"Will the babbler never cease?" murmured Valero.

"All right, Saleta; you must tell us this story by day, at night such things are rather boring," said the Chatterbox intervening and winking at the others. "What we have to think of now, Amalia, is what is to be done with the baby."

The lady shrugged her shoulders with indifference.

"I don't know. We will leave her here to-night, and to-morrow we will look for a nurse for her, for it is really quite an upset."

"If you do not care about keeping her in the house, I shall be very pleased to take charge of her, Amalia," said Maria Josefa, who had stood a little apart cooing to the baby to keep it quiet.

"I did not say that I did not wish to," returned the lady, somewhat sharply. "I will take the child, because it concerns me more than anybody, since it is confided to my care. But, as you can understand, before doing so I must consult my husband."

The guests greeted these words with a murmur of approbation.

Just at that moment Manin appeared, to ask the meaning of all the excitement. It was explained to him. Then the Senor de Quinones had himself brought back into the drawing-room in his wheeled chair; and when he saw the baby, he at once interested himself in her behalf.

He immediately declared she should not leave the house, and he told a servant to find a nurse in the morning. In the meanwhile the little creature had a little milk and tea in a flask with an india-rubber top; and it was then enveloped in better wraps. The guests watched these operations with the keenest interest. The ladies uttered cries of enthusiasm, and their eyes overflowed with tears when they saw the eager way the baby sucked the top of the bottle.

When all was done, they said good-bye again; but they did not leave without each one pressing a kiss on the cheeks of the poor little foundling baby.

All this time the Conde de Onis did not open his lips. He stood in the third or fourth row, following with eager eyes all the attention and care bestowed upon the infant. But when he was about to depart without again taking leave, Amalia stopped him with an audacity which almost petrified him.

"What is this, count? Do you not wish to kiss my charge?"

"I, yes, Senora."

This was the finishing stroke. And pale and trembling he approached, and put his lips on the little creature's forehead, whilst the lady watched him with a provoking triumphant smile.

CHAPTER III

THE TOWN

This was the third night that the Conde de Onis could hardly close his eyes. Nothing was more natural than that he should be agitated and feverish the last two nights; but now, wherefore? All had happened as it had been arranged. The undertaking had succeeded well, he had nothing to do but sleep on his triumph. But it was not so. In spite of his strong robust figure, the Conde had an excessively nervous and impressionable temperament. The slightest emotion upset him and excited him to an indescribable extent. Such intense sensibility was the result of heredity as well as education. His father, Colonel Campo, had been a self-centred sensitive man, of such keen susceptibility that he was quite a martyr to it the last years of his life. Everybody in Lancia recollected the interesting touching episode which closed the life of the single-minded gentleman.

The colonel had had to send forces to defend a place in Peru during the insurrection of the American colonists; but the place was taken by surprise in an underhand way. By a false report the colonel was accused of treachery before the Government at Madrid, it being a.s.serted that he had been in collusion with the enemy. With severe precipitancy, without impartial evidence of the facts, and without taking into consideration the Conde of Onis' brilliant career in the Service, the king deprived him of his commission, and all the crosses and decorations in his possession. The punctilious old soldier was completely crushed by this unexpected blow. His comrades s.n.a.t.c.hed the pistol from him just when he attempted his life. Accompanied by a faithful attendant, he left Madrid and came to Lancia, where his wife and son of tender age were awaiting him. The family life was a sedative for the wounded heart of the soldier. But the brave man who had so often defied death, had not the courage to face the curious eyes of his fellow-citizens. Instead of rebelling against the injustice that had been done him, instead of trying to convince his compatriots of his innocence, which would not have been very difficult, as they all esteemed his character, and knew his bravery, he was so conscious of his disgrace that he avoided the sight of people and retired to his house, and he never walked farther than the garden at the back of the house, bounded by high, crumbling walls.

The palace of the Counts of Onis deserves especial mention in this story. It was a very old building; some remains of the original edifice which were still extant, were the oldest part of the town. Nothing else was saved from the dreadful fire which destroyed the city in the fourteenth century. It was more like a fortress than a mansion. There were a few narrow windows fitted with stone columns, scattered capriciously over the facade, a bare stone wall blackened by time, with several square holes like ventilators near the roof, and a large door in the middle studded with heavy nails. Inside it was immense, and more cheerful. The courtyard was broader than the street.

The sun came in at the window at the back at midday, and its rays were tempered by the branches of the garden-trees which formed a pleasant curtain.

