THE world is composed of contrasts: nothing is more true than this eternal verity.

It was thus that, when the poor fisherman presented to his humble and pious friends the sublime spectacle of the death of a believer, his daughter rendered the public of Madrid enthusiastic even to frenzy. A prima donna without a drop of Italian blood in her veins, eclipsed the grand Tenorini herself. The impression produced by the singer was so great, so general, that the employÉs deserted their offices, and the students the benches of their classes.

This enthusiasm manifested itself one evening at the door of the theatre, in a group of young men, who sought to make two strangers, recently landed, share their admiration. They commented, they analyzed the quality of the voice, the suppleness of her throat, the superiority of her method of the Diva, without forgetting to eulogize her physical advantages. A young man, covered up to his eyes in a cloak, remained immovable and silent some paces from this group; but when they boasted of the physical advantages of the singer, he stamped his foot with anger.

“I will bet a hundred guineas, dear viscount,” said our friend Sir John Burnwood, who, not having obtained authority to carry off Alcazar, proposed to himself to ask leave to take Escurial—“I will bet that this woman will make more noise in France than Madame Lafarge; and in England, more than Tom Thumb; and in Italy, than Rossini.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied the viscount.

“What magnificent black eyes!” added a new admirer. “What an elegant and subtle form! As to her feet, one does not see them, and we can only guess: the Magdalen would envy her her hair.”

“I am impatient to hear this wonder,” said the viscount; “let us enter, gentlemen.”

The mysterious young man had disappeared.

Maria, in the costume of Semiramis, came on the stage. The man in the mantle, who was no other than Pepe Vera, entered at this moment, approached the actress, and without any person hearing him, said to her—

“I do not wish you to sing.”

And he went on his way, cold and indifferent.

Maria at first turned pale, then the blush of indignation mounted to her face.

“Come!” said she to her waiting-woman; “Marina, arrange the folds of this mantle. We are about to commence.” And she added in a loud voice, so that Pepe, who was far off, heard her, “We do not play for the public.”

The boy of the theatre came to her, and said—

“SeÑora, shall we raise the curtain?”

“I am ready.”

But she had scarcely pronounced these words when she uttered a sharp cry.

Pepe Vera had come and placed himself behind her; he laid hold of her arm violently, and said to her a second time—

“I do not wish you to sing.”

Vanquished by her grief, Maria seated herself on a chair, and wept.

Pepe had disappeared.

“What is it? what has happened?” asked those who were present.

“I feel ill,” answered Maria, who continued to weep.

“What is the matter, seÑora?” asked the director, who had been informed of what had occurred.

“It is nothing,” said Maria, rising, and drying her tears. “It is already passed. I am ready. Come!”

Pepe Vera, pale as a corpse, then came and interposed between the director and the artist.

“This is cruelty,” said he, with an imperturbable calmness, “to force on to the stage a woman who can hardly support herself.

“What!” cried the director; “are you ill, seÑora? Since when? it is but a moment since I saw you very joyous!”

Maria was about to reply, but she dropped her eyes, and could not open her lips. Pepe’s look fascinated her.

“Why not avow the truth?” he said, without losing any of his calmness. “Why not say it is impossible for you to sing? would it be a great crime? Are you a slave, that they can oblige you to do more than you can?”

The public was impatient, the director knew not what to do. The authorities sent to demand the cause of the delay, and while the director recounted the incident which had occurred, Pepe Vera, who had approached Maria as if to offer his attentions, seized her arm as if he would break it, and said to her in a firm voice—

“Caramba! is it not enough to tell you I do not wish it?”

Maria must decide. When she was in her room with Pepe her anger broke out.

“You are an insolent, an infamous fellow,” she cried, suffocated with fury. “What right have you to treat me thus?”

“I love you.”

“Cursed be your love!”

Pepe began to laugh.

“You curse my love, and you cannot live without it. We will see! we will see! I will never again appear before you until you summon me.”

“I would sooner call a demon.”

“You may call him, I am not jealous.”

“Go then! quit me.”

“Be it so,” said the toreador. “I depart, and go to Lucia del Salto.”

Marisalada was very jealous of this woman, a dancer, whom Pepe had courted before he knew Maria.

