Froth: A Novel

by Armando Palacio Valdés

The Duke was in fact perishing before their eyes. After a stage of excitement and violence, when he had behaved like a madman, came a period of nervous prostration; by degrees he became almost idiotic. He lost his wits so completely that he could not even understand business. Everything was left to Llera. This would have been all right, but that Amparo would interfere and do all kinds of mischief. She took the greatest pains, however, to hide Salabert's condition; on days when he was over excitable or incoherent, she kept him in his room. It was only when he was calm and rational that she ventured to take him out, and then never allowed him to talk to any one. But her efforts were not always successful. Salabert went out by himself on various pretences, and amply betrayed his deranged condition. On one occasion he was found outside the town at four in the morning. Another time he went into a jeweller's shop, and after ordering some trinkets he pocketed some others, believing he had not been observed. The jeweller had seen it, however, but he said nothing, knowing the millionaire. He sent the bill in to Amparo, who hastened to pay it, and went in person to beg that the matter should not be divulged. In short, before long it was established beyond a doubt, in spite of the contending evidence of physicians, that the Duke was absolutely non compos; and it was said that the lawsuit would be decided in that sense.

Two days before the decision was made public, Amparo vanished from the Requena palace, after sacking it very completely, and carrying off with her many objects of great value. Her savings already amounted to several thousand dollars, and in anticipation of disaster she had drawn the money out of the Bank of Spain and placed it in foreign securities. She was afterwards heard of in France, and a few months later it was reported in Madrid that she had married the crazy Marquis.

On the very day of Amparo's flight—for it may be called a flight—Clementina and her husband took possession of the Requena palace. She found her father in a pitiable state of total imbecility. He spoke as though they had met but the day before and nothing of any importance had occurred, he asked for Amparo, and sometimes mistook his daughter for her. The daughter's heart, it must be owned, was not severely wrung. This catastrophe by no means satisfied the bitterness which possessed her soul when she recalled all the wretchedness she had endured. Her vengeance was incomplete, for Amparo was rich and content. She longed to prosecute her as a criminal, while Osorio, satisfied with the enormous fortune which had dropped into his hands, did not regard her thefts as worth a thought.

The Duke de Requena, the famous financier who for twenty years had been the wonder and admiration of the banking world in Spain and abroad, the man who had been so much discussed by the public and the press, was ere long, in his own house—now the Osorio palace—a useless and worthless chattel. To avoid comment, or to be more secure as to his condition, or perhaps out of some dim fear lest he should recover, the Osorios did not send him to a lunatic asylum; they had him cared for at home. Salabert was no more than a child. He thought of nothing but his meals. He spoke very little, but sat hour after hour, looking at his nails or rubbing one hand over the other, now and then uttering some strange, inarticulate cry. He was in the charge of an attendant, who, when he was tiresome, would fly in a rage and slap him. But the person he held in most respect, it may be said in real awe, was his daughter. It was enough for Clementina to frown and speak a scolding word; he submitted at once. For his son-in-law, on the other hand, he did not care a pin.

When his attendant found him quiet and went to amuse himself for an hour with the other servants, the crazy old man would wander about the house, more especially to gaze in the mirrors. His principal mania was for picking up pieces of bread and storing them in a corner of his room, where they lay till they were mouldy. When the pile was too large the servants cleared it away in baskets and flung it out on the dust-heap. Then when he missed it he was furious, and his keeper had to use strong measures to pacify him. One morning, soon after the Osorios' breakfast—the old man ate alone in his own room—three or four of the servants were together in the great dining-room, cleaning the plate and putting it away in the side-board cupboards. They were in high spirits and playing games, hitting each other with the long loaves they had taken up for sticks, running round the table and laughing loudly. Their mistress was upstairs and could not hear them. Suddenly the old imbecile appeared on the scene, with the tray on which he was wont to carry off the broken pieces as a precious booty to his room. He had on a greasy old shooting coat, and his head was bare. And, in spite of its white hairs, that head was not venerable; the yellow unshaven cheeks, the colourless, loose lips, the stony, expressionless eyes had no trace of the beauty of old age, but only the decrepitude of vice, which is always repulsive, and the stamp of idiotcy which is always terrible.

Seeing so many persons, he paused a moment, but he made up his mind to come in, and went straight to the drawers of the side-board, where he began an eager search, picking up every scrap he found there and collecting them on the tray. The servants watched him with amusement.

"Hunt away, old fellow!" cried one. "When are you going to ask us to try the broth, daddy?"

The old man made no reply, he was much too busy.

"The broth, sir," said another, "you had better ask us to share a ten dollar-note."

"I shall not ask you," mumbled the Duke with some irritation, "I shall only ask Anselmo."