“And according to what I have heard,” said Father Luengo, “the Señor Augustine has performed prodigies of valor. It is plain that the greenest laurels of this campaign belong to the brilliant fighters of the Church.”
“No; my son no longer belongs only to the Church. It is necessary that he should renounce the plan of being a clergyman. I cannot be left without direct succession.”
“Ah, you are talking of succession and of marriages! Augustine must have changed since he became a soldier. Formerly his conversation was all of theology, and I never heard him talk of love. He is a chap who has Saint Thomas at his fingertips, and does not know in what part of their faces girls carry their eyes.”
“Augustine will sacrifice his beloved vocation for my sake. If we come out alive from the siege, and the Virgin del Pilar grants me life, I intend to marry him quickly to a woman who is his equal in position and fortune.”
While he was saying this, we saw Mariquilla Candiola approaching us, sobbing; on coming up to me she asked—
“Señor de Araceli, have you seen my father?”
“No, Señorita Doña Mariquilla,” I answered, “I have not seen him since yesterday. It may be that he is in the ruins of his house, busying himself trying to get something out.”
“No, he is not,” said Mariquilla, anxiously; “I have looked for him everywhere.”
“Have you been over back here, near San Diego? Señor Candiola sometimes goes to look at his house los Duendes, to see if it has been destroyed.”
“I am going there instantly!”
As she disappeared, Montoria said, “She is, I am told, the daughter of the miser Candiola. Faith, she’s very pretty, and does not look like the daughter of such a wolf—God forgive me, I mean good man.”
“She’s not bad looking,” said the friar; “but I imagine she’s a good one. Saints don’t come of Candiola timber.”
“One must not speak ill of one’s neighbor,” said Don José.
“Candiola is nobody’s neighbor. The girl is always in the company of the soldiers since they lost their house.”
“She goes among them to help take care of the wounded.”
“It may be; but it looks to me as if she likes best those who are strong and hearty. Her charming little face does not show a whiff of shame.”
“You snake in the grass!”
“It is the truth,” said the friar. “She’s a chip of the old block. Do they not say all sorts of things about her mother, Pepa Rincon?”
“Perhaps she used to take a little something to make her happy.”
“It’s not a bad kind of happiness. When she was abandoned by her third gallant, Señor Don Jeronimo took charge of her.”
“Enough of scandal,” said Montoria. “Even when we talk of the worst people in the world, we can at least leave them to their own consciences.”
“I would not give a farthing for the souls of all the Candiolas put together,” replied the friar. “But there comes the Señor Don Jeronimo, if I am not mistaken. He has seen us, and is coming over here.”
Candiola was indeed coming slowly along the Coso, and came up to the convent door.
“Good evening to you, Señor Don Jeronimo,” said Montoria. “I live in hope that our grudge is all gone.”
“A moment ago your innocent young daughter was here looking for you,” said Luengo, maliciously.
“Where is she?”
“She has gone to San Diego,” said a soldier. “Maybe some of the French about here have carried her off.”
“Perhaps they respect her, knowing that she is the daughter of Señor Don Jeronimo,” said Luengo. “Is this true, friend Candiola, that they are telling about here?”
“What?”
“That you have been inside the French lines, holding confabs with that mob?”
“I? What vile calumny!” exclaimed the miser. “My enemies are saying that to ruin me. Is it you, Señor de Montoria, who have set these stories going?”
“Not even in thought,” said the patriot; “but I have certainly heard others say it. I remember defending you, assuring them that Señor Candiola is incapable of selling himself to the French.”
“My enemies, my enemies wish to ruin me! What calumnies they invent against me! They wish to make me lose my honor, since I have lost my estate. Gentlemen, my house in the Calle de la Sombra has lost part of its roof. Is there any such trouble as mine! The one that I have here back of San Francisco, next to the garden of San Diego, is still preserved; but it is occupied by the troops, and they will finish it for me, and it’s a beauty.”
“That house is worth very little, Señor Don Jeronimo,” said the friar. “If I have not forgotten, it is ten years since anybody would live in it.”
“That is because some crazy people gave out that it has ghosts in it. But let us drop that. Have you seen my daughter about here?”
“That virginal white lily has gone over to San Diego in search of her amiable papa.”
“My daughter has lost all her good sense.”
“Something of that sort.”
“Yet Señor de Montoria is all to blame for it. My wicked enemies give me no time to breathe.”
“What do you say?” exclaimed my protector. “How am I to blame for what this child has inherited of the evil ways of her mother? I mean to say (my cursed tongue!) that her mother was an exemplary lady.”
“The insults and scorn of Señor Montoria do not affect me,” said the miser, with biting contempt. “Instead of insulting me, the Señor Don José ought to keep his son Augustine in order, that libertine who has turned my daughter’s head. No, I will not give her to him in marriage, though he begs on his knees. He wants to rob me of her. A pretty fellow, that Don Augustine! No, no, he shall not have her for a wife. She can do better, much better, my Mariquilla!”
Don José de Montoria turned white on hearing
