded the black of her tint. The ensemble of this parure could but necessarily produce, and did produce, the most pitiable effect.

The countess in making some steps towards the Gaviota passed near to Raphael, and whispered in his ear, applying to the circumstance the fable of La Fontaine—

“How many thanks we owe you,” said the countess to Maria, “for your goodness in wishing to satisfy our desire to hear you! The duke has paid you so brilliant a compliment!”

The Gaviota, without saying a word, let herself be conducted by the countess to a seat which had been destined for her between the piano and the sofa.

Rita, to be near her, had abandoned her ordinary place, and was seated beside Eloise.

“My God!” she said, on seeing the Gaviota, “she is blacker than a mole.”

“One could swear,” added Eloise, “that it was her greatest enemy who has dressed her. One would say a Judas of Holy Saturday. How does it seem to you, Raphael?”

“This wrinkle which she has between her eyebrows,” replied Arias, “gives her the appearance of a unicorn.”

During this time, in this assembly so numerous and so brilliant, no symptom of politeness or good feeling was shown towards Maria; who not the less preserved all her aplomb and her unalterable calmness. Thanks to her look, always investigating and penetrating, to her quick intelligence, and the exquisite tact of a Spanish woman, two minutes sufficed her to remark every thing, and to judge of it all.

“I already understand,” she said to herself, in resuming her observations, “that the countess is good, and desires my success; the young elegants make fun of me and of my toilet, which must be frightful; for these strangers look at me disdainfully, as I am only a simple country girl: for the old I am a nullity; the others remain neuter. In consideration of the duke, who is my protector, they will neither praise nor criticise until after an opinion favorable or the contrary is formed of me.”

For her part, the good and amiable countess tried to enter into conversation with the Gaviota, but her laconic responses neutralized all her good intentions.

“Does Seville please you much?” asked the countess.

“Sufficiently,” replied Maria.

“And what do you think of our cathedral?”

“It is too large.”

“And our beautiful walks?”

“Too small.”

“And what then interests you the most?”

“The bulls.”

The conversation stopped here. It was resumed by the countess after a long pause—

“Allow me to pray your husband to place himself at the piano.”

“Whenever it pleases you.”

Stein took his place at the piano. Maria, whose hand the duke had taken, and conducted her, placed herself at the side of her husband.

“Do you tremble, Maria?” Stein asked of her.

“And why should I tremble?” she replied.

There was profound silence. They could then easily distinguish the various impressions she reflected on the countenances of those present; with the greater part of whom it was curiosity and surprise; with the countess a sweet good-nature; around the gaming-tables, which Raphael called the upper house, there was nothing remarkable but complete indifference.

The prince smiled with disdain; the major opened his eyes, as if that would help him to hear; the baron closed his.

Sir John profited by this moment of interval to take off his eyeglasses, and rub them with his handkerchief.

Raphael fled into the garden to smoke a cigarette.

Stein played without affectation or flourishes the prelude of Casta Diva; but the pure, limpid, and powerful voice of the Gaviota made her so well heard, that the spectators seemed touched as by a magic wand. On every countenance was painted astonishment and admiration. The prince allowed an approving exclamation to escape him.

When the Gaviota had finished singing, a storm of bravos was sent forth from all the assembly: the countess set the example by applauding with her beautiful and delicate hands.

“God preserve me!” said the general, stopping his ears; he really thought he was in the place where bulls are kept.

“Let them alone, LeÓn,” said the marchioness; “let them divert themselves. It is better to be amused than to speak ill of one’s neighbor.”

Stein acknowledged on all sides his respectful thanks.

Mariquita resumed her seat, as cold and impassive as before. She sang in succession several variations most difficult, where the melody disappeared in the midst of trills and cadences. Surmounting without effort every obstacle, she elicited more and more admiration.

“Countess,” said the duke, “the prince desires to hear some Spanish songs which have been much spoken of to him; Maria excels in this species of song; will you procure a guitar for her?”

“With great pleasure,” replied the countess. And she complied at once with the request.

Raphael was seated near to Rita, after having taken care to place the major beside Eloise, who tried to persuade the Englishman that the Spaniards were becoming day by day more desirous of putting themselves on a level with foreigners, above all in that which relates to affectation and affected airs; for we know that in servile imitations, it is always defects which are the more readily imitated.

“What beautiful eyes!” said Raphael to his cousin. “These long black lashes are magnificent. Her look has truly the attraction of love.”

“It is you who are the lover of strangers,” said Rita. “Why have you placed the major near Eloise? Listen to the nonsense he is telling her. I warn you, my cousin, that each day you take the aspect and the attractions of a dictionary.”

