Upon the table before him was the liste rose of an hotel; and among the names of dukes and marquises could be seen: “Quentin García Roelas, Deputy, Madrid.” This made Quentin smile as at the memory of a childish vanity.
Quentin’s face had changed, especially as to expression; he was no longer a boy; a few wrinkles furrowed his forehead, and crows’ feet were beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. For six years the quondam dare-devil had displayed a tireless activity. He went from triumph to triumph. During Amadeo’s reign, he had made his father a marquis; he had amassed a considerable fortune by his operations in the Bourse; and if his political position was not greater, it was because he was keeping quiet, waiting for an Alphonsist or Carlist situation.
And yet, in spite of his successes and his triumphs, his heart was empty. He was thirty-two years old. He could continue the brilliant career he had won for himself, could become a minister, and enter aristocratic[344] society; but all this held no enchantment for him. In the bottom of his heart he realized that he was growing ill-natured. Biarritz bored him frightfully.
“Perhaps the best thing for me to do would be to take an extended voyage,” he thought.
With this idea in mind he got up from his chair, left the Casino, and went for a walk along the beach. He was standing near the Place Bellevue watching the sea, when he heard a voice that made him tremble.
It was Rafaela, Rafaela herself, with two children clinging to her hands, and another carried by a nurse and protected by a parasol. Quentin went over to her.
They greeted each other emotionally.
Rafaela was scarcely recognizable; she had taken on flesh and looked extremely healthy; she dressed very elegantly. The only thing that she retained of her former appearance was her sweet, gentle eyes, clear and blue. Her smile was now motherly.
Rafaela and Quentin talked for a long time. She told him of her great grief over the illness of her children. One had died; fortunately the other two children had become stronger, thanks to the open air; and the little girl, the baby at breast, promised to be very strong.
“And Remedios?” asked Quentin.
“Remedios!” exclaimed Rafaela. “You don’t know how provoked I am with her.”
“Why?”
“Because she has an impossible nature. She will not yield to anything.”
“Yes, even as a child one could see that she had a will of her own.”
“Well, she has a much greater one now. She has[345] hated my husband and my mother-in-law from the very first; and they have done all in their power to please her and spoil her ... but no.”
“She is terrible,” said Quentin with a smile.
“We wanted to bring her here, and then to Paris; but at the last minute she refused to come. Then, you see, she is twenty-two years of age, and most attractive; she could marry very easily, for she has suitors,—rich boys with titles; but she will have none of them. She has too much heart. I tell her that one cannot be like that in life; one must conceal one’s antipathies, and moderate one’s affections, somewhat.... Doing as Remedios does exposes one to much suffering.”
“And yet, isn’t it almost better to deceive one’s self than to find out the truth, at the cost of withering one’s heart little by little?”
“I think it is better to know the truth, Quentin.”
“I don’t know about that. You are as discreet as ever, Rafaela.”
“No, I am much more practical than I was. But you, too, have lost something.”
“It’s true,” said Quentin with a sigh.
At this moment an elegantly dressed gentleman, with a white waistcoat and grey gloves, presented himself.
“Don’t you know each other? My husband ... Quentin, our relative.”
The two men shook hands, and they and Rafaela sat down upon a rock while the children played in the sand. Quentin was astonished at the change in Juan de Dios. The rude, coarse lad had been metamorphosed into a correct and polished gentleman with Parisian manners. There was no reminder of the Cordovese gawk.[346]
Juan de Dios spoke pleasantly; Quentin could see that he was dominated by his wife, because every minute or two he glanced at her as if begging her approval of what he was saying. She encouraged him with a gesture, with a look, and he continued. He spoke of the situation into which the Republicans had led Spain, of the factious parties that were organizing on the frontier....
Quentin did not listen to him, as he was thinking about Remedios; that little wilful child, so big-hearted, who despised her suitors. In the midst of their chat, he asked Rafaela:
“Where is Remedios now?”
“On one of our farms, near Montoro.”
“I’m going to write to her.”
“Yes, do,” said Rafaela; “you don’t know how happy she would be. She attaches great importance to those matters. She thinks of you very often. She has read every one of the speeches you made in the Cortes.”
“Really?” asked Quentin with a laugh.
