“The covert satire of your tone is worthy of your utter disregard of our sorrow.—I have had nothing whatever to do with this business, and you yourself know very well that I have bewailed from my heart all the disgrace which has fallen on the family in consequence of my father’s misdemeanours, my mother’s folly and Polito’s vices. You, when I believed you to be honest and honourable, were the confidant of my griefs. Now, when we recoil from you with invincible repugnance, I feel I must tell you that I cannot eat a morsel of bread in peace until we have repaid to the uttermost farthing a man who does not deserve to be our creditor.”
“If you mean me, I look for no indemnification. I am sufficiently repaid with ingratitude.”
“That is all very fine,” said Gustavo sarcastically. “What I have said I have said. Now, we meet no more. My last word is to acknowledge that I was mistaken in saying that you would die of rage: You will live on cynicism.—I know, the carriage is waiting and the trunks packed for a theatrical flight in defiance of social decency and the laws of morality. Well, well; it is no more than might be expected of you.—Bon voyage, son of Satan....”
“Your penetration and information as to my proceedings are really remarkable!—Now, if you please we will part.”
“It is my desire.”
“And I insist upon it. Good-bye.”
Not long after, peeping through the blinds, he watched the departure of what had been his family. The marquis, feeble and crushed, was almost carried by the poet who was still in attendance. His wife, really broken-hearted, was a pathetic object. Polito, his throat muffled up in voluminous wraps, gave one arm to the young lady who was to be his wife, while in the other he held a dog. Milagros was supported and almost lifted into the carriage by Pilar and Señora de Villa Bojío.—Whips cracked, the horses pawed, and one, two, three, four coaches rolled across the park bearing away the dozen or so of human creatures, to whom the solemnity of a recent sorrow lent factitious respectability.