There was a great deal of mystery and enchantment about this old house for the Lancians, who were endowed with imagination; more especially for the children, who are the only beings who are open to weird fancies in this prosaic age.

The facade, if such a name can be given to the aforesaid wall, faced the Calle de la Misericordia, one of the most central streets of the town.

One of the windows, perchance the largest, overlooked the Calle de Cerrajerias, and from it could be seen the cathedral in the distance.

Here it was that the ex-colonel buried himself; for neither the entreaties of his wife nor the few relations who came to see him, prevailed on him to change his habits.

But his retirement was useful to the house, for he put the garden in order, had balconies placed at the back of the house, furnished various rooms, had the courtyard paved, &c.

Thus, without losing its character of mystery, the dismal old house was transformed into a pleasanter abode.

But the old soldier having fallen into disgrace, seemed to wither up within its walls like a tree in want of air and water.

A profound melancholy sapped his const.i.tution: his skin became wrinkled, his hair turned white, his legs grew feeble, and his hands shaky.

At fifty-eight he looked as old as if he were seventy, but this change was unnoticed in the house.

He glided about the corridors like a ghost. Whole days went by without any one hearing the sound of his voice. But he was not disagreeable to anybody, and there was a sweet pleasant smile always on his lips.

He never courted caresses from his child, but when he met him by chance in the pa.s.sages he would lay his hand on his head, kiss him fondly, murmur tender words in his ear, and then turn away, sometimes with tears in his eyes. He thought it a blot on the life of that little boy, ruddy and beautiful as a cherubim, to have been born of a disgraced father, and the unhappy man seemed to ask his pardon for his existence. It was the year 1829; four years had elapsed since the colonel arrived from America, and he looked a very spectre. He slept well, ate well, and nothing seemed to worry him; but his life seemed slipping away, in a slow but sure consumption. His wife sent for a doctor, and then another and another. But they all said the same: it was necessary for him to amuse himself and to a.s.sociate with people. And these were just the particular remedies which the count declined to adopt. By degrees he stayed longer in bed, he rose later, and retired to rest earlier. He lost all inclination to work in the garden, never went outside the four walls of the house, and indoors he gave up looking after the things which used to interest him, being generally handy, such as attending to the aviary and other manual occupations. The few hours that were not pa.s.sed in bed were spent in an armchair, or in walking through the corridors in silence, until at last he left off getting up altogether.

Luis recollected all this perfectly. When he used to go into his father's apartments he saw him with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and an expression of terrible distress upon his face. He would turn his head when his son entered the room, smile, call him to him by signs, and after giving him a kiss would seem to want him to go.

One day the boy saw much coming and going in the house; the servants were running about in distress, exchanging rapid words with each other.

The few available friends and relations were summoned, and frightened the child by their long faces. On entering his father's room he saw that an altar was being erected. Having been placed in a corner by one of the servants, he was told not to be afraid, but his father was about to confess, and partake of the Holy Communion when the Divine Majesty would be present. The injunction not to be frightened, which was repeated several times, produced a contrary effect. The boy understood that something serious was going on. In fact, the Count of Onis was dying; he was certainly taking his departure, as his relations said. The doctor said he was to be prepared.... At six o'clock in the evening the doors of the palace of Onis were thrown open to receive the priest, who had come in the carriage of the house bearing the Sacred Host. The servants and relations were waiting in the doorway with lighted torches. A large file of people of all cla.s.ses, also bearing lights, came behind. Many of them came out of real regard and devotion for the patient; but the majority came out of curiosity to see one who had lived so long apart from the world under such solemn, critical circ.u.mstances.

All those that wished to, came right into the presence of the dying man.

No obstacle was put in anybody's way, so a strange and motley crowd filled the count's room: well-to-do people, poor people, and children, were all anxious to see the fallen man, now that he was about to fall into the dark bosom of death, the oblivion of eternity. The dean of the cathedral, his friend and confessor, approached with the elevated Host.

The people present fell on their knees, a solemn silence reigned. At that moment the sick man, who had been propped up in bed, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to the kneeling a.s.sembly:

"I swear by the Sacramental G.o.d about to enter my body, that I have never been a traitor to my country, and that in the American war I always behaved like a loyal and honourable gentleman."

