“Let us go there,” said Montoria, with anger, which showed itself in his gestures, his altered voice, his darkened visage. “It is not the first time that I have had that dog, that bloodsucker, in my hands.”
I came behind with Augustine, who was pale and downcast. I wished to speak with him, but he made signs to keep silence. We followed to see how this would end. We found ourselves quickly in the Calle de Anton Trillo; and Montoria said to us—
“Boys, go on ahead and knock at the door of this insolent Jew. Force it open, if no one opens it; enter, and tell him to come down to see me. Take him by the ear, but be careful he does not bite you, for he is a mad dog and a venomous serpent.”
When we were walking on, I looked again at Augustine, and saw that he was livid and trembling.
“Gabriel,” he said, “I wish to run away. I wish that the earth would open and swallow me. My father will kill me, but I cannot do what he has commanded me.”
“Come, lean on me; then act as if you had twisted your foot, and cannot go on.”
This was done, and our other companions and I began knocking at the door. The old woman showed herself at the window, and greeted us with a thousand insolent words. A few minutes passed, and then we saw a very beautiful hand raise the curtain, permitting us to see for a moment a face changed and pale, whose great dark eyes cast terrified glances towards the street.
At that moment my companions and the boys who were following were crying in hoarse concert—
“Come down, uncle Candiola. Come down, dog of a Caiaphas!”
Contrary to our expectation, Candiola obeyed; but he did it believing that he had to do with the mob of vagabond boys who were in the habit of giving him such serenades, with no suspicion that the president of the junta of supplies, and two others in authority, were there to talk with him on a matter of importance. He soon had occasion to know that this was a serious matter, for at the opening of the door, as he came running out with a cudgel in his hand, and his ugly eyes glowing with wrath, he came face to face with Montoria, and drew back in alarm.
“Ah, it is you, Señor de Montoria,” he said, with very bad grace. “How is it that you, being a member of the committee of public safety, have not been able to disperse this rabble which has come to make this noise before the gate of the house of an honorable citizen?”
“I am not a member of the committee of public safety, but of the junta of supplies, so I come in search of the Señor Candiola, and make him come down; but I will not enter this dark house full of cobwebs and mice.”
“The poor cannot live in palaces like Señor José de Montoria, administrator of the goods of the commune, and for a long time tax-collector,” replied Candiola.
“I made my fortune by work, not by usury,” exclaimed Montoria. “But let us make an end of this. Señor Don Jeronimo, I have come for that flour. These two good fathers have acquainted you with our need of it already.”
“Yes, I will sell it, I will sell it,” answered Candiola, with a crafty smile; “but I cannot part with it at the price which these señors indicated. It is too little. I do not part with it for less than one hundred and sixty-two reales for a sack of a hundred pounds.”
“I do not ask your price,” said Don José, restraining his indignation.
“The junta may dispose as it likes with its own; but in my house no one sells anything but myself,” answered the miser. “And that is all there is to say. Each one may do in his own house as I do in mine.”
“Come, look here, you bloodsucker!” exclaimed Montoria, catching him by the arm, making him jump, “look here, Candiola of a thousand devils, I have said that I have come for the flour, and I will not go without it! The army of defence of Saragossa must not die of hunger, porra! and all citizens must contribute to maintain it.”
“To maintain it! to maintain the army!” cried the miser, venomously. “Perhaps I am the author of its being?”
“Miserable pig, is there not in your black and empty soul one spark of patriotism?”
“I do not maintain vagabonds. What need was there that the French should bombard us and destroy the city? You want me to feed the soldiers. I will give them poison.”
“Wretch, worm, bloodsucker of Saragossa, disgrace of the Spanish people!” exclaimed my protector, threatening with his doubled fist the miser’s wrinkled face. “I would rather be damned to hell forever than to be what you are, to be Candiola for one minute. You black conscience, you perverse soul, are you not ashamed of being the only one in this city who has refused all his resources to the patriotic army of his country? Does not everybody’s hatred of you for this vile conduct weigh upon you more heavily than if all the rocks of Moncayo had fallen upon you?”
“Stop your music and leave me in peace,” said Don Jeronimo, starting to the door.
“Look here, you unclean reptile,” cried Montoria, detaining him, “I have told you that I am not going without the flour. If you do not produce it with good grace, as every good Spaniard does, you shall be made to give it by force. I will pay you forty-eight reales per sack—its price before the