“Yes, really,” replied Juan de Dios.
“What address shall I put on the letter?”
“Just Maillo Farm, Montoro.”
Quentin waited a moment while he formulated a plan; then he exchanged a few phrases of farewell with Rafaela and her husband, and went to his hotel. He had decided to take the train and go in search of Remedios. Why not attempt it? Perhaps she had thought about him since childhood. Perhaps that was why she rejected her suitors.
Yes, he must try it. He ordered his baggage packed, boarded the train, and in a few moments got off at San Juan de Luz.[347]
“There’s no sure way of crossing to Burgos without getting into trouble,” they told him at the station.
“What can I do?”
“Take ship to Santander, and go from there to Madrid by rail.”
He did this, and the next day, without stopping, he took the train for Andalusia.
He descended at Montoro in the morning, hired a horse, asked the direction of the Maillo farm, and immediately left town.
It was a foggy October day. It began to sprinkle.
Eight years before Quentin had come to that country on his return from school, on a morning that was also drizzly and sad.
What a wealth of energy and life he had spent since then! True, he had conquered, and was on the road to being a somebody, but—what a difference between the triumph as he had looked forward to it, and the same triumph as he looked back upon it! It was best not to remember, nor to think—but just to hope.
Ahead of him, along the misty horizon, he could see a line of low convex hills. Quentin had been told that he must go toward them, and in that direction he went at the slow pace of his horse. The road wound in and out, tracing curves in the level country between fields of stubble.
Here and there yokes of huge oxen tilled the dark soil; magpies skimmed along the ground; and overhead, flocks of birds like triangles of black dots, flew screeching by.
At this point a man mounted on a horse appeared in the road. He carried a long pike, with the point up and the butt supported by his stirrup, like a lance. He[348] signalled Quentin to get to one side of the road. As he did so, several bulls and bell-oxen rushed past. Behind them rode two garrochistas or bull-stickers on horseback, each with a pike held in the middle and balanced horizontally.
“The peace of God be with you, Se?ores,” said Quentin.
“Good morning, caballero.”
“Am I taking the right direction for the Maillo farm?”
“Sí, Se?or; you are right.”
“Thanks very much.”
Quentin continued his way. Just before he reached the somewhat hilly country, a farmhouse appeared before his eyes. He went up to it, riding his horse across a red field which had been converted into a mud-hole by the rain.
“Hey!” he shouted.
An old man appeared in the doorway; he wore a pair of black leather overalls adorned with white bands, and fastened at the knee by clasps.
“Is this the Maillo farm?” asked Quentin.
“No, Se?or. This is the Las Palomas farm, which is owned by the same man. Do you see that hill with the trees on it? When you pass that you can see the farm.”
Quentin thanked him and urged on his horse. A drizzly rain was falling. Among the distant trees, which were yellow and nearly bare of leaves, flowed a bluish mist.
From the top of the hill he could see an enormous valley divided into rectangular fields; some still covered with stubble, others black with recently tilled soil,[349] and some that were beginning to turn green. In the middle of it all, like dark and barren islands, were small hills covered with olive orchards; in the distance horses were grazing in huge pastures.
Quentin had stopped for a moment on the top of the hill, hesitating, not knowing which road to take, when he heard behind him a tinkling of bells, and then a voice shouting:
“Arre, Liviano! Arre, Remendao!”
It was a youth mounted on the haunches of a donkey, with his feet nearly touching the ground, and leading an ass laden with a pannier by the halter.
“The Maillo farm?” asked Quentin.
“Are you going there? So am I.”
The boy began to talk, and chatting like old friends, they reached the farm. It was a huge place, with a very large fence that enclosed all the departments and apparatus of the house. Inside was a chapel with a cross and weather-vane.
“Who can tell me where Se?orita Remedios is?” asked Quentin.
“Call the manager.”
The manager was not in, and he had to wait. At last a man of some forty years came toward him; he was powerfully built, and round-faced. Learning Quentin’s wishes, he pointed to a garden with a little gate at one end of it. Quentin knocked, the gate was opened to him, and an old woman appeared on the threshold.
“Is Se?orita Remedios in?”
“It’s you!” exclaimed the old woman. “How glad the child will be! Come in, come in!”
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