other three went on along the promenade, and it will be proper here to give some account of this illustrious trio which formed, as the reader must understand, a constellation such as may be seen in Spain at any hour, in spite of the frequent cloudiness of our climate. The reader, like the writer, will of course say at once: We know them—let them pass and disappear. But then, they never disappear. This constellation never sets, is never dimmed by the radiance of the sun, never hidden behind a cloud, never in eclipse. It is always in the ascendant. Alas! yes, it never fails to shine with terrible splendour, and at the zenith of social life in Spain.
Who does not know the Marquis de Fúcar? Flattery speaks of him as an Oasis of Wealth in the midst of the desert of universal poverty; he holds the first place among the stars of the Spanish capital, and is the very Alpha of the society he moves in.
Who, again, does not know Don Joaquín Onésimo, that beacon light of Spanish bureaucracy, which burns so brightly wherever it shows itself, the central glory of the myriad Onésimos who, under different pretexts, fill various offices of the State? “Not a family, but an epidemic,” was said of the Onésimos. But there is no doubt whatever—Heaven knows—that if this luminary were to be extinguished, all the precincts of the administration would remain in darkness, and all social order, social institutions—nay, society itself, would revert to primæval chaos. The third side of this triangle was formed by a polished and well-dressed man, in whose pallid and languid features all the freshness and energy of his two and thirty years seemed prematurely quenched. His manners were insolent, and his whole aspect gave that impression of exhaustion and fatigue which is common enough in those who have wasted their moral strength in politics, their intellect in party journalism, and their physical vigour in vice. The type is peculiar to Spain, and to Madrid—nocturnal in its habits, perfervid, lean; the very incarnation of that national fever which betrays its burning and devouring heat in night work over newspapers, in gambling-houses where the lamps are put out only when the sun rises, in twilight rendezvous, and in mysterious meetings in the corridors of theatres, in the corners of cafés and in Minister’s offices. Such a specimen looks strangely out of place in this pure clear atmosphere, under these gigantic trees. It might almost be supposed that he would feel uncomfortable at such a distance from the dens of corruption and wickedness, that there could be no corner in his heart for the glories and graces of Nature, nor a perception of its beauties in his dulled eyes, with their red and swollen lids, heavy and bleared with late hours.
Federico Cimarra—the young man in question—Don Joaquín Onésimo, who expected ere long to rejoice in the title of Marqués de Onésimo, and Don Pedro Fúcar, Marqués de Casa-Fúcar, after having paced the avenue two or three times, sat down.
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH THE READER WILL ENJOY HEARING THE PRAISES LAVISHED BY SPANIARDS ON THEIR COUNTRY AND COUNTRY-MEN.
“It is quite clear that Leon is going to be married to the Marqués de Tellería’s daughter,” said Cimarra. “She is no great catch, for the marquis is more out at elbows than an actor during Lent.”
“He has nothing left but the house in the Calle (street) de la Hortaleza,” added Fúcar indifferently. “It is a good property—built at the same time as that of the Marqués de Pontejos; but before long that will go too. They say they are all a scatterbrained family, from the marquis down to Polito.”
“But has Tellería really nothing left but his house?” asked the man of politics with the anxious curiosity of a creditor appraising an estate.
“Nothing whatever,” repeated Fúcar, with the certainty of a man perfectly informed on the subject. “The land at Piedrabuena was sold two months ago by order of the commissioners. He gave up the houses and factory at Nules to my brother-in-law as long ago as last February, and he cannot have any money in the funds. I know that in June he was borrowing money at twenty per cent. on Heaven knows what security. In short, he is a thing of the past.”
“And it was such a great house!” said Onésimo. “I have heard my father say that in the last century these Tellerías laid down the law to all Extremadura. It was the second in point of wealth. For half a century they took all the taxes and duties of Badajoz.”
Federico Cimarra planted himself in front of the other two, his legs stretched out like a pair of compasses and twirling his stick in the air.
“It is really incredible,” he said with a smile, “that that poor fellow Leon should be about making such a fool of himself. I am really very fond of him, he is a great crony of mine; but who would venture to contradict him? What is the good of trying to argue with those wooden-headed creatures who call themselves mathematicians? Did you ever know a single savant who had a grain of common-sense?”
“Never, never,” cried the marquis, laughing loudly, as he always did. “And is it true, as I hear, that the girl is a perfect bigot? It will be a funny thing to see a full-blown freethinker caught by a little chit with Paternosters and Avemarias.”
“I do not know whether she is a bigot, but I know that she is very pretty,” said Cimarra smacking his lips. “She may be pardoned her sanctimoniousness on the score of her good looks. But her character is not formed yet—she is a mere child, and since she has been in love she has forgotten her piety. The woman who seems to me to be really on the high road to saintliness is her mother, who cannot escape the law by which a dissipated youth ends in a strictly pious old age! How she has changed! I saw her last week at Ugoibea, and she is a wreck, a perfect wreck! María, on the contrary has grown to a goddess. Such a head, such an air, and such style!”
“There you are right,” said Fúcar with a rather satirical smile. “María Sudre is worth looking at. I fancy the mathematician must have lost his bearings and had his head turned by her bright eyes. I should not like such a girl for a wife. Very handsome no doubt, excitable, romantic, reticent—very different from what she seems—in short I do not like her—I do not like her.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed the official slapping his knee emphatically. “The idea of speaking ill of María Sudre. I know her well, she is a miracle of goodness—much the best of the family.”
“Bless me!” said the marquis with a roar of laughter. “The family is the most perfect family of fools I know; not excepting Gustavo whom they think such a prodigy.”
“No, no; the girl is a good girl, a very good girl.” Onésimo insisted. “I cannot say so much for Leon. He is one of your new-fangled savants, a product of the University, the Atheneum and the School of Mines, and I have no confidence in them whatever. A great deal of German science that the devil only can understand; obscure theories and preposterous words; an affectation of despising the whole Spanish nation as a pack of ignoramuses; a great deal of pride, and above all that infusion of scepticism which annoys me above everything. I am not one of those who profess themselves catholics while they admit theories that contradict the faith—I am catholic, catholic!” And he slapped his breast defiantly.
“My dear Sir, be as catholic as you please,” said Fúcar, laughing less boisterously than usual, nay with a certain solemnity. “We are all catholics.—But let us avoid exaggeration. Exaggeration, Sir, is the bane of the country. Let us put religious beliefs out of court, not but that they are to be respected, deeply respected. What I say is that Leon is a man of mark, a man of very great merit. He is the best specimen the School of Mines has turned out at all since it was founded. His enormous talents find no difficulties in any branch of study; he is as good a botanist as he is a geologist. As I hear, he is familiar with all the
