“I shall come to burning all that paper trash!” cried Doña Francisca. “A plague on voyages and on the wandering dog of a Jew who invented them. You would do better to take some concern for the salvation of your soul, for the long and the short of it is you are no chicken. What a man! to be sure—what a man to have to take care of!”
She could not get over it; I happened to pass that way, but I cannot remember whether she relieved her fury by giving me a thrashing and demonstrating at once the elasticity of my ears and the weight of her hands. The fact is that these little endearments were so frequently repeated, that I cannot recollect whether I received them on this particular occasion; all I remember is that my master, in spite of his utmost amiability, entirely failed to mollify his wife.
Meanwhile I have neglected to speak of Rosita; she was in a very melancholy mood, for Señor de Malespina had not made his appearance all day nor written her a note; all my excursions to the marketplace having proved vain. Evening came and with it grief fell on the young girl’s soul, for there was no hope now of seeing him till next day—but suddenly, after supper had been ordered up, there was a loud knock at the door. I flew to open it, and it was he; before I opened it my hatred had recognized him.
I fancy I can see him now as he stood before me then, shaking his cloak which was wet with rain. Whenever I recall that man I see him as I saw him then. To be frankly impartial, I must say he was a very handsome young fellow, with a fine figure, good manners, and a pleasant expression; rather cold and reserved at first, grave and extremely courteous with the solemn and rather exaggerated politeness of the old school. He was dressed that evening in a frock-coat, with riding breeches and top boots; he wore a Portuguese hat and a very handsome cloak of scarlet cloth, lined with silk, which was the height of fashion with the gilded youth of that time.
As soon as he had come in I saw that something serious had happened. He went into the dining-room where all were much surprised to see him at so late an hour, for he never called in the evening; but my young mistress had hardly time to be glad before she understood that this unexpected visit was connected with some painful occasion.
“I have come to take leave of you,” said Malespina. They all sat stupefied, and Rosita turned as white as the paper on which I am writing; then she turned scarlet and then again as pale as death.
“But what has happened? Where are you going Don Rafael?” asked my mistress. I have said that Malespina was an artillery officer, but I did not mention that he was stationed at Cádiz and at Vejer only on leave.
“As the fleet is short of men,” he replied, “we are under orders to embark and serve on board ship. They say a battle is inevitable and most of the vessels are short of gunners.”
“Christ, Mother Mary and Saint Joseph!” shrieked Doña Francisca almost beside herself. “And they are taking you too? That is too much. Your duties are on land, my friend. Tell them to manage as best they may; if they want men let them find them. Upon my soul this is beyond a joke!”
“But, my dear,” said Don Alonso humbly, “do not you see that they must. …” But he could not finish his sentence, for Doña Francisca, whose cup of wrath and grief was overflowing, proceeded to apostrophize all the potentates of the earth.
“You—” she exclaimed, “anything and everything seems right in your eyes, if only it is to benefit those blessed ships of war. And who, I say, who is the demon from hell who has ordered land forces on board ship? You need not tell me.—It is Bonaparte’s doing. No Spaniard would have concocted such an infernal plot. Go and tell them that you are just going to be married. Come now,” she added, turning to her husband, “write to Gravina and tell him that this young man cannot join the squadron.” Then, seeing that her husband only shrugged his shoulders, she cried:
“He is of no use whatever! Mercy on me! If only I wore trousers I would be off to Cádiz and stop there till I had got you out of this mess.”
Rosita said not a word. I who was watching her narrowly perceived how agitated she was. She never took her eyes off her lover, and if it had not been for good manners and to keep up her dignity, she would have cried and sobbed loudly to relieve the grief that was almost suffocating her.
“The soldier,” said Don Alonso, “is the slave of duty, and our young friend is required by his country to serve on board ship in her defence. He will gain glory in the impending struggle, and make his name famous by some great deed which history will record as an example to future generations.”
“Oh yes—this, that and the other!” said Doña Francisca mimicking the pompous tone in which her husband had made this speech. “We know—and all for what? To humor those ne’er-do-weels at Madrid. Let them come themselves to fire the cannons, and fight on their own account!—And when do you start?”
“Tomorrow morning. My leave is cut short and I am under orders to proceed at once to Cádiz.”
It would be impossible to describe the look that came into my young mistress’s face as she heard these words. The lovers looked at each other, and a long and mournful silence fell after this announcement of Malespina’s immediate departure.
“But this is not to be borne!” exclaimed Doña Francisca. “They will
