The Grandee Part 32

Josefina soon forgot her fears. That ugly gentleman was not bad. She ventured to ask for water. The baron replied that the best thing she could have to strengthen her would be a gla.s.s of sherry. One was brought, and whilst the child drank it, the two champions of the legitimate king retired into a corner of the room to deliberate.

They decided that the thing to be done was to take the child to the house of the Quinones. The baron undertook to take the little creature back, and then he would tell her G.o.dmother what he thought of her; he would tell her she was an infamous woman, a vile, perverse creature, and if she dared ill-treat the poor helpless child again, he would go to her house, slit her ears, and then tie her by the hair to the tail of his horse, and so drag her through the town. Fray Diego did not agree to so much cruelty, but the baron declared that nothing would induce him to swerve from his sinister plan of making a terrible example of her.

It cost some trouble to make Josefina go with them. They only managed it by promising she should not be beaten again, and that in truth her G.o.dmother would be very kind to her for the future. That was all she wanted! And they added that if she dared touch a hair of her head, lightning of G.o.d! he would wring her neck like a chicken's! and would give her a sound whipping with his horse's bridle. And the countenance of that gentleman was so fearful as he uttered these threats that the child never doubted for an instant that they would be fulfilled.

Whilst making their way to the house of the Quinones, the baron continued to break out into insulting expressions and threats of murder against the wife of the Grandee. Fray Diego made futile attempts to calm him. But his murderous feelings had so got the upper hand, that the ex-Brother, fearing a catastrophe, left him at the door of the palace.

The baron pulled the bell. As he was not acquainted with the feudal custom of the house, he did not pull more than once, so, as he was thought to be a plebeian, the door was not opened immediately. The surprise of the servant was great when he saw that terrible senor, who inspired such respect in the town, and he hastened to ask pardon for not having admitted him more promptly. The baron asked for Don Pedro Quinones.

He was requested to enter, and the servant preceded him up the large stone staircase. On arriving at the first floor, he was asked to wait whilst he was announced.

A few minutes afterwards Amalia appeared. She cast a sharp, angry glance at the child, whom the baron held by the hand, and turning to the gentleman she said in a cold, haughty tone:

"What do you want?"

"I came to bring this child that I found in the street--and at the same time to have a few words with Don Pedro or with you."

With this last remark the baron's voice perceptibly changed.

"Do you not know me?" he added, seeing that the lady looked at him fixedly without replying.

In little places everybody knows everybody, especially persons of position, although they may not be intimate with them, but Amalia replied in a barefaced manner:

"I have not that honour."

"I am the baron de los Oscos."

The lady bowed.

"Paula," she said, turning to a servant who had entered, "take this child. And Pepe, light the lamps in the blue room."

"Senora," began the baron, "I found this child in the Sarrio road, covered with blood and contusions. I asked her who had brought her to that pa.s.s, and she told me that it was her G.o.dmother. I cannot believe it."

"Then you can believe it, for it is true," said Amalia interrupting him.

The baron stopped speechless and confused. Then he continued:

"It is possible that you had some reason for punis.h.i.+ng her, but I am deeply sorry."

Here Amalia again interrupted him:

"And I am sorry that you are sorry."

"My object in coming here," said the baron, who was fast losing his aplomb, "was to warn you, was to beg you--as I have been told you have had the charity to take this foundling--to continue the good work by protecting, sheltering and educating her, and when it is necessary to punish her will you do so with kindness, for the poor little creature is delicate and weak, and the blows might put an end to her life."

"Is this all you have to say to me?" asked the lady, coldly.

The dreadful face of the baron contorted suddenly on hearing this question; his eyes flashed, the deep wound stood out on his face by reason, no doubt, of his great internal emotion. Formidable sounds were heard in his throat, low rumblings presaged a coming storm. But those noises finally calmed down, the signs of disturbance ceased, and instead of the crater giving forth, as it was feared, a stream of burning lava, rocks, and ashes, it only weakly emitted the two words:

"Yes, senora."

"Very well, then. I take this opportunity of bidding you welcome to the house in the name of Quinones and myself."

At the same time she pulled the bell rope and rose from her seat. The baron also rose muttering words of thanks and proffers of service.

"Pepe, take the senor baron down."

He made a profound reverence, which Amalia returned in a lesser degree, and the gentleman turned on his heels and left. As he descended the staircase quite nonplussed, his face on fire, and his eyes aflame, it was a great relief to think of the drawing and quartering, the loss of eyes, the horse's tail and other fearful punishments of the Visigoth epoch, to which the senora belonged by virtue of her barbarous behaviour and her cruel, arrogant spirit.

CHAPTER XIII

THE MARTYRDOM

Scarcely had the door been shut behind the baron when Amalia had the child brought into her presence.

"Come here, senorita, come here! We have not seen each other for some time! How have you spent it? Have you got on well? The baron is very gallant with ladies, is he not?"

The child uttered a sharp cry.

"Oh! my ear!"

"Go on your knees, you grub! Ah! Then does all I have done for you count for nothing? Are you going to show your teeth before you have finished sucking? On your knees, you little rogue! You bad girl!"

