Don César did not move a line of his vigorous face during this conversation. His eyes, which were of a strange intensity gleaming with ferocity, did not for a moment leave the girl's face. He said nothing for a time, having something in his mind, and then he broke the silence, speaking in the curt tone of command,—
"To-morrow at this time be on hand again. We have some commissions to give you."
"I will not fail you."
Don César noticed that two young men had just turned the corner and were coming toward them; thereupon, without saying farewell, he left the women, crossing to the opposite sidewalk.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA WAS CONVERTED INTO DUKE OF THURINGEN.
A FEW days later Ricardo set forth from home as usual about ten o'clock in the morning and turned his steps toward the house of his betrothed. It was not love alone that impelled him to walk the street so early, but as much the melancholy solitude that reigned at the present time in the vast seignorial mansion where he lived: for our hero had been alone in the world a little more than a year. His father, the old Marqués de Peñalta, had died when he was under six, and he had scarcely more than a vague remembrance of his pale face between the sheets of the bed when they raised him up to give him a kiss a few hours before he died. He remembered also how on that same day every one had hugged him and kissed him, with tears, and this had attracted his attention and made him ask, "Why are you all crying to-day?"
His mother had loved him with one of those concentrated and fierce affections which destroy by very reason of over care. During his boyhood she had kept him tied to her apron-strings, never consenting for him to take part in the games of the other lads, lest he should hurt himself. Even when he was quite a youth, she always used to put him to bed, offering with him a series of innocent prayers, and sitting by his bedside with folded arms until he fell asleep, when she would silently leave his chamber on tip-toe. When he reached early manhood, she had nothing to do but think of her son's career, for the late marquis had provided that he should follow one. Ricardo wanted to enter the artillery. How many tears the lad's resolute decision cost the mother! The first time that he went to Segovia, the good lady thought she should die: she made up her mind not to leave the house until her son returned, and she carried out her intention. When he came home to spend his vacation, she could not be enough at his side, caressing him and reading in his eyes his slightest caprices, so as to carry them out instantly. Two or three days before it was time for him to return, she would begin to sob and cry: she held him close to her bosom for long moments and made him promise a thousand times to write her every day, to cover himself up warm during his journey, and not to go out nights. The only thing which served to divert her for a short time was the preparation of his cadet's chest, with which she took so much pains that it lacked nothing, from the more usual articles of dress, down to a piece of court plaster and a package of lint in case he were wounded. Ricardo always avoided leave-taking by escaping on the sly.
Thanks to his genial, happy, and sympathetic nature, rather than by his application, the young Marqués de Peñalta finished his course. At college everybody loved him, students as well as professors. He was one of those frank and friendly young fellows with whom it is difficult to quarrel, and whom we all go to as a confidant worthy of sharing the secrets of our hearts in the bitter misfortunes of life. He was always found smiling and unreserved, bringing joy and confidence wherever he went, and rarely did a dispute arise between two cadets which he did not succeed in bringing to a friendly issue. In spite of his conciliatory temperament no one in college or out of it questioned his courage, much less the remarkable prowess of his fists. More than once, in the frequent quarrels between the cadets and the peasants, which generally broke out in candle-light balls, he had floored three or four stout carls with as many blows, which attracted all the more attention from the crowd because there was nothing stout or athletic in his figure.
One day, while encamped in the park at Sevilla, the colonel called him into his tent and asked him,—
"Isn't it a number of days since you have had a letter from your mother, Peñalta?"