Pierre Lous

In Spain the Carnival does not finish, as in France, at eight o’clock on the morning of Ash Wednesday. Over the wonderful gaiety of Seville the memory that “dust we are,” etc., spreads its odour of sepulture for four days only, and the first Sunday of Lent all the Carnival reawakens.

It is the Domingo de Pinatas, or the Sunday of Marmites, the Grand FÊte. All the populous town has changed its costume, and one sees in the streets rags and tatters of red, blue, green, yellow or rose, that have been mosquito-nets, curtains or women’s garments, all waving in the sunlight and carried by a small body of ragamuffins. The youngsters, noisy, many-coloured and masked, push their way through the crowd of great personages.

At the windows one sees pressed forward innumerable brunette heads. Nearly all the young girls of the countryside are in Seville on such a day as this. Paper confetti fall as a coloured rain, fans shade and protect pretty powdered faces, there are cries, appeals and laughter in the narrow streets. A few thousands of people make more noise on this day of Carnival than would the whole of Paris.

But, on the twenty-third of February in eighteen hundred and ninety-six, AndrÉ StÉvenol saw the end of the Carnival approaching with a slight feeling of vexation, for the week, although essentially one of love-affairs, had not brought him any new adventure. Some previous sojourning in Spain had taught him with what quickness and freedom of the heart the knots of friendship were tied and untied in this still primitive land. He was depressed at the thought that chance and circumstance had not favoured him. He had had a long paper battle with one young girl. They had fought and teased each other with the serpentine strips of Carnival time, he in the street, she at a window. She ran down and gave him a little red bouquet with “Many thanks, sir.” But, alas! she had fled quickly, and at closer view illusions fled also. AndrÉ put the flower in his coat, but did not put the giver in his memory.

Four o’clock sounded from many clocks. He went by way of the Calle Rodrigo and gained the Delicias, Champs-ElysÉes of shading trees along the immense Guadalquivir thronged with vessels. It was there that unrolled the Carnival of the elegant.

At Seville the leisured class cannot always afford three good meals per day, but would rather go without them than without the outside show of a landau and two fine horses. Seville has hundreds of carriages, often old-fashioned but made beautiful by their horses, and occupied by people of noble race and face.

AndrÉ StÉvenol made a way with difficulty through the crowd edging the two sides of the vast dusty avenue. The battle of eggs was on. Eggshells filled with paper confetti were being thrown into the carriages, and thrown back, of course. AndrÉ filled his pockets with eggs and fought with spirit. The stream of carriages filed past—carriages full of women, lovers, families, children, or friends. The game had lasted an hour when AndrÉ felt in his pocket his last egg.

Suddenly there again appeared a young woman whose fan he had broken with an egg earlier in the combat.

She was marvellous. Deprived of the shade and shelter of the fan that had protected her delicate, laughing features; open on all sides to the attacks of the crowd and the nearest carriages, she took bravely her part in the struggle, and, standing panting, hatless, flushed with heat and frank gaiety, she gave and received attacks. She appeared to be about twenty-two years old, and must have been at least eighteen. That she was from Andalucia could not possibly be doubted. She was of that admirable type that was born of the intermixing of Arabs and Vandals, of Semites with the Germans. Such mixing has brought together in a little valley of Europe all the perfection of two races.

Her body, long and supple, was expressive in every line and curve. One felt that even were she veiled one would be able to divine her thought, and that she laughed with her limbs, even as she spoke with her shoulders and her bosom, with grace and with liberty. Her hair was of dark chestnut, but at a distance shone almost black. Her cheeks were of great softness as to contour. The edges of the eyelids were very dark.

AndrÉ, pressed by the crowd close to her carriage, gazed at her intently. His heart-beats told him that this woman would be one of those who were destined to play a part in his life. At once he wrote with pencil on his Carnival egg the word “QUIERO,” and threw it as one might a rose into her hands.