“There it is, raillery, and raillery again,” cried Raphael, striking with his fist the arm of the chair. “You stray from the question, I speak to you of my love for yourself, Rita, of my love which will endure eternally. Know it well, my cousin, a man never loves seriously but one woman in his lifetime. The others—they pretend that they love them.”

“That is what Don Luis has repeated to me often, my cousin; but do you know, in your turn, that you are becoming fatiguing, ennuyant, like a repeating watch.”

“What does this signify?” cried Eloise, seeing a guitar brought in.

“It appears she is to sing some Spanish songs, and I am rejoiced. These songs divert me much.”

“Spanish songs!” sighed Eloise indignantly. “What horror! They are good for the common people, but not in society where bon-ton reigns. What then is Gracia thinking of? Here then is it why foreigners rightly think we are behind other nations; because we will not adopt their manners and their tastes as our models, because we through obstinacy will dine at three o’clock, and because we never will persuade ourselves that all that is Spanish is stupid.”

“But,” said the major in a gibberish sort of Anglo-Andalusian, “I believe indeed, that they do very well to be as they are.”

“If this is a compliment,” replied Eloise with emphasis, “it is so much exaggerated that it resembles mockery.”

“It is the Italian lord,” said Rita, “who has asked for these Spanish sonnets. He likes them, and understands them; that’s one proof that they merit being heard.”

“Eloise,” added Raphael, “the barcarolles, the tyroliennes, and the ranz des vaches are the popular songs of other countries; why will we not admit in the society of distinguished people our boleros and the other songs of the Spanish people?”

“Because it is more vulgar,” replied Eloise.

Raphael shrugged his shoulders, Rita laughed outright, and the major comprehended nothing of it.

Eloise got up, and under pretext of a headache left, accompanied by her mother, to whom she said in departing—

“Let them know at least that there are in Spain young ladies sufficiently distinguished and sufficiently delicate to fly from such buffooneries.”

“How unfortunate will be the Abelard of this Heloise!” said Raphael, on seeing her retire.

Maria, beyond her beautiful voice and excellent method, possessed, as a daughter of the common people, the infusing of science in the songs of Andalusia; and that grace, that charm which a stranger could not understand nor value, without having resided a long time in the country, without having, so to speak, become identified with the national character. There is in these songs, as well as in the airs of the dances, a richness of imagination, an attraction so powerful, an enchainment of surprises, complaints, bursts of joy, of languor, and of exaltation, that the audience, at first astonished, soon finish by being captivated and intoxicated.

Thus when Maria took the guitar, and sang—

admiration became enthusiasm. The young people marked the measure by clapping their hands, repeating “Good! Good!” to encourage the singer; the cards fell from the hands of the players; the major could no longer contain himself, and beat the measure in the wrong time; Sir John swore that the song was even better than “God save the Queen;” but that which was the triumph of the Spanish music was, that it smoothed the brow of the general.

“Do you remember, brother,” the marchioness smilingly asked him, “the time when we sang el Zorengo and el Tripili?”

“What is that, the Zorengo and the Tripili?” asked the baron of Raphael.

“They are,” replied Arias, “the fathers of Sereno and of la Cachucha, and the forefathers of la Jaca de Terciopelo, of Vito, and other songs of the day.”

These particulars of songs and of national dances, of which we have spoken, may seem in bad taste, and they would certainly be so in other countries. But to abandon one’s self without reserve to sentiments which instigate our songs and our dances, one must have a character like ours; it must be that grossness and vulgarity be, as they are with us, two things unknown, two things which do not exist. A Spaniard may be insolent, but rarely will he ever be gross, because it is not in his nature. He lives according to his inspiration, which will never efface in him the stamp of a special distinction. This is what gives to Spain, despite of an education but little nourished, that finish of manner and frank elegance which render their intercourse so agreeable.

Mariquita left the hotel of the countess as pale and as impassible as she had entered it.

When the countess was alone with her friends, she said with a triumphant air to Raphael—

“What think you now, my dear cousin?”

“I think,” replied the young man, “that ‘the warbling is better than the plumage.’”

“What eyes!” cried the countess.

“One might say, two black diamonds in a casket of Russia leather.”

“She is grave,” said the countess, “but not haughty.”

“And timid as a woman of the common class,” said Raphael.

“But what a voice!” added the countess; “what a divine voice!”

“There should be engraven on her tomb,” replied Raphael, “the epitaph which the Portuguese composed for their celebrated singer Madureira—

“Raphael,” said the countess, “you are an eternal railler, and nothing escapes your love of fun. I will go and order your portrait under the figure of a mockingbird.”

“In that case,” replied Raphael, on going away, “I will make a beautiful masculine Harpy that would have the advantage of being able to propagate his species.”