PART II.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CASTILIAN NOBILITY, OF THE LAWS OF MORALITY, OF ALL THAT IS MOST VENERABLE, AND OTHER SMALL MATTERS.
The crisis through which the house of Telleria was passing remained unsolved. In fact the catastrophe was so complete that to try to stem it seemed madness; nothing could be done but to conceal it as long as possible. The incorrigible actors in the wretched drama strained every nerve to prolong their reign before abdicating disgracefully and retiring into poverty; and though, behind the scenes, they were forced to soliloquise on the fact that they had no servants, that there was not a shop that would trust them, that they had not the bread of vanity in the form of a carriage, to the world they made it known that they were all ill. The marquis, poor man, suffered terribly from rheumatism; the marquesa—it was most distressing—had sunk into an alarming state of debility; the whole family were depressed and ailing. They received no one, not even their most intimate friends; they gave no dinners, not even to the hungry; they went nowhere, not even to the most interesting first nights.
At church was the only place where they could appear with such rueful countenances. What can be more edifying than to listen to the counsels of religion and to shed a tear at the feet of the Mother of Sorrows. Poor Milagros! The parishioners, who saw her come in and go out with a penitent air that was an example to all, paid her woes the tribute they claimed:
“Poor woman! what a trouble her sons have been to her!”
The evening meetings at the Marquesa de San Salomó’s, which were the only refuge of the distressed family, were very quiet and consisted of one or two poets, a few handsome women, half a dozen models of piety and a half a dozen hypocrites. Rome was the favourite theme of conversation, and “l’Univers” the favourite newspaper; the poets recited verses that exhaled an odour of sanctity, and under the influence of this suffocating literary incense the whole human race was regarded as excommunicated. Gustavo Sudre’s speeches were discussed beforehand; reputations were made for youths just come from the seminary: such a one was a St. Paul, such another a St. Ambrose or a Tertulian, or an Origen—in point of talent, of course; in short the evenings at the San Salomó’s had that club-like character which is a conspicuous feature of modern society. Political prejudices have found their way into the drawing-room and make themselves felt in the perfumed atmosphere of the boudoir, and more conspiracies are discussed there than in the barracks.
The marquesa was young, pretty, tall and shapely, though rather faded looking; her manners were pleasant and she patronised poetry, especially when it was of a pious and mystical tone. A sworn foe to materialism and liberalism and all the evils of modern civilisation, she was both elegant and clever, and the hours of the tertulias never seemed long; she had the art of spicing with wit and grace the anathemas that fulminated from her drawing-room, and she encouraged in her house and at her table a tone of moderation which was equally agreeable to the patriarchs and the poets. The St. Pauls and St. Ambroses no doubt swore to themselves that asceticism was better to preach than to practise.
The Marquis de San Salomó, a man who would sooner have been sawn in slices than have yielded a jot of his opinions—if indeed he had any—was not a frequent figure at these meetings. He more often went to the theatre, the casino, or other even less mentionable places of amusement. By day he sat in his study and received bull-fighters and all the rabble of the arena, and three-fourths of his conversation consisted of the slang inseparable from the lowest type of sport, and stories of the escapades of his boon companions. He was rich and not only made his wife a handsome allowance for pin-money, but granted her a considerable sum for religious purposes, so that a current account with Heaven formed part of his regular household expenses. Of his current account with the ladies of the ballet we need not give the particulars.
On the evening of the day when the marquis had been to see Leon Roch at Carabanchel his wife was conversing eagerly with a stiff old gentleman, decorated with the ribbon of some military order; a most innocent, harmless creature in spite of his calling, and one of those soldiers whose existence seems intended to prove that the army is a perfectly inoffensive body of men.
“It is vain to try to comfort me, General,” she said. “I am broken hearted! You yourself have said in exquisite verses that a mother’s heart is an inexhaustible treasury of endurance; but mine is full to the brim, I can endure no more; it must overflow.”