ONE morning Quentin met Juan, the gardener.

“You don’t come to the house any more, Se?orito.”

“I’ve had lots to do these days.”

“Have you heard the important news?”

“What is it?”

“The Se?orita is going to be married.”

“Rafaela?”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“To Juan de Dios.”

Quentin felt as if all his nerves had let go at once.

“The Marquis is getting worse every day,” the gardener continued, “so he thought the Se?orita ought to get married as soon as possible.”

“And she.... What does she say?”

“Nothing, at present.”

“But will she oppose it?”

“How do I know?”

“Are the family affairs in such bad shape that the Marquis was forced to take this course?”

“They are very bad. The grandfather hasn’t much longer to live; the Se?orita’s father is a profligate; and El Pollo Real doesn’t care to do anything at all. To whom will they leave the girls? Their stepmother, La[164] Aceitunera, is no good. Have you ever heard of a Se?ora Patrocinio who has a house in Los Tejares? Well, she goes there every day. Why, it’s a shame.”

“And this Juan de Dios ... is he rich?” asked Quentin.

“Very; but he is very coarse. When he was a little boy he used to say: ‘I want to be a horse,’ and he used to go out to the stable, pick up some filth in his hands, and say to the people, ‘Look, look what I did.’”

“He is coarse, then—eh?”

“Yes; but he’s got noble blood in him.”

Quentin left Juan and went home perplexed. Indubitably, he was no B?otian, but a vulgar sentimentalist, a poor cadet, an unhappy wretch, without strength enough to set aside, as useless and prejudicial, those gloomy ideas and sentiments: love, self-denial, and the rest.

And he had thought himself an Epicurean! One of the few men capable of following the advice of Horace: “Pluck today’s flower, and give no thought to the morrow’s!” He! In love with a young lady of the aristocracy; not for her money, nor even for her palace; but for her own sake! He was on a level with any romantic carpenter of a provincial capital. He was unworthy of having been in Eton, near Windsor, for eight years; or of having walked through Piccadilly; or of having read Horace.

In the miserable state in which Quentin found himself, only nonsensical ideas occurred to him. The first was to go to Rafaela and demand an explanation; the second was to write her a letter; and he was as pleased with this idiotic plan as if it had been really brilliant. He made several rough drafts in succession, and was satis[165]fied with none of them. Sometimes his words were high-sounding and emphatic; again, he unwittingly gave a clumsy and vulgar tone to his letter: one could read between the lines a common and uncouth irony, as often as extraordinary pride, or abject humility.

At last, seeing that he could not find a form clear enough to express his thoughts, he decided to write a laconic letter, asking Rafaela to grant him an interview.

He gave Juan the letter to give to his young mistress. He was waiting at the door for some one to answer his ring, when Remedios appeared.

“See here,” said the child.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t you know? Rafaela is going to marry Juan de Dios.”

“Does she love him?”

“No; I don’t think she does.”

“Then why does she marry him?”

“Because Juan de Dios is very rich, and we have no money.”

“But will she want to do it?”

“She hasn’t said anything about it. Juan de Dios spoke to grandfather, and grandfather spoke to Rafaela. Are you going to see sister?”

“Yes, this very minute.”

“She’s in the sewing-room.”

They went to the door.

“Tell her not to marry Juan de Dios.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“No. I hate him. He’s vulgar.”

Quentin went in, glided along the gallery, and knocked upon the door of the sewing-room.

“Come in!” said some one.[166]

Rafaela and the old woman servant were sewing. As Quentin appeared a slight flush spread over the girl’s cheeks.

“What a long time it is since you have been here!” said Rafaela. “Won’t you sit down?”

Quentin gave her to understand with a gesture that he preferred to remain standing.

“Have you been so very busy?” asked the girl.

“No; I’ve had nothing to do,” answered Quentin gruffly. “I’ve spent my time being furious these days.”

“Furious! At what?” said she with a certain smiling coquetry.

“At you.”

“At me?”

“Yes. Will you let me speak to you alone a minute?”

“You may speak here, before my nurse. She will defend me in case you accuse me of anything.”

“Accuse you? No, not that.”

“Well, then, why were you so furious?”

“I was furious, first because they told me that you once had a sweetheart whom you loved; and second, because they say that you are going to get married.”

Rafaela, who perhaps did not expect such a brus............