"You are not aware," continued the Spirit, "who lives three doors from this mansion: it is La Chichona, the very lady who acted so honourable a part in the story of the Count de Belflor." "Ah!" said Leandro, "I am delighted to behold her. The dear creature, so considerate for youth, is doubtless one of the two old ladies whom I perceive in that room. One of them is leaning with both her elbows on the table, looking attentively at the other, who is counting out some money. Which of them is La Chichona?" "Not the one who is counting," said the Demon; "her name is La Pebrada, and she is a distinguished member of the same profession: they are, indeed, partners; and are at this moment dividing the profits of an adventure which, by their assistance, has terminated favourably.
"La Pebrada is the more successful of the two: she has among her clients several rich widows, who subscribe to her daily register." "What do you mean by her register?" interrupted the Student. "Why," replied Asmodeus, "it contains the names of all handsome foreigners, and particularly Frenchmen, who come to Madrid. The instant La Pebrada hears of an arrival, away she posts to the hotel of the new comer, to learn every particular as to his country, birth, parentage, and education,—his age, form, and appearance, all which are duly reported to her subscribers; and if, on reflection, the heart of any of her widows is inclined to an acquaintance, she adroitly manages a speedy interview with the stranger."
"That is extremely convenient," replied Zambullo, smiling, "and in some sort very proper; for, in truth, without these kind ladies and their agents, the youthful foreigner, who comes without introductions to Madrid, would lose an immense deal of time in gaining them. But, tell me, are there in other countries widows as generous and women as intriguing?" "Capital!" exclaimed the Devil—"if there are? Why! can you doubt it? I should be unworthy of my demonship if I neglected to provide all large towns with them in plenty."
"Cast your eyes upon Chichona's neighbour,—yon printer, who is working at his press, alone. He has dismissed the devils in his employ these three hours; and he is now engaged, for the night, on a work which he is printing privately." "Ah! what may it be?" said Leandro. "It treats of insults," replied the Demon; "and endeavours to prove that Religion is preferable to Honour; and that it is better to pardon than to avenge an affront." "Oh! the scoundrel!" exclaimed the Student "Well may he print in secret his infamous book. Its author had better not acknowledge his production: I would be one of the first to answer it with a horsewhip. What! can Religion forbid the preservation of one's honour?"
"Let us not discuss that point," interrupted Asmodeus, with a malicious smile. "It appears that you have made the most of the lectures on morality you listened to at Alcala; and I give you joy of the result." "You may say what you please," interrupted Cleophas in his turn, "and so may the writer of this wretched absurdity: but though his reasonings were clear as the noon-day sun, I should despise him and them. I am a Spaniard, and nothing is to me so delightful as revenge; and, by the by, since you have pledged yourself to satisfy me for the perfidy of my mistress, I call on you at once to keep your promise."
"I yield with pleasure," replied the Demon, "to the wrath which agitates your breast. Oh! how I love those noble spirits who follow without scruple the dictates of their passions! I will obey your will at once; and indeed, the hour to avenge your wrongs is come: but first I wish to show you something which will amuse you vastly. Look beyond the printing-office, and observe with attention what is passing in an apartment, hung with drab cloth." "I perceive," said Leandro, "five or six women, who are with eagerness offering phials of something to a sort of valet, and they appear desperately agitated."
"They are," replied Asmodeus, "devotees, who have great reason to be agitated. There is in the next room a sick inquisitor. This venerable personage, who is about thirty-five years old, is attended by two of his dearest penitents, with untiring watchfulness. One is concocting his gruel, while the other at his pillow is employed in keeping his head warm, and is covering his stomach with a kind of blanket made of at least fifty lamb-skins." "What on earth is the matter with him, then?" asked Zambullo. "He has a cold in his head," answered the Devil; "and there is danger lest the disorder should extend to his lungs."