Quiero is an astonishing verb. It is “to will,” “to desire,” “to love.” It is “to go in quest of,” it is “to cherish.” In turn, and according to how used, it expresses an imperative passion, or a light caprice. It is a prayer or an order, a declaration or a condescension. Often it is but an irony. AndrÉ looked as he gave it the look that can mean “I would love to love you.” She put the curious missive in a sort of hand-bag, and the stream of traffic took her on. AndrÉ lost sight of her after a vain attempt to follow.

Saddened he slowly returned. For him all the Carnival was shrouded and ended. Should he have been more determined and found a way in the crowd? How could he find her again? It was not certain that she lived in Seville. If not, it might be impossible to find her. And little by little, by an unhappy illusion, the image that his mind held of her became more charming. Certain details of her sweet features that had only won a moment’s curious notice now became transmuted in the crucible of memory into the principal things that made up her tender attitude. There was a certain detail in the dressing of the hair, an extreme mobility in the corners of the lips. The latter changed each instant in form and expression. Often almost hidden, often almost curved upwards, rounded, slender, pale or darkened, animated, so to speak, with a varying flame of life and soul. Ah! perhaps one could blame all the rest of that face—say that the nose was not Grecian, the chin not Roman; but not to colour with pleasure at the sight of those little lip-corners was to be past all forgiveness in this world.

So his thoughts flew on and on till a voice cried behind him rough but warning: a carriage was passing quickly in the narrow street. In the carriage was a young woman who, when she saw AndrÉ threw gently towards him, as one would throw a rose, an egg inscribed “Quiero.”

But, now, after the word there was a decided flourish. It was as if the fair one had wished to reply by stressing his own one-word message.

---

Her carriage had turned the corner of the street. AndrÉ went in pursuit, anxious not to lose a second chance that might be the last. He arrived as the horses went through the gates of a house in the Plaza del Triunfo. The great black gates closed upon the rapidly caught silhouette of a woman.

Without doubt it would have been wiser if he had prepared to learn the name and family, or mode of life of the stranger, before bursting into all the divine unknown of any such intrigue, in which, knowing nothing, he could not be master of anything. AndrÉ nevertheless resolved not to quit the place without a first effort to find out something. He deliberately rang the gate bell.

A young custodian came, but did not open the gates.

“What does Your Grace demand?”

“Take my card to the SeÑora.”

“To what SeÑora?”

“To the one who lives here, I presume.”

“But her name?”

“I say that your mistress awaits me.”

The man bowed and made a deprecatory sign with his hands, then retired without opening the gates or taking the card.

Then AndrÉ rang a second and third time. Anger had made him discourteous.

“A woman so prompt to reply to a declaration of this type,” he thought, “cannot be surprised that one insists upon trying to see her.” It did not occur to him that the Carnival and the bacchanal forgives passing follies, that are not usually permitted in normal social life.

What was to be done? He paced to and fro, but there was no sight of her and no sign. Near the house was a stall-keeper whom AndrÉ bribed and questioned. But the man replied—

“The SeÑora purchases of me, but if she knew I talked of her to any one she would buy of my rivals. I can only tell you her name: she is the SeÑora Dona Concepcion Perez, wife of Don Manuel Garcia. Her husband is in Bolivia.”

AndrÉ heard no more, but returned to his hotel and remained there undecided. Even upon learning of the absence of the SeÑora’s husband, he had not also learnt that all the chances were upon his side. The reserve of the dealer, who seemed to know more than he would care to say, rather left one with the idea that there was another and luckier lover already chosen and enthroned. The attitude of the servant at the gates increased this awkward afterthought.

AndrÉ had to return to Paris in two weeks’ time. Would those weeks suffice for planning and effecting an entry into the life of a beautiful young dame, whose life was without much doubt planned, rounded, complete?

While thus troubled with his incertitudes a letter was handed to him. It had no address on the envelope. He said, “Are you sure that this letter is for me?”

“It has just been given to me for Don AndrÉs StÉvenol.”

The letter was written upon a blue card, and was as follows—

“Don AndrÉs StÉvenol is begged to not make so much noise, to not give his name or demand to know mine. If he is out walking to-morrow about three on the Empalme route a carriage will be passing. It may stop.”

