“I can’t let anything be done by others,” she said to me; “that is my nature. Although I have servants, I am not content unless I do everything myself. How has my son Augustine borne himself?”
“Like what he is, señora, a brave boy,” I answered; “and his talent for war is so great that I should not be surprised to see him a general in a couple of years.”
“A general!” she exclaimed in surprise. “My son is going to chant masses as soon as the siege is ended. Indeed you know we have educated him for that. God and the Virgin del Pilar bring him in safety through battle, that the rest of his days may go on in appointed ways! The fathers at the Seminary have assured me that I shall see my son with his mitre on his head and his crosier in his hand.”
“It will be so, señora, I do not doubt it. But seeing how he manages arms, I cannot bring myself to the thought that with the same hand with which he pulls the trigger, he will also scatter benedictions.”
“It is true, Señor de Araceli; and I have always said that the trigger is not becoming to churchmen. But you see how it is. Here we have great warriors—Don Santiago Sas, Don Manuel Lasartesa; the incumbent of San Pablo, Don Antonio La Casa; the parish priest of San Miguel, Don José Martinez; and also Don Vicente Casanova, who is famous as the first theologian of Saragossa. Indeed they all fight, my son also, though I suppose he will be eager to return to the Seminary and plunge into his studies. Would you believe it? Lately he was studying books so large that they weighed two quintals. God’s blessing be on the boy! I am quite foolish over him when he recites some grand things all in Latin. I suppose they are all about our Lord, and his love for his church, because there is a great deal about amorem and formosa and pulcherrima, inflamavit, and other words like those.”
“Exactly,” I replied, imagining that his recitations were from the fourth book of a certain ecclesiastical work called the Aeneid, written by a certain Friar Virgil of the order of Predicadores.
“It must be as I say,” said Doña Leocadia. “And now, Señor de Araceli, let us see if you can help me move this table.”
“With the greatest pleasure, dear lady. I will move it for you myself,” I replied, taking charge of it at the moment that Don José de Montoria entered, pouring out “porras” and “cuernos” from his blessed mouth.
“How is this, porra!” he cried; “men occupied in women’s business? It is not for moving tables and chairs that a gun has been placed in your hands! And you, wife? How can you distract in this manner a man needed on the other side? You and the children, porra! can you not move the furniture? Are you made of paste or cheese? Look! In the street below is the Countess de Bureta with a bed on her shoulders, and her two maids carrying a wounded soldier on a cot.”
“Very well,” said Doña Leocadia, “there is no need of making such a noise about it. The men may go. Everybody out into the street, and leave us alone! Away with you, too, Augustine my son, and God preserve you in the midst of this inferno.”
“We must carry twenty sacks of flour from the Convent of Trinitarios to the headquarters of supplies,” said Montoria. “Come, let us all go.”
And when we were in the street, he added, “The numbers of people in Saragossa will soon make half rations necessary. It is true, my friends, that there is much concealed provision, and although it has been ordered that everybody declare what he has, many do not take any notice of the order, and keep what they have to sell at fabulous prices. It’s a bad business. If I discover them, and they fall into my hands, I will make them understand that Montoria is president of the junta of supplies.”
We had reached the parish church of San Pablo when we were met by a friar, Father Mateo del Busto, who was coming with much fatigue, forcing his feeble steps, and accompanied by another friar whom they called Father Luengo.
“What news do your reverences bring us?” Montoria asked them.
“Don Juan Gallart has twenty pounds of inlaid work which he places at the disposal of the committee.”
“And Don Pedro Pizueta, the shopkeeper of the Calle de las Moscas, generously offers sixty sacks of wool, and all the salt and wool of his storehouses,” added Luengo.
“But we have just been dealing with the miser Candiola,” said the friar; “a battle with which not even the Eras can compare.”
“How is that?” asked Don José, with astonishment. “Has not that wretched niggard understood that we will pay him for his flour? He is the only citizen of Saragossa who has not given a penny for the provisioning of the army.”
“There is no use in preaching to Candiola,” said Luengo. “He has said decisively that we need not return there unless we bring him one hundred and twenty-four reales for each sack of flour, and he has seventy-eight of them in his storehouse.”
“Is there any infamy equal to his!” exclaimed Montoria, letting loose a string of porras, which I do not copy for fear of wearying my reader. “What! A hundred and twenty-four reales are necessary to make that stingy piece of flint understand the duties of a son of Saragossa in times like these! The Captain-General has given me authority to take whatever provisions are necessary, paying the fixed price for them.”
“Do you hear what I tell