Josefina fell in a heap in a corner of the room. Amalia kept her burning gaze fixed upon her for some time. At last, removing her eyes from her, she asked Concha and Paula, who had brought the child in, how she came to escape. The coachman was to blame. Then ensued strong language against the coachman, who was said to be drunk, and with threats of his dismissal if such an act of carelessness occurred again. Then followed many remarks upon the baron's appearance. What was that brute doing at such an hour in the Sarrio road? Who was the cleric who was with him?

After these came a very sad survey of the ingrat.i.tude and naughtiness of the child who fled from the house which had given her shelter and made her protectors a laughing-stock. The servants agreed that she deserved a very sharp punishment. The lady then dismissed them, and stopped them with an imperious gesture when they were going to take the child. Once alone, Amalia took a book and began to read quietly by the light of a lamp, whilst the child, on its knees in the darkest corner, sobbed bitterly. Three or four times she raised her head and darted an angry glance at the dark corner, expecting a louder groan from the child so that she could spring upon her. An hour went by--an hour and a half. At last she shut the book, went out, and returned in a few minutes. She began slowly to undress. When half undressed she took the lamp, and approaching the child, obliged her to get up, when she conducted her to the bed, and showing her the floor, she said:

"This is your bed. You will sleep here in your clothes."

When she had finished undressing, the child said in a weak voice:

"Forgive me, G.o.dmother, I won't do it again."

But these words fell on deaf ears, and she got into bed and put out the light.

Her eyes remained open in the darkness. The hours chiming their quarters and their halves in a melancholy tone from the clock of the neighbouring cathedral did not close them. They were like two mysterious lamps, only giving light within as they illuminated a thousand sinister and tormenting ideas. Dark thoughts and fierce desires crowded and pressed under that low forehead. She considered the marriage of Luis an abominable treachery. Without recollecting her own want of honour towards the poor old paralysed man G.o.d had given her for a husband, nor thinking how her sin had spoilt the life of the count, threatened to die in solitude, without family ties to cheer his latter days, she made him entirely accountable for the wrong, and for all the bitterness she was now feeling in losing the only pleasure that had brightened her gloomy, monotonous existence. The only pleasure. Her love did not deserve any other name. In that ardent, despotic, restless spirit there had never been a question of tenderness. She was completely ignorant of the delicious, poetic thoughts that enn.o.ble a pa.s.sion and make it pardonable. Her life had been pa.s.sed in insane excitement, tormented by the idea of being happy at all costs. She had lived for the last seven years under the sway of her licentious, insatiable pa.s.sion. Never did a melancholy thought of remorse bear witness in that depravity to a single moral sentiment. Her thirst for pleasure drove her into a thousand extravagant and dangerous courses. She was not contented with gathering under her roof all the youth of Lancia and dancing occasionally as a condescension, but she required for her enjoyment company every day, picnics, masquerades, &c., and she liked to dance until she nearly fell with exhaustion, like a country la.s.s of fifteen summers. She found it necessary to contrive secret interviews with her lover at most extraordinary hours, and on most unheard of occasions. Her ungovernable pa.s.sion led her to defy public opinion, and delight in making light of precaution. If the count gave her a word of warning, she flew into a rage. She lost more than he did. Slander never hurts the man, but only the woman, who has to bear all the disgrace. But she went into fits of laughter at the thoughts of slander or disgrace. If she were at all put out, she was quite capable of proclaiming her sin in Altavilla when there was a gathering of people. The count got more and more alienated from this woman, who upset all his moral, theological, and social ideas, and finally inspired him with dread. This turned to terror and insufferable foreboding, that made him long for his liberty, especially after Amalia smilingly made a certain revelation to him.

"Do you know, dear," she said, "I nearly did such a mad thing this morning. Quinones sent me to pour out his drops of a.r.s.enic that he has taken for some time. I took up the bottle quickly and, as if pushed by the elbow by an invisible hand, I poured half of the contents into the gla.s.s. Don't tremble, coward, for there was no motive in the matter. I never felt anything like it. I swear to you that my will was not party to it. I was controlled by a superior will which strove to overpower mine. I put the gla.s.s upon the table, looked at it for an instant, and held it up to the light. There was nothing, not the slightest sign to denote that it was an instrument of death. I put it on the tray and walked with it towards the library without considering what I was doing.

But suddenly in the pa.s.sage I came to myself like awakening from a nightmare. I suddenly saw the blunder I was going to make, and I let the gla.s.s fall on the ground."

"It was not a blunder, it was a horrible crime you were about to commit," said the count angrily, as a sweat of horror came over him.

"Very well, crime or blunder, or whatever it was, it was stupid in every way, you know, for one would see by the symptoms that it was a question of poison."

Those words, uttered in a tone of a.s.sumed levity, made more impression on the count than any former ones, and henceforth he could not go near her without experiencing a strange feeling of repugnance.

Her youth pa.s.sed, but she paid no attention to the fact until the arrival of Fernanda. Having no rivals in Lancia, her carelessness of her personal appearance daily increased, and she completely lost the subtle coquetry by which women perpetuate the charm of their person. It was only the sight of the splendid beauty of the daughter of Estrada-Rosa that made her give a thought to herself. She then began to think about the adornment of herself. She procured all kinds of cosmetics, she sent for dresses to Madrid, and availed herself of all the arts of elegance.