AndrÉ thought how easy life was, and already had visions of approaching intimacy. He even sought for and murmured the most tender little forms of her charming Christian name Concepcion, Concha, Conchita, Chita.

---

On the morning of the morrow AndrÉ StÉvenol had a radiant awakening. The light flooded his room, which had four windows. There also came to him the murmurs of the town. There were the feet of horses passing, street cries, mules’ bells, and the bells of convents.

He could not recall having known a morning as happy as this present one was; no, not for a long time. He flung out his arms and stretched them; then held them tightly folded around his breast as though to give himself the illusion or the anticipation of that eagerly awaited embrace.

“How easy, how simple the affairs of life are, after all!” So he mused, smiling. “Yesterday, at this hour I was alone, without an object to fill my mind, almost without a thought. It was merely necessary to take a walk and, behold! a change of scene, a love-affair in view. What is the use of taking any notice of refusals, of disdain, or any such things. We desire and demand, and the women give themselves. Why should it ever be otherwise?”

He rose, and in dressing-gown and slippers rang for his bath to be prepared. Whilst waiting with his forehead pressed to the window-panes he stared into the thoroughfare before him, now full of the stir of day. The houses in sight were painted in light colours that Seville favours as a rule: colours like the gay tints of women’s dresses—cream, rose, green, orange, violet, but not the fearful brown of Cadiz or Madrid, or the crude white of JÉrez. There were orange-trees in sight, bearing fruit; running fountains and laughing girls, holding their shawls close. From all sides come the sound of the mules’ bells. AndrÉ could not then imagine any other place in which to live but—Seville.

He finished dressing, and slowly sipped a little cup of the thick Spanish chocolate, then, easy in mind, almost aimlessly he went out into the busy street.

By chance he went the shortest way, to the Plaza del Triunfo. Then he remembered that he was not to haunt the residence of his “mistress,” as he called her to himself, so he went to Las Delicias. The place was strewn with paper and the usual signs of the Carnival. It was also deserted, for Lent had recommenced. Nevertheless, by a way that led from the city’s outskirts, AndrÉ saw coming towards him one whom he recognized.

“Good-day, Don Mateo,” he said, holding out his hand. “I had not thought of seeing you so soon.”

“Well, here I am, alone, idle and at a loose end. I stroll about in the morning and evening, and fill up most of the day reading or playing in some way. It’s a dull sort of existence.”

“But you have nights that console the monotony of the days, if one may credit the chatter of the city busybody?”

“Whoever says so says wrongly. From now to the day of his death Don Mateo Diaz has no woman about him. But do not let us talk about me. For how long are you still going to remain here?”

Don Mateo was a Spaniard, forty years old, to whom AndrÉ had been introduced during his first stay in Spain. He was a man of florid phrase and declamatory gesture, very rich, and famed for his love affairs. So AndrÉ was surprised to hear that he had renounced the pomps and vanities of the flesh, but did not attempt to weary him with questions.

They walked by the river for a time, and all their talk was of Spain, its people, its policy, and history.

Then, “You will come and break your fast or lunch,” said Don Mateo. “My place is there, near the route D’Empalme. We shall be there in a half-hour, and, if you will permit me, I will keep you till the evening. I have some fine horses I should like to show off before you.”

“I agree to take lunch with you,” said AndrÉ, “but I cannot stay. This evening I have a rendezvous that I must not fail to keep; that is a fact.”

“A lady ... I ask no questions. But stay as long as you can. When I was your age I did not want to be bothered with the outer world during my ’days of mystery.’ The only person I loved to speak to on such days was the woman of the moment.”

Don Mateo was silent for a while, then said in a tone of advice—

“Ah, guard yourself against the women! I should be the last man to say fly from them, for I have spent my life upon them until now. And if I had my life to live again, the hours passed with women are those I would most desire to revive. But guard yourself; guard yourself!”

Then, as though he had found a phrase that fitted exactly to his thoughts, Don Mateo added more slowly—

“There are two kinds of women that one should avoid, at all cost: those who do not love you, and those who do. Between these two extremes there are thousands of women of great charm, but we do not know how to appreciate them.”

