“From all this, the house with a gate painted chocolate color should be a magnificent palace.”
“Nothing of the sort. You will see a wretched-looking house that seems about to fall down. I tell you that that goodman Candiola is a miser. He does not waste a real that he can help. And if you should see him about here you would give him alms. I will tell you another thing; he is never seen in Saragossa, and they call him goodman Candiola in mockery and contempt. His name is Don Jeronimo de Candiola; he is a native of Mallorca, if I am not mistaken.”
“And this Candiola has a daughter?”
“Wait, man, how impatient you are! How do you know whether or not he has a daughter?” he answered, hiding his agitation by these evasions. “Well, as I was just going to tell you, Candiola is detested in the city for his great avarice and wicked heart. Many poor men has he put in prison after ruining them. Worse still, during the other siege he did not give a farthing for the war, nor take up arms, nor receive the wounded into his house, nor could they wring a peseta from him; and, as he said one day it was all one to him whether he gave to John or to Peter, he was on the point of being arrested.”
“Well, he is a pretty piece, this man of the house of the garden of the chocolate-colored gate! And what if when the pebble strikes the window, goodman Candiola comes out with a cudgel and gives me a good beating for flirting with his daughter?”
“Don’t be an idiot! Hush! You must know that as soon as it gets dark, Candiola shuts himself in an underground room, and there he stays counting his money until after midnight. Bah! He is well occupied now. The neighbors say they hear a muffled sound as if bags of coins were being tumbled out.”
“Very well. I arrive there. I throw the stone. She comes, and I tell her—”
“You tell her that I am dead. No, don’t be cruel; give her this amulet. No, tell her—no, it will be better to tell her nothing.”
“Then I will give her the amulet?”
“By no means. Do not take the amulet to her.”
“Now, now I understand. As soon as she comes I am to say good night and march myself away singing, ‘The Virgin del Pilar says—’ ”
“No, it is enough that she learns of my death. You must do as I tell you.”
“But if you don’t tell me anything.”
“How hasty you are! Wait. Perhaps they’ll not kill me today.”
“True. And what a bother about nothing!”
“There is one thing which I have left out, Gabriel, and I shall tell it to you frankly. I have had many, very many great desires to confide to you this secret which weighs upon my breast. To whom could I tell it but to you, my friend? If I did not tell you, my heart would break like a pomegranate. I have been greatly afraid of telling it at night in my dreams. Because of this fear I cannot sleep. If my father, my mother, my brother, suspected it, they would kill me.”
“And the fathers at the Seminary?”
“Don’t name the fathers. You shall see. I will tell you what has befallen me. Do you know Father Rincon? Well, Father Rincon loves me very much, and every evening he used to make me come out for a walk by the river or towards Torrero or the Juslibol road. We would talk of theology and literature. Rincon is so enthusiastic about the great poet Horace that he used to say, ‘It is a pity that that man wasn’t a Christian so that he could be canonized.’ He always carries with him a little Elzevir, which he loves more than the apple of his eye. When we were tired walking, he would sit down and read, and between the two of us we would make whatever comments occurred to us. Well, now I will tell you that Father Rincon was a kinsman of Doña Maria Rincon, the deceased wife of Candiola, who has a little property in the Monzalbarba road, with a wretched little country house, more like a hut than a house, but embowered in leafy trees, and with delightful views of the Ebro. One afternoon, after we had been reading the Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, my teacher desired to visit his relative. We went there; we entered the garden, and Candiola was not there; but his daughter came to meet us, and Rincon said to her, ‘Mariquilla, get some peaches for this young man, and get me a glass of you know what.’ ”
“And is Mariquilla nice?”
“Don’t ask that. What if she is nice? You shall see. Father Rincon stroked his beard, and turning towards me said, ‘Augustine, confess that in your lifetime you have never seen a more perfect face than this one. Look at those eyes of fire, that angel’s mouth, and that bit of heaven for a brow.’ I was trembling, and Mariquilla laughed, her face all rosy red. Then Rincon continued, saying, ‘To you, who are a future father of the church, an example, a young pattern, without other passion than that for books, this divinity may show herself. Jove! admire here the admirable work of the Supreme Creator. Observe the expression of that face, the sweetness of those glances, the grace of that smile, the freshness, the delicacy of
