Leon could hardly conceal a bitter smile as he left the room; and once more that cock was heard to crow.
CHAPTER XII.
THE STRIFE OF WORDS.
As soon as Fúcar heard the solemn tread of Padre Paoletti’s leaden foot on the floors of his house, he hastened to pay him the usual compliments, putting his house, his table, and his servants at his disposal—his carriages, chapel and treasures of art. It might have been supposed, from the lavish generosity with which he offered everything that could give joy and comfort to necessitous humanity, that he was lord and master over the whole created world. And bowing as low as his burly dignity would allow he expressed, by his polite subserviency, how inferior are all the riches and splendours of the world to the humility of a simple priest, who has no gala dress but his gown, and no palace but his cell.
Paoletti, who was an accomplished connoisseur, not only of the fine arts but of all the arts of life, complimented his host on the magnificence of Suertebella, thus giving the marquis a fair excuse for indulging his favourite vanity, which was to display the mansion, room by room, and do the duties of showman. The excursion was a long one and would have been enough to fatigue the strongest head, the gorgeous apartments contained such a miscellaneous collection of pretty things. Padre Paoletti admired everything with much politeness, showing that he was a man well versed in collections and curiosities. Don Pedro, who talked like the reporter to a newspaper and praised up the mediocre and even inferior works, was apt to quote the price of certain objects—pictures bought of Goupil, or porcelains from some auction at the hotel Drouot, most of them mere good imitations.
“I am overdone, positively overdone with fine things,” said he, looking into Paoletti’s face and folding his hands with an air of resignation. “I am the slave of wealth, my good Padre. No one would think it, but in fact it is the most intolerable form of slavery. I really envy those who live at ease, with the freedom and independence that poverty gives; without the anxieties of business, with no banquet but what I could eat out of a bowl and no mansion but some cell or hut or cave!”
“But my dear Sir,” said the Italian, raising his hand to his mouth to conceal a yawn, “nothing can be easier than to realize such a wish. To be poor! When I hear poor men sigh and wish they were millionaires, I laugh and sigh; but when I hear a rich man pine for a hovel and six feet of ground in which to rest his bones, I say what I take the liberty of saying to you: Why do you not retire among the hermits of Cordova? Why not exchange Suertebella for a recluse’s cell?”
And he ended as he had begun, with a hearty laugh; but he yawned again, screening it behind his white hand.