The lunch would have been very slow indeed if the animation of Don Mateo had not replaced by a monologue the interchange of thought for thought that should have taken place. AndrÉ was mentally preoccupied, and only appeared to hear the half of what his host said to him. As the hour of his assignation drew nearer, the throbbing of his heart, as on the Carnival day, came back to him, but intensified. It was a kind of persistent appeal within him, and all thoughts save the thought of the longed-for woman were driven out of him. He would have given much for the hands of the dial near him to have pointed to the next hour, but the face of the clock was cold to his emotion, and time would no more flow than the water of a stagnant pond.

At last, almost incapable of holding his tongue any longer, he surprised his host by saying—

“Don Mateo, you have always given me the best advice. May I confide a secret to you and appeal to your advice again?”

“I am entirely yours,” replied the Spaniard, rising and making for the smoking-room.

“I would not ask any one but you,” said AndrÉ hesitatingly. “Do you know a lady of Seville named Donna Concepcion Garcia?”

Mateo leaped up, then rapidly uttered—

“Concepcion Garcia! Concepcion Garcia! But which one? Explain. There are twenty thousand Concepcion Garcias, in Spain to-day. It is a name as common as Jeanne Duval or Marie Lambert in France. For Heaven’s sake tell me what is her other name. Is it Perez, Concha Perez?”

“Yes,” said AndrÉ, completely astonished.

Then Don Mateo continued in precise tones—

“Concepcion Perez de Garcia: twenty-two, Plaza del Triunfo, eighteen years old, hair almost black, and a mouth, Heavens what a divine mouth!”

“Yes,” again answered AndrÉ.

“Ah! You have done well to mention her name. If I can stop you at the gate in this affair, it will be a good action on my part, and a piece of good luck for you!”

“Is she a girl who would go to the arms of any one?”

“No. She has had but few lovers. For these times, she is chaste and very intelligent, with wit and a knowledge of life. She dances with eloquence, speaks as well as she dances, and sings equally well. Have I said enough?”

AndrÉ could hardly get a word out before Don Mateo resumed—

“And she is the worst of women. I hope that God will never pardon her!”

AndrÉ rose as if to go.

“Nevertheless, Don Mateo, I—who am not yet able to speak of this woman as you are—I, at present, am still less able to fail to keep an assignation she has made with me. I have made you a confession, and I regret to break yours by a premature departure.” He held out his hand.

Mateo placed himself before the door.

“Hear me, I beg of you. I speak to you, man to man, and I say Stop! return as you came. Forget who you have seen, who has spoken to you and written to you. If you would know peace, calm nights and a life lacking in black care, do not approach Concha Perez! Do not approach this woman. Let me save you. Have mercy upon yourself, in fact.”

“Don Mateo. Do you then love her?...”

The Spaniard stroked his forehead, and answered—

“Oh no! I do not now love or hate. It is all over and done with, all trace effaced.”

Mateo gazed at AndrÉ, then, quite changing to a tone of banter, said—

“Besides, one should never go to the first rendezvous a woman gives one.”

“Why not?”

“Because she never comes there.”

A memory of an affair made AndrÉ smile, and admit it was often true.

“Very often. And if by chance she comes, be sure your absence will deepen her liking for you.”

A short silence came. They had reseated themselves, and Mateo said—

“Now listen, please.”

---

Three years ago I had not the grey hairs that you now see, and was thirty-seven years of age, though I felt but twenty-two. I do not know precisely when my youth passed from me, and it is hard for me to realize that it has reached its end. People have told you that I was one of the gadabouts of passion. That is false. I respected Love and I never degraded her. Scarcely ever have I caressed a woman whom I did not passionately love. If I were to name or number these loves to you you would be surprised for they were but a few. I easily remember that I have never loved a blonde. I have always ignored those pale objects of worship. What is furthermore true, is that, for me, love has not been a mere pleasure or pastime. It has been my very life. If I were to take out of my life all the thoughts and actions that had the woman for their sole end, there would remain nothing but emptiness—space. This much said, I may now recount to you what I know of Concha Perez.

