"Bear with me, Señor de Ribot. I am a little slow of understanding, and especially in matters so fine as these. Yet I believe I understood (pardon me if I mistake) that you desire our permission to pay court to her. Pardon me, for heaven's sake, if I do not express myself like you two."
"Yes, señor, I desire your authorization to confirm my relations with Isabelita."
"Precisely! That's it! I see that I am not mistaken. Well, then, sir, I am agreeable to all that Doña Clara has said, and if she had said more, I should be still more agreeable. You already know my opinion of you, Señor de Ribot. When there is a head in the house capable of giving useful advice in all affairs, why bother one's head discussing them? Only I desire that in this nothing is promised on our side. For the present, nothing is settled. If later, Señor de Ribot, we are of the same opinion, and all come to an understanding, we shall be able to talk in another fashion. My wife has already talked in another fashion, and I have not cut her short; but you understand me, señor?"
I understood perfectly that this crafty Galician, before giving his word, wished to find out exactly how much I was worth. I let myself be imposed upon by the ruse. I accepted what he proposed, saying that my visit was not an official one, but merely a simple call of courtesy and respect, and that I desired that they should retain their liberty, as I retained my own.
"That's it! Just so! Nothing is settled."
Doña Clara had maintained her rigid and immovable position while we were talking, gazing into space over our heads in an attitude solemn and disdainful; nothing would give an idea how grandiose it was, except the Minerva of Phidias on top of the Acropolis, if by chance this work of the antique pagan master had been preserved intact until our time. She remained thus until I, taking myself to the stairway, disappeared from her horizon. Retamoso went down stairs with me, took me as far as the door, pulled off his skull-cap, and uttering a thousand oh's and ah's, pressed both my hands with inexplicable tenderness, and said in my ear, as he dismissed me, "It is understood, Señor de Ribot, that nothing is settled, isn't it? My opinion is that nothing should be settled."
My good Martí laughed not a little when I related to him the details of this interview. He congratulated me warmly, and, carried away by his fanciful optimism, he sketched out twenty plans, each more agreeable than the last, for my future. I was to become very rich, and be associated with him and Castell in a steamboat line whose direction should be my charge. I should also have a part in the business of the artesian wells when they began to strike water. In regard to the canals from the river, he expressed sincere regret that it was impossible at present to give me anything to do. I replied that that did not weigh on me; I would try to live without it. My resignation moved him so much that he finished by saying, running both hands through his tresses:
"I shall be very much annoyed if, after all, we don't find a way for you to get a show in this business, for it is going to be the best thing ever done in Spain before to-day."
When what had taken place was made known to Cristina, she showed herself more affectionate and kind to me than usual. I observed, none the less, on her face a melancholy expression that she tried in vain to conceal. She made a visible effort to appear gay, but at the best she seemed a bit absent, and her great black eyes were often fixed upon space, revealing deep absorption.
I stayed to supper with them. We were at table, besides the married couple and their mamma, Isabelita, Castell, and Matilde, with all her children, who entertained us very much. The deserted wife, whose eyes were now always red, smiled sadly, seeing the tenderness and enthusiasm with which these little creatures inspired me. There was not lacking someone—I think it was Doña Amparo—to hint that I was going to be a most affectionate father, which caused Isabelita a veritable suffocation of blushes. This color came back several times during supper, because Martí thought well to season it with more or less transparent allusions to our future kinship. Above all, when he opened a bottle of champagne, and, lifting the goblet, drank to the wish "that Captain Ribot would cast anchor in Valencia for life," the cheeks of his cousin did not set fire to the house, because, fortunately, there was no combustible material stowed near them.