"Just imagine, Miguel!... a Trajan! Think of it! he wanted to take me in with a Trajan."
And Vincente, unable longer to contain himself, laughed till the tears ran.
"How absurd!" exclaimed Miguel, laughing in sympathy, but not having a very clear idea of what a Trajan was, and still less its value compared with the triptich. The good humor into which this recollection put Vincente resulted in his being anxious to do everything to gratify his cousin.
"You want to speak with papa, do you? Now see here, he's engaged in going through his gymnastic exercises; but I'll take you to him, at all events."
"Gymnastic exercises?" exclaimed Miguel, in surprise.
"It was prescribed by the doctor because he had lost his appetite; do you see? He did not eat a mouthful, and even now he takes very little. He has been sallow and weak this two months, so that you would scarcely know him."
On entering his uncle's stern and gloomy room, Miguel was, indeed, surprised to see the change that had taken place in that excellent gentleman's physique; the strange garb that he wore contributed in no small degree to give him a sinister and terrible appearance: he wore nothing except a gauze shirt, through which could be seen his lean and bony frame; also full trousers of drilling, in which his shins could scarcely be made out. His face, always broad and lean, seemed more fleshless than ever; the yellowish complexion, the sad and glassy eyes, and, as his razor never ceased to perform its devastating work, his mustache had come to be only a slight speck beneath his nose.
His library had been turned into a gymnasium; there were parallel bars, a few pairs of dumb-bells on the floor, and a number of iron rings swinging from the ceiling.
When Miguel went in, his uncle was going through his evolutions on the parallels; he had the opportunity of watching him at his ease, and it pained him. Seeing the rapid and astonishing decline, he could not help saying to himself:—
"It must be that my uncle has some grievous sorrow."