I go first to three years and a half ago, and winter-time. I returned from France, a bitter cold journey too, one twenty-sixth of December, in the express that passes the bridge of the Bidassoa.

The snow, already very thick at Biarritz and Saint Sebastian, rendered almost impracticable the traversing of the Guipuzcoa. The train stopped two hours at Zumarraga, for snow to be cleared away. Later an avalanche stopped us for three hours. All night this snow trouble went on. Sounds were deadened by the fall, and so we were travelling in a silence to which danger gave a touch of grandeur.

The morning of the morrow found us at Avila. We were eight hours late, and had fasted for a day. We learnt at last that we should be “hung up” at that place four days! Do you know Avila by any chance? It is the place that they should send those people to who rave about Old Spain being dead and done with. The inn I stopped at, Don Quixote could easily have used also.

In resuming my journey I went third-class, for a change, in a compartment nearly full of Spanish women. There were really four compartments with partitions about shoulder high.

Well, we were passing the Sierra of Guadarrama, and suddenly the train stopped again. We were blocked by another avalanche. When we realized this there was a general request made to a gitana present to dance.

She did dance: a woman about thirty, of the ugly gipsy type, but she seemed to have fire in the fingers that flashed the castanets and fire in her limbs. Everyone knelt and listened, or beat time with their hands. I now noticed in the corner facing me a young girl, who was singing.

She wore a rose-coloured skirt, that made me guess she was from Andalucia—that colour-loving province.

Her shoulders and bosom were swathed in a creamy shawl, and she had a throat scarf of white foulard to protect her from the cold. The whole carriage already knew that she was trained at the Convent of San JosÉ d’Avila, was going to Madrid to find her mother, and bore the name of Concha Perez.

Her voice was singularly penetrating. She sang without moving her body about, hands in shawl, eyes closed.

The songs she was singing were not taught her by the Sisters, I can be quite sure. They were the little songs of four lines, only loved by the people. Into these quatrains they put much passion. I can hear again in memory the caress in her voice as she sang—

There followed an angry scene between her and the gipsy. They fought, but I stepped between, for I loathe to see women fighting. They do it badly and dangerously. When it was all over, a gendarme came, and after slapping Concha upon the cheeks put her in another compartment. The train now went forward again, and my companions began to sleep. The image of the little singer tormented me. Where had he put her? I leant over the barrier of my carriage, and saw that she was there, close enough to touch. She was sleeping like a tired child. I saw the closed lids, the long lashes, the little nose and two small lips, that seemed to be at one and the same time infantile and sensual. Gazing for a long time at those amazing lips, I wondered whether their dream movements were recalling the breast that nursed her or the lips of a lover.

Daylight came, and with it the end of the journey. I aided the little Concha to get together six parcels, and offered to carry them but was refused. She managed with them somehow, and ran off. I soon lost sight of her.

You see, do you not, this first meeting was insignificant, almost vague. She had interested and amused me for a little while. That was really all. Soon I ceased to think of her at all.

The following summer I found her again. In August, I was alone in my house, a house that a feminine presence had filled for years. One afternoon, bored to death, I visited the Government Tobacco Manufactory of Seville. It was a sweltering day. I entered alone, which was a favour, in this immense harem of about five thousand women-workers, of a rather free-and-easy type.

I have said the day was terribly hot? Most of the workers were half-dressed only. It was a mixed spectacle, certainly: a sort of panorama of women at all ages. I passed along, sometimes being asked for a gift, sometimes being given a cynical pleasantry. Suddenly I recognized Concha, and asked her what brought her into that place.

“Heaven knows, I have forgotten.”

“But your convent training?”

“When girls go there through the door, they leave through the window.”

“Did you?”

“I will be honest with you. I didn’t enter at all for fear of sinning. Give me a coin, and I will sing you something while the superintendent is away from here.”

Then she told me she lived with her mother, and came to the factory when in the mood. I gave her a napolÉon, and then left.

In the youth of happy men there is a moment, an instant, that chance decides. My moment came when I dropped that golden coin before that girl. It was as if I had thrown a fatal die. I date from then and there my actual life, “the life I have lived the most.” My moral ruin was then begun.

