The Grandee Part 27

"I don't want to, I don't want to," she doggedly returned.

"It is certainly a shame to cut such beautiful hair," said one of the girls who was ironing.

"What do you mean, child? An order is an order."

And taking hold of one of the precious curls of hair, she cut it off with the scissors.

"Leave go, Paula!" cried the child, "I am going to tell G.o.dmother."

"Yes, precious, go and tell your G.o.dmother, indeed? All right, you shall tell her when it is done."

And paying no further heed to her protestations, and letting the words fall on deaf ears, she went on with the task quite undisturbed. But the child got down again, angry and furious. Then Paula called the sempstress Concha to her a.s.sistance, and she held her down on the chair until she was despoiled of every one of her curls, after which they arranged what was left as best they could.

"What a pity!" said the laundress again.

"It is not so bad, child," returned Paula, combing it with admiration.

At that moment the senora appeared at the door of the room.

"G.o.dmother! come G.o.dmother! Look, Paula and Concha have cut my hair."

Amalia advanced some steps, avoiding the child's gaze, fixed her stern eyes upon her head and said in an imperious and cold tone:

"That is not right. Shave it off."

And she went away with a frowning brow, whilst Josefina, astonished, followed her with her eyes. Never had she seen her G.o.dmother so cold and stern. She was sad and thoughtful, and remained thus without making the slightest movement, until Paula had accomplished her task.

The little head was soon as smooth as a melon. The servants shouted with laughter.

"Child of my soul! what have they been doing to you?" exclaimed Maria, the ironer, with a tone of regret, although she could not repress a smile.

"Don't say that, woman," retorted Concha with a shade of bitterness.

"Yes, she does look ridiculous."

She was a woman of five-and-twenty or more, extremely small, almost as small as Josefina, with sharp, keen eyes, and all the servants were afraid of her.

Paula laughed too and pa.s.sed her hand over the little creature's head.

"When we want a jar for the vinegar we shall know where to go for it,"

continued Concha.

The wave of pity pa.s.sed away. Guessing that the child had fallen into disgrace, the servants became quite facetious, exchanging jokes which were not pretty, but which made them nearly die of laughter. Josefina remained with her head down, quiet and silent. Then the jokes began to take effect, and two tears dropped from her long eyelashes.

"Crying for your little wig? What a shame to hurt her! It is not your fault, but theirs who brought you up like a princess, when you are only like us, and less than us," she added in a low tone, "for we have got fathers."

"Come, Concha, drop that! Don't fret the little monkey, you will soon have fresh hair," said Maria, in a maternal tone.

The child, touched by the kindness, began to sob and left the room.

When she entered the drawing-room in the evening like that, the count could not repress a gesture of anger, and cast an interrogative glance at Amalia, who replied to the gesture and look with a provoking smile.

And in a loud voice she said that the child's hair had been cut by her orders, for she had noticed that she was beginning to be vain. It is so!

and people flatter her so much that she has become unmanageable.

The count, enraged, immediately took the opportunity of repairing to Fernanda's side, where he renewed the conversation of the previous evening. The two were loquacious and affectionate. Fernanda related her life in Paris with no lack of details; and Luis was particularly expansive, not hiding the cheerfulness of his heart, and talking with animation in spite of Amalia's angry glance fixed upon him. During a pause, Fernanda raised her smiling eyes to her _ex-fiance_ and asked him, but not without a slight blush:

"Don't you know why the child's hair has been cut?"

The count looked at her without replying.

"Because I praised it yesterday, and allowed myself to kiss it."

It was the first time that Fernanda took his secret for granted. He felt a great shock; his face grew red, and so did hers. For some time neither of them could speak.

During the following days the count often walked down the Calle de Altavilla, and he spent a great deal of time in the Cafe de Maranon.

Lancian society was moved to its very foundation at such an important turn of events, and henceforth he was an object of interest to three hundred pairs of eyes. He gave up going every day to the Quinones'

house, and went occasionally to the de Meres' little party, as it continued to be called in Lancia, although only one of the old ladies was now left in this world. Carmelita had died at least three years ago.

Only Nuncia the youngest was left, and she was quite paralytic. From the armchair to the bed, and from the bed to the armchair was all that she could manage with great difficulty. She was also deprived of moral support, as in her sister she lost her protector from impulse. Since she was buried there was no one to keep her in order. With the sudden promotion to the category of persons _sui juris_, the poor "child" was a prey to great distress, everything worried her, everything was an insuperable difficulty. Those sharp scoldings had been less overwhelming to her, for if they had caused tears, they had been salutary in checking her juvenile ebullitions, and so prevented the fatal consequences attending her inexperience. Her guests were a few youths, and several young men of our acquaintance, with a sufficient number of graceful, pretty damsels who came to the house on the look out for a husband. For the "child," in this, and in every respect, kept up religiously the traditions bequeathed by her sister. She was the firm protector of all the courts.h.i.+ps that arose in Lancia, however ill-advised they might be.