“Pepe! Pepe!” screamed Maria, “traitor! add perfidy to insolence.”

“That,” said Pepe, without moving, “that will not make me do but what I choose. You are too grand a lady for me. If then you wish that we get along well together, it must be that every thing is done as I wish. I will command, and you obey. You have enough of dukes, ambassadors, and serene excellencies at your feet.”

So saying, he made some steps towards the door.

“Pepe! Pepe!” called Maria, tearing in pieces a mantle richly garnished with lace.

“Call sooner the demon.”

“Pepe! remember this well: if you ever go near Lucia I will accept the love of the duke.”

“You dare do that?” said Pepe, starting with a gesture of menace.

“I dare every thing, for revenge.”

Pepe placed himself in front of the Gaviota, his arms crossed, and darting on her the most terrible looks. Maria sustained them without flinching. These brief moments sufficed for these two characters to study and know each other.

They comprehended that both were powerful in pride and in energy. This combat could no longer continue; it must be broken or suspended. With mutual and tacit accord each renounced the triumph.

“Come, Mariquita,” said Pepe, who was the culpable one, “let us be friends. I will not go near Lucia, but in exchange, and to have confidence in each other, conceal me this evening at your house, in such a manner that I can convince myself that you do not deceive me.”

“That cannot be,” replied Maria haughtily.

“’Tis well. I go where I go in leaving you.”

“Infamous! you put the knife to my throat,” cried Maria, doubling her fists with fury. “Depart!”

An hour after this scene Maria was half reclining on the sofa, and her husband was feeling her pulse. The duke was seated near her.

“It is nothing, Maria,” said Stein. “It is nothing, duke. A nervous attack, already dissipated. Her pulse is perfectly tranquil. You need only repose, Maria. Work is killing you. It is already some time that your nerves have been extraordinarily irritated. Your nervous system rebels against the zeal you devote to the study of your characters. I am in no way uneasy, and now I go to attend a patient, who is in a dangerous condition. Take the prescription which I will order for you, and some orgeat on retiring; and to-morrow when you rise some ass’s milk. Duke, I leave you with regret, but duty obliges me: Á dios!”

After the departure of Don Frederico, the duke gazed on Maria for a long time; her face was altogether changed.

“Are you fatigued, Maria?” asked he, with that penetrating sweetness which love alone knows how to give to the voice.

“I will repose myself,” replied Maria coldly.

“Do you wish that I retire?”

“If it so pleases you.”

“That would pain me.”

“Remain then.”

“Maria,” said the duke, after a short silence, taking out of his pocket a paper, “when I cannot talk to you I sing your praises; here are some verses which I have written for you; to-night, Maria, I will have agitating dreams, without sleep. Sleep has fled from my eyelids since peace fled from my heart. Pardon me, Maria, if this avowal which escapes from my heart offends the purity of your sentiments, but I have suffered from your sufferings, and—”

“You see,” said Maria, smiling, “that my sufferings are already ended.”

“Would you like, Maria, that I read these verses to you?”

“Be it so.”

The duke read his sonnet in honor of the Diva.

“Your verses are very beautiful, duke,” remarked Maria with more than animation. “Will you have them published in the Heraldo?”

“Do you wish it?”

“I think they merit it.”

The duke at this reply let his head fall on his hands. When he raised it again, he saw as it were a light pass in the look which Maria fixed on the glass door of her alcove. He turned his head to that side, but saw nothing.

He had, in his abstraction, rolled the paper on which the verses were written, and which the singer had not taken into her possession. She asked him if he intended to make a cigarette of her sonnet.

“Then, at least,” said the duke, “it would serve for something.”

“Give it to me; I will keep it.”

The duke passed the roll of paper to her in a magnificent ring.

“What! the ring also, my lord duke?”

Maria placed the ring on her finger, and let fall the paper on the carpet.

“Ah!” thought the duke, “there is no love in that heart, there is no poetry in that soul, no blood in these veins. And yet heaven is in her smile, hell in those eyes, and her voice chants all the harmonies of earth and heaven. Repose yourself, Maria,” he said, rising; “leave your soul in its happy quietude, and do not give entrance to the importunate idea that others grow old and suffer because of you.”

The duke departed.