You shall know all; the actual story is simple enough, truly.

I left the State Factory, and walked slowly into the shadowless street. There she rejoined me, and said—

“I thank you; sir.”

I noted that her voice had changed. The golden gift had evoked in her the emotion that comes with the desire for wealth. She asked me to conduct her home to the Calle Manteros, quite near.

She told me she had no sweetheart, and I then replied—

“Surely, not through piety?”

“I am pious, but I haven’t taken any vows.”

Finally she said that she was virginal, and had kept herself pure.

She admitted this with such a directness, such an air, that I quite flushed and felt ill at ease. Whatever was passing in that childish-looking head, behind that face so provoking, so rebellious? What signified her decided moral attitude, her frank and, possibly, honest eye, her sensuous mouth that seemed to tempt and yet defy. All that I really knew was that she pleased me vastly, that I was enchanted to have found her again, and looked forward to finding other chances of being with her. We reached her home. Down-stairs at the doorway I bought her some mandarines. At the top floor she gave three little knocks at a door and I stood before her mother, a dark woman, who had once been beautiful.

Then began confidences; they seemed endless. The mother said she was the widow of an engineer, and told me a story I had heard elsewhere twenty times.

“Ah, Caballero, we should have been rich, we two, had we but followed evil ways. But sin has never passed the evening here!”

Conchita during this discourse was putting powder on her cheeks. She turned to me with a smile transfiguring her mouth.

Finally I laid down four banknotes and arranged that Conchita was not to return to the factory. I called again the next day. She was alone. That day she came and sat upon my knees and kissed me with her burning mouth. I left but to return, alas! not once, but twenty times more. I was in love like the youngest, the most foolish of men. You must have known such madness yourself and will understand me. Each time I left her rooms I counted the hours until the next meeting, and those hours never seemed to go. Little by little I got to pass the whole day with them, paying all the expenses and the debts too. This cost me a good deal of money. How Conchita and I talked!

But she was impenetrable, mysterious. She seemed to love me; possibly I really loved her. To-day I do not know what to think. To all my pleadings she answered merely, “Later.” That resolution I could not break. I swore to leave her and she told me to go. I threatened her, even with my violence: it left her unconcerned. When loaded with presents she accepted them upon her own terms. Nevertheless, when I entered her place, I saw a light in her eyes that was not, I believe, a feigned one.

She slept nine hours at night and had a siesta of three hours. She did nothing else. The work of the place was her mother’s affair. During one whole week she refused to get up at all. Her conception of the duties of the day was very Spanish. But I do not know from what country came her conception of love. After twelve weeks of wooing I saw in her maddening smile the same promises and certainly the same resistance.

At last, one day, I took her mother into my confidence, and confessing my love invoked her aid. After a night and a morning that were insupportable through suspense, I received a four-line letter—

“If you had loved me you would have waited. I wished to give myself to you. You have asked that I shall be sold to you. Never again shall you see me.

“Conchita.”

When I reached their rooms in Seville they had left with all their belongings.

Autumn and winter passed. Memory was pitiless to me, and I felt shattered. The months were empty. Oh, how I loved her, God of Heaven! I thought sometimes that she was trying me, testing me, to be sure of me. So be it. We met again. I was returning from the theatre, and in the Calle Trajano I heard her voice call my name. She was at a window about shoulder high from the ground, in night attire and shawled.

I gazed at her as one entranced. She held her hand to me, and I covered hand and arm with kisses. I was half insane with love. I craved for her lips only to get for answer, “Later.”

I pressed her with questions. They had been to Madrid then to Carabanchel. By economy with my money they had now rented her present place. There was enough money left to live honestly for a month.

“And after that do you seriously think I shall feel embarrassed?”

Then she paused.

“You do not understand me. I can still work at the factory, sell bananas, make bouquets, dance the Sevillana, can I not, Don Mateo?”

Then with a sigh she leant forward, and said—

“Mateo, I will be your mistress the day after to-morrow.”

“Are you sincere?”

“I have said it. Leave me, Mateo. Be not impatient or jealous.” Then she left me.