The little house of the Calle del Carpio continued to be the forge, where the conjugal happiness of the worthy neighbours of Lancia was forged. The most constant visitor was Paco Gomez, because the house of the Quinones was closed to him in consequence of one of his remarks. A certain stranger meeting him in Altavilla with a few others asked him how the Grandee came to be paralysed.

"He is not really paralysed," returned Paco, for he is not disabled at all, only his legs can't put up with all the heraldry stuff that he has got in his head, and so they double up rather than take a step.

This came to Quinones' ears through a traitor, and he gave orders he was henceforth not to be received. He was the soul and the delight of the "child's" party, and the incessant way he made fun of Nuncita kept all the guests in a fit of laughter.

"I say, Nuncita, look! Don't talk too much, for do you know I saw your leg, and--and--and----"

The poor octogenarian blushed like a girl of fifteen. Nothing could have confused her more than this inopportune reference to the afternoon of the swing. Luis and Fernanda took to seeing each other there once or twice a week. Away from the angry eyes of Amalia, the count found it very pleasant, and he recovered his serenity of mind. They had long talks in a low voice without being disturbed by anybody. On the contrary the "child" took good care to give them room and opportunity.

Nevertheless, he still visited at the Quinones' house, and he saw Amalia secretly when she demanded it, but he was evidently colder and more distant. She was perfectly aware of the change, but she did not show her colours, and she did not mention his _ex-fiancee_. However, one day she could not help doing so.

"I know that you spend a great deal of time at the de Meres' talking with Fernanda."

He denied it in a cowardly fas.h.i.+on.

"Take care what you do," she continued, fixing her eyes on him, "for treachery may cost you dear."

He was so accustomed to the dominion of this terrible woman that the words sent a chill through him, as if some misfortune were hanging over his head. But when he came out into the street, away from the magnetic influence of those eyes that upset him, he was conscious of an impotent feeling of rage. "Why, after all, should she threaten me? Is she my wife? What right has she to me? What we are doing is a grave sin, it is a crime. Who can deprive me of repentance, of reconciling myself with G.o.d and being good?" Repentance had latterly been to him a vague desire due to his love being on the wane, and to his great fear of h.e.l.l. Now it had changed into a real wish. Certainly it offered several attractions.

He would renounce the sin bravely, purify himself, free himself from eternal fire--and then have Fernanda.

For some time past there had been only one bright spot in his criminal connection with Amalia--and that was Josefina. This little creature, white and silent as a snow-drop, sweet as a lily with the innocence of a dove, and the tender melancholy of a moonlight night, was like a delicious, refres.h.i.+ng balsam to his soul--a prey to remorse. How often, when holding her in his arms, he had asked with surprise how such an innocent, pure, divine being could be the child of sin. But that same child caused him fresh cruel torments. Never to see her alone, from day to day, to be obliged to hide his affection for her, to have to kiss her coldly like the others, and more coldly than the others, not to be able to call her the child of his heart, not to hear her lisp the tender name of father, sometimes saddened him to a point of despair. On one or two occasions he had been allowed to take her to the Grange. Then he pa.s.sed hours in ecstasy, holding her on his knees, and caressing her pa.s.sionately.

The child had become accustomed to these violent expressions of affection and she liked them. Sometimes she felt her fair head wet with the tears of her friend. Raising her eyes in surprise she would see him smile, then smiling too, she would reach up her coral lips for a kiss.

"Why are you crying, Luis? Have you a pimple?"

Josefina knew no more serious reason in the world for crying. She loved Luis dearly, and his general coldness saddened and surprised her. By degrees she had come to understand with precocious instinct, that the count loved her more than the others did, but he had to hide his feelings. So she, following his example, also adopted an indifferent manner with him when in public. But when they were alone, she reciprocated his expressions of affection with equal enthusiasm, and this without knowing why, without accounting to herself for what she did.

From the day her G.o.dmother ordered her hair to be cut, Josefina noticed that she had fallen into disgrace. She was not now kissed with transports of delights, her slightest wishes were not acceded to, and she was no longer the constant source of interest in the house.

Amalia took to scolding her, using a cold, displeased tone towards her, and the servants followed the example of the senora. The poor child, without knowing what the change signified, felt her little heart sink, she explored the faces of those about her with her beautiful deep eyes, and tried to decipher the enigma that they hid. She became daily more grave, more retiring, more timid. And as she found she was denied the toys or the sweetmeats that they used to lavish upon her open-handed, she left off asking for them.