"But he did; he did!" exclaimed all the servants.
"This is the way it happened, señorita," said one maid, scarcely able to get her breath. "The Señorita Serafina was this way with the baby; do you see? And I looked and took hold of him by the shoulder, do you see? and lifted him up, and began to move him up and down, and to say: 'Little chicken![43] rosebud! pink! do you want to be called Miguelito, like your papa?' The baby didn't do anything. 'Do you want to be called Enriquito like your uncle?' He didn't do anything this time either. 'Do you want to be called Serafín after your aunt?' And then he opened his eyes just a wee bit, and made up a little mouth with his lips. Oh, so cunning!"
Maximina smiled as though she had been listening to a revelation from heaven. She, and her aunt also, were instantly convinced, but Miguel still doubted.
"When it comes to the smiling of infants not more than fifty-seven hours old," said Miguel, "I must confess to an unyielding scepticism. I am like Saint Thomas: seeing is believing."
"But he did smile, Miguel. Don't you have any doubt of it; I assure you he did, ..." said Serafina.
"You do not offer me sufficient guarantees of impartiality."
"Very good! then he is going to do it again; now you shall see for yourself."
Serafina took the child and lifted him above her head, with great decision, at the same time asking him if he wanted to be called Serafín; to which question the child did not find it expedient to reply, perhaps from an excess of diplomacy, because it would not have been strange if the name had seemed absurd to him.
Maximina, meantime, hung on his lips as though the child were passing through a college examination.
"You try it, Plácida," said she, trying to hide her affliction.