Two interminable days and nights followed. I was happy and yet suffering. A kind of troubled joy seemed to dominate every other feeling. The hour of the assignation came, and I heard her softly call, “Mateo.” We kissed passionately and a long love scene followed. Questions, protestations, appeals. To hasten over what was to me a time of great stress and strain, mental and physical, let me at once say that Concha would in reality consent to nothing but this. I might live with her, worship her, love her as fervently, truly, tenderly as I liked, but she was to be left wholly pure, utterly virginal. I endured this state of things for two weeks. Concha then borrowed from me a large sum to pay more debts, and the next day I found that mother and daughter had fled again!

It was too much to bear. I left for Madrid, and tried to get fond of an Italian dancer. I returned to Seville, then went to Granada, Cordova, JÉrez. I sought for Concha Perez. At Cadiz we met again. One evening I entered a drinking saloon. She was there dancing before sailors and fishermen. At the moment I saw her I trembled and throbbed. I must have become pale, and I felt as though I had no breath, no force, no will. I dropped down upon the seat nearest the door, and head in hands watched her. Her dance finished she came towards me. All knew her. From all sides came cries of “Conchita” that made me shudder. On all sides she cast glances. Here a smile, there a laugh, a shrug, a flower accepted, a drink sipped. She sat at my table facing me, and desired coffee.

I said in a low voice that I tried to steady—

“Then you fear nothing, Concha, not even death.”

“You would not kill me.”

“Do you dare me to.”

“Yes, here or where you will. I know you, Don Mateo, as though you were borne in my bosom nine months.”

Bitter reproaches followed, and I taunted her. She rose, furious, and, vowing by her father’s tomb that she was virtuous, left me.

After all that had happened I had three paths open before me—

To leave her for ever;

To force her to stay with me;

To take her life.

I took a fourth path. I submitted to her own way of treating me. Each evening I returned to my cozenage, looking at her, and waiting, waiting.

Little by little, I think, she was more softened towards me. It even seemed sometimes that she had not really intended me the harm that had in fact been done. But the tavern life she now made me lead did not suit me. It never has or can. The SeÑora Perez was there too.

She seemed to know nothing of what had happened. Did she lie? I heard her Memoirs once more, and paid for her glasses of Eau-de-vie.

My sole instants of joy were provided by the dances of Concha. Her triumph was the dance named The Flamenco. What a tragic dance! It is, so to speak, all passion expressed in three acts. I always see her in that dance. She was resplendent. During a month she tolerated me in what may be called the dressing-room, at the rear of the stage where the dances took place. I had not even the right to see her home; I kept my “place” near her on conditions—no reproaches as to the past or the present. As to the future I did not know anything, and had no idea whatever what would be the solution of my most pitiable adventure of body and spirit.

Then came a night when, with other dancers, she danced, with bosom bared, in a room up-stairs. There were two rich Englishmen present.

I went up to her, and said—

“Follow me. Do not be afraid. But come or beware!”

But again, she dared and defied me.

They left us alone.

“Defend yourself. Lie. You lie so well!” I cried.

“Ah,” she answered. “You accuse me. Superb! After entering here like a thief, spoiling my dance, and scaring every one away.”

The usual scene of reproach, recrimination and explanation followed. At the end I drew her on to my knees.

“Listen,” I said. “I cannot live thus. If you stay here a day longer I will indeed leave you for ever, Conchita.”

Then she protested that she loved me, and had always loved me.

Again she tamed me with her words, and the scene ended as so many had ended—in her triumph. We returned to Seville, where I took a house for her. In that house she pretended that she had a lover. It was pretence, but at last I turned and struck her in the face!

She tried to stab me but failed. Then I beat her until I hurt my own hand. On her knees she craved my pardon, and opened her arms to me. I took her. She was virginal as on the day of her birth.

AndrÉ returned to Seville. He there met Concha Perez.

As they were starting for Paris a letter came by hand addressed to her. A little later in life AndrÉ knew that the letter was as follows—

“My Conchita, I pardon you. I cannot live where you are not. Return to me. Now it is I who kneel to you. I kiss your feet.

“Mateo.”

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