His voice, which appeared to come from a corpse, sounded clear and sharp in the room. There was a repressed murmur among the people. The dean, with tears in his eyes, replied:

"Blessed are those that hunger and thirst after righteousness;" and he put the blessed Sacrament in the colonel's mouth. The news of the old soldier's affirmation ran through the town. The strange and terrible oath, which was repeated from one to the other, made a profound impression on the public. The relations and friends of the count made a great parade of the matter. One of them thought of presenting a pet.i.tion to the king, signed by all the neighbours, begging him to revoke the colonel's sentence. But the dean had antic.i.p.ated him, and being an energetic, eloquent man, he got the archbishop and the Chapter of the cathedral to favour his mission to Madrid for the intercession for the re-installation of the friend of his infancy in his military rank. Meanwhile the patient slightly improved, the illness did not seem to get worse; but, although it was not externally noticeable, the consumption was gaining ground.

Nothing was said about the deputation to the king. However, the dean had time to get to Madrid, gain an audience of his Majesty, appeal to his pity with the account of the solemn statement made in his presence, obtain a royal commission restoring the count all his honours with all the accompanying crosses and decorations, and return to Lancia mad with anxiety. How delightful it was to find his friend had not expired! He ran from the boat in which he had travelled, to the palace of the Onis, and with the greatest precaution, to avoid over-excitement for the patient, the good news was communicated to him. The colonel remained motionless for some time with his face hidden in his hands.

"What time is it?" he said at last.

"It is just two," was the reply.

"Let me have my uniform at once!" he exclaimed with unusual energy, raising himself up without anybody's help.

"Rayo de Dios! Quick, my uniform," he repeated more emphatically, seeing that no one moved.

At last the countess went to the wardrobe, and brought it out. He had himself quickly dressed; the ribbon of Carlos III. put across his breast, and all the crosses he had won. There were so many, that he could not put them all on the left side, so some had to come to the right. In this attire he had himself led to the window looking on to the Calle de Cerrajerias, and there he stood. It was not long before the faithful, repairing home from Ma.s.s, which was the best attended of the Sunday services, saw this strange, corpse-like figure, dressed in his grand uniform, at the window. And with a feeling of sadness, respect, and compa.s.sion, they all filed by the house with their eyes riveted upon him.

For three consecutive Sundays the colonel made a point of getting up and going through the same ceremony. He stood for half an hour displaying his signs of honour, with his eyes ecstatically fixed on s.p.a.ce, without seeing or hearing the crowd which collected before the palace with manifestations of the gravest interest and concern. On the fourth Sunday he wished to do the same, and peremptorily insisted on being dressed, but he at that instant fell back on the pillows, never to rise again. So that night G.o.d took the brave, punctilious soldier unto Himself. Poor father! The count could never think of that scene, so deeply graven in his mind, without tears rising to his eyes. He had inherited from him the exquisite delicacy of feeling, and a susceptibility that almost amounted to weakness, without the serenity, power of taking the initiative, and the unbending will that had characterised Colonel Campo.

The present count had an excessively sensitive and affectionate disposition, together with the integrity and modesty peculiar to the Campos. But these qualities were counteracted by a weak, fanciful, moody character, which was doubtless inherited from his mother's family.

Donna Maria Gayoso, the widowed Countess of Onis, daughter of the Baron de los Oscos, was a very original person; so exceptionally original that she bordered on the eccentric. In her whole family for the last three or four generations there had been some exhibition of eccentricity that in some members had pa.s.sed into madness.

Her grandfather had been a hardened atheist and a follower of Voltaire and the Encyclopaedia; then he became a victim to drunkenness in his last days, and, according to the general report, he was carried off by devils to the infernal regions. He had really died of spontaneous combustion, which fact gave rise to such a fabulous story. Her father was a weak-minded man, and her mother, a woman of uncommon energy, had him completely under her thumb. Of his uncles, one had gone melancholy mad; another distinguished himself in mathematics, but he was so eccentric that his curious ways were retailed as amusing anecdotes in Lancia; and another retired to the country, married a peasant, and killed himself with drinking. She had only one remaining brother, the present Baron de los Oscos. He was an original and an eccentric creature. At the commencement of the civil war he put himself under the banner of the Pretender, and entered his army, but only on condition of serving as a common soldier. This resolution made a great sensation.

But all the persuasions of the grandees about Don Carlos, and even those of the king himself, were powerless to make him accept an officer's commission. He was wounded several times, and in one case he was so seriously injured in the face that he was deeply scarred; and as his face was already as ugly as it could well be, the deep red seam finished by rendering his appearance ghastly to a degree that was terrible.