Saragossa

their conquerors. Fifty-three thousand lives were contributed by this Aragonese city to those of the millions of creatures wherewith humanity paid for the military glories of the French Empire. This sacrifice will not prove fruitless, for it was a sacrifice for an idea. The French Empire⁠—a vain thing, a thing of circumstance, founded on fickle fortune, in audacity and the military genius that is always a second-rate quality when separated from service of the ideal⁠—this empire existed merely by its own self-worship. The French Empire⁠—I say, that tempest which disturbed the first years of the century, and whose lightnings and thunderbolts held Europe in terror⁠—passed, as tempests pass. The normal state in historic life, as in nature, is that of calm. We all saw it pass, and we viewed its death-agony in 1815. We saw its resurrection a few years afterwards, but that also passed, overthrown by its own weight of pride. Perhaps this old tree will sprout the third time; but it will not give grateful shade to the world during centuries, and will scarcely serve for mankind to warm itself by its last bits of wood.

That which has not passed, nor shall pass, is the idea of nationality which Spain defended against the right of conquest and usurpation. When other peoples succumbed, she maintained her right, defended it, and, sacrificing her own lifeblood, hallowed it as martyrs hallowed the Christian idea in the arena. The result is that Spain, depreciated unjustly in the Congress of Vienna, disprized with reason for her civil wars, her bad governors, her disorders, her bankruptcy more or less declared, her immoral treaties, her extravagances, her bullfights, and her proclamations, has never since 1808 seen the continuation of her nationality placed in any doubt. Even today, when it seems that we have reached the last degree of abasement, offering more chance than Poland for dismemberment, no one dares attempt the conquest of this house of madmen. Men of little sense⁠—without any on occasion⁠—the Spanish will today, as ever, die a thousand deaths, stumbling and rising in the struggle of their inborn vices with the great qualities which they still preserve, with those which they acquire slowly, and those which Central Europe sends them. Providence holds in store for this people great advancings and abasements, great terrors and surprises, apparent deaths and mighty resurrections. Her destiny is to be able to live in agitation like a salamander in fire; but her national permanency is and ever will be assured.

XXXI

It was the twenty-first day of February. A man whom I did not know came up to me, and said⁠—

“Come, Gabriel, I have need of thee.”

“Who are you?” I asked him. “I do not recognize you.”

“I am Augustine Montoria,” he answered. “Am I so much disfigured? They told me yesterday that you were dead. How I envied you! I see that you are as unfortunate as I, and that you are living still. Do you know, my friend, what I have just seen? The body of Mariquilla. It is in the Calle de Anton Trillo, at the entrance of the garden. Come, and we will bury her.”

“I am more in a condition to be buried myself than to bury anybody. Who does that now? Of what did this woman die?”

“Of nothing, Gabriel, of nothing.”

“That is a singular death. I do not understand it.”

“Mariquilla’s body shows no wounds, nor any of the signs which the epidemic leaves in the face. She lies as if she had fallen asleep. Her face rests upon the ground, and she holds her hands to her ears as if she were shutting out sounds.”

“She does well. The noise of the shooting disturbed her. It seems to me as if I could hear it yet.”

“Come with me and help me. I have here a spade.”

I arrived with difficulty at the place where my friend and two other comrades conducted me. My eyes did not let me see anything very well, and I only saw a shadowy figure stretched out there. Augustine and the other two raised the body, phantom or reality, which was there. I believe I made out her face, and on seeing it a great darkness fell upon my soul.

“She has not the slightest wound,” said Augustine, “not one drop of blood is upon her. Her eyelids are not swollen like those of the people who died of the epidemic. Mariquilla has not died of anything. Can you see her, Gabriel? It seems as if this figure that I hold in my arms has never been alive. It seems as if she is a beautiful, waxen image that I have loved in my dreams, showing herself to me with life, speech, and action. Do you see her? I see that all the inhabitants of this street are dead. If they were alive, I would call them to tell them that I loved her. Why did I hide it like a crime? Mariquilla, my wife, why didst thou die, without wounds, without sickness? What is the matter? What was it? Where are you now? Are you thinking? Do you remember me? Do you know, perhaps, that I am living? Mariquilla, Mariquilla, why do I still have that which they call life, and you not? Where shall I find you, to hear you, to talk with you, and to come to you so that you may see me? Everything is dark around me since you have closed your eyes. How long will this night of my soul endure, this solitude in which you have left me? The earth is insupportable to me. Despair possesses my soul. In vain I call unto God that He fill it with Himself. God does not answer me, and since you have gone, Mariquilla, the universe is empty.”

As he said this, we heard a sound as of many people coming near.

“It is the French. They have taken possession of the Coso,” said one.

“Friends, dig this grave quickly,” said Augustine, speaking to his two