"But supposing I am not in practice—I don't know how I can repay such kindness. Besides, I have lost my voice entirely."
Don Serapio let himself be urged for some time. At last he went toward the piano, escorted by a circle of ladies, to whom he addressed smiles and words full of honeyed sweetness, and managed to extract clandestinely a roll of music which he carried in the inner pocket of his coat. The pianist instantly saw through this manœuvre, and came to his assistance by quietly taking the music from his hand.
"Don Serapio is going to sing—you are going to sing the romance Lontano a te," he said as he spread it out on the rack.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake! it is too sentimental, and these ladies are not now in favor of romanticism—"
"On the contrary, Don Serapio!" exclaimed one of the Delgado girls; "we women in this age of selfishness and calculation are the very ones who ought to worship sentiment and heart."
"Always as graceful as you are felicitous!" declared the vocalist, bowing to the floor.
The pianoforte introduction began. Don Serapio, before he uttered a note, kept arching his eyebrows, and he stretched his neck as much as possible, as a token of his feeling. He was upwards of fifty, although pomades, dyes, and cosmetics gave him from a distance the appearance of a young man. Near at hand, his mustachios, though waxed to perfection, were not sufficient to make up for the crows'-feet and wrinkles of every sort which lined his face. He was a manufacturer of canned goods, and a confirmed old bachelor; not because he failed to honor the fair sex and hold it in esteem, but because he thought that marriage was death to love and its illusions. Never was there a man more soft and honeyed in his conversation with ladies, and never was there a gallant who had a more abundant assortment of flatteries to lavish upon them. He made great use of such expressions as the fire of passion, the loss of will power, perfumed breath, palpitations of the heart, and other like elegancies, all sure of hitting the mark. This was as regards society women. As for work-girls and serving-maids, Don Serapio's gallantries did not stop with compliments. He was regarded as one of the most formidable and successful of seducers among such, and it was a matter of common knowledge in Nieva that more than one, and more than two, had had seriously to complain of his behavior, so that it brought about his head a tremendous scandal which he had hastened to hush with the fulness of his locker. As a general thing he led a regular life, rising very early, going to his factory to attend to his accounts and to inspect the spicing of his fish and oysters, and coming home about five o'clock in the afternoon to wash himself and dress for his promenade or his calls, which were not few, and which always ended at eleven o'clock in the evening. The only reading for which he cared was that of detective stories.
Don Serapio's voice was a trifle disagreeable. As one of the young wags among those clustering about the door said, no one could tell for a certainty if it were tenor, baritone, or bass. In compensation, he sang with sentiment fit to melt the rocks, as could be judged by the infinite movements of his eyebrows, and by the expression of disconsolateness which came over his face as soon as he stood in front of the piano; no one ever saw a face so wrinkled, so long drawn, so full of compunction. The romanza Lontano a te, better than any other, had the power of exciting his sensibility and giving his eyes an exceedingly hopeless expression.
While the proprietor of the canning factory was expressing in Italian his grief at finding himself far from his lady love, the elder daughter of the family was in the most retired part of the room still engaged in conversation with a youth of a pleasant, open countenance, with swarthy complexion, black eyes, and a young mustache.
"Enrique misunderstood my commission," said the youth. "I asked him to send me some jewelry worth something, but what he sent me is just about as commonplace as could be; so much so that I am thinking of sending it back to-morrow without showing it to you."