"In the Countess's stables there is a poor, one-armed soldier, whom the grooms, out of charity, permit, by night, to sleep upon the straw. During the day he begs about the city; and a few hours ago, he had an amusing conversation with another mendicant, who lives near Buen-Retiro, on the road to the palace. The latter has an excellent business, which he manages so well, that his daughter, who is of a marriageable age, passes among the beggars for a rich heiress. This morning, the soldier accosting the father, said to him: 'Signor Mendigo, I have lost my right arm; I can no longer serve the king; and, like yourself, I am obliged to gain a livelihood by doing the civil to the passers-by. I know well that of all trades there is not one which does more for those who follow it; and that all that is wanting to it is, that it should be a little more highly esteemed.' 'If it were a bit more honourable,' replied the old man, 'it would not be worth following at all, as we should have too much competition;—all the world would beg if it were not for shame.'
"'Very true!' replied he of the one arm. 'Well, now! I am a brother beggar; and I should be happy to ally myself with so distinguished a member of our profession: you shall give me your daughter.' 'Hold! my dear sir,' replied the warm old gentleman; 'you cannot think of such a thing. She must have a better match than you will make. You are not half lame enough. My son-in-law must be a miserable-looking object, who would draw blood out of a stone.' 'Do you think, then, that you will find one worse off than I am?' 'To be sure! Why, you have only lost an arm; and ought to be absolutely ashamed of yourself, to expect that I will give you my daughter. I'd have you to know that I have already refused a fellow without legs, and who goes about the city in a bowl.'
"I must on no account," continued the Devil, "omit to call your attention to the house which joins that of the sleeping countess, and which contains a drunken old painter and a satirical poet. The artist left home at seven o'clock this morning in search of a confessor, as his wife was at the point of death; but happening to meet with a boon companion, he went with him to a tavern, and forgot his wife until ten this evening, when he returned to find she had died unshriven. The poet, who enjoys the reputation of having frequently received most striking proofs of the merits of his caustic verses, was swaggering in a café this morning; and in speaking of a person who was absent, exclaimed: 'He is a scoundrel, to whom, some of these days, I must give a good drubbing.' 'That is kind of you,' replied a wag who heard him; 'though I believe, by the bye, that you owe him a good many.'
"I had nearly forgotten a scene which took place this morning at a banker's in this street. He is only recently established in Madrid, having returned with immense riches about three months ago from Peru. His father is an honest cobbler of Mediana,[3] a large village of Old Castile, near the Sierra d'Avila, where he lives, contented with his lot, and with his wife, who, like himself, is about sixty years of age.
[3] It is curious, that in the original of the latest Paris edition, as also in the third edition, of 1707, the earliest I have been able to consult, and which was published under the superintendence of Le Sage, this passage stands, "un honnête capareto de Viejo et de Mediana." There is a note to the word "capareto" giving its translation into French as savetier. Being puzzled by the double name of the village,—"de Viejo et de Mediana," I sought the assistance of a talented Spaniard, Signor Lazeu, and was surprised to find the Spanish for cobbler is "zapatero de viejo," or, "shoemaker of old (things)," and that it should consequently have stood in the original "zapatero de viejo de Mediana." It has been doubted by many, among others the late H. D. Inglis, whether Le Sage were really the author of Le Diable Boiteux and Gil Blas; and it has been asserted that he merely translated these works from the unpublished manuscripts of some Spanish author. If the error in question were really that of Le Sage, it would certainly go far to confirm this assertion.—Trans.
"It is upwards of twenty years since the banker left his father's house, for the Indies, in search of a better fortune than he could expect from his parents. During all this time, though lost to sight, he was ever present in their thoughts, and every night and morning saw the poor couple on their knees, praying Heaven to shield him with its protection; nor did they fail, on each succeeding Sabbath, to entreat their friend the curate to recommend their child to the prayers of his humble flock. As soon as the banker had returned to Spain, having hastily established his house of business, he resolved to ascertain, in person, the condition of his parents, whom, in his prosperity, he had never forgotten. With this view, having told his domestics he should be absent for a few days, he set out alone, about a fortnight ago, and journeyed on horseback towards the place of his birth.
"It was about ten o'clock at night, and the good old cobbler was sleeping peaceably beside his spouse, when they were suddenly awakened by the noise which the banker made, as he knocked violently at the door of their little house. 'Who's there?' cried the startled pair, together. 'Open—open the door!' replied a voice; 'it is your son Francillo.' 'Tell that to the marines!" replied the ancient son of Crispin;—'be off with you, scoundrels! there is nothing here worth stealing. Francillo is at this moment in the Indies, if he be not dead.' 'Your son is not now in the Indies,' replied the banker; 'he is returned from Peru; it is he who speaks to you: will you refuse to receive him in your arms?' 'Let us go down, Jacobo,' said the wife; 'I think it is indeed Francillo; I seem to recollect his voice.'