"This, Señor Duque, which is your excellency's no doubt," said the man, holding out the pocket-book.
The Duke seized it, hastily opened it, and shaking out the pile of bank notes it contained, counted them with the skill and rapidity of a practised hand. When he had done, he said:
"All right; there are none missing."
The man, who had no doubt looked for some reward, stood still for a minute or two.
"It is all right, my good fellow, quite right. Many thanks."
Then the poor man, with angry disappointment stamped on his face, turned to go, muttering good-day. The Duke looked at him with cruel humour, and before he had reached the door called after him with deliberate sarcasm:
"Look here, my man, I give you nothing, because to so honest a fellow as you the best reward is the satisfaction of having done right."
The coachman, at once puzzled and vexed, looked at him with an indescribable expression. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he finally left the room without a word.
CHAPTER V.
PRECIPITANCY.
RAIMUNDO ALCÁZAR—for this was the name of the pertinacious youth who had so provoked Clementina by following her when we first had the honour of making her acquaintance—met the wrathful glance she had fired at him as she went into her sister-in-law's house with perfect and resigned submission. He waited for a moment to see whether she had gone thither merely on a message, and finding she did not come out again, he placidly walked away in the direction of the little Plaza de Santa Cruz. He stopped in front of a flower-stall. The florist smiled as he drew near, recognising him as an old customer, and took up a bouquet of white roses and violets, which no doubt were awaiting him. He then went to the Plaza Mayor, and took the tramcar for Carabanchel. At the turning which leads to the Cemetery of San Isidro he got out and proceeded on foot. On reaching the graveyard he hastily ascended the slope and went into the new enclosure, where, as the law directs, the dead are laid in graves, and not in long vaulted galleries. He went on with a swift step to a tomb covered with a white marble slab, and enclosed by a little railing. There he stopped. For some minutes he stood still, gazing at it. On the stone, in black letters, was the name, Isabel Martinez de Alcázar. Below the name, two dates—1842-1883—those, no doubt, of the birth and death of the dead who slept below. A few faded flowers lay there, which Raimundo carefully removed, and untying the bunch he had brought with him, he scattered the fresh blossoms on the grave, and used the string to tie up the dead ones. With these in one hand and his hat in the other he again stood for some minutes contemplating the spot, with tears in his eyes. Then he walked quickly away without a single curious glance at the other sepultures.