For them the genii have separated. Their life has no pain. Think of Rosalie's vision. Had they married it might have been all sorrow and suffering. No, best as it is. Their story is an idyll too perfect for this world. They have had their romance, and have kept it."
CHAPTER VIII.
MOTHER AND SON.
Demons at work—In the crowd—Ernesto and his mother—Roasted chestnuts—Instrument of torture—New school of anatomy—Rhine-stones or diamonds?—Happy mother—Honest confession—Danger of edged tools—Cayenne lozenges for the monkeys—Joseph—Early compliments—Ernesto pleads in vain—Down by the river—Music of the reeds—Rich prospect—Faust—Singers of the world—Joseph takes tickets—Gerona keeps late hours—Its little great world—Between the acts—Successful evening—In the dark night—On the bridge—Silence and solitude—Astral bodies—Joseph turns Job's comforter—Magnetism—Delormais psychological—Alone in the streets—Saluting the Church militant—Haunted staircase again—Sighs and rustlings—H. C. retires—"Drink to me only with thine eyes"—Delormais' challenge—Leads the way—Illumination—Coffee equipage—"Only the truth is painful"—Lost in reverie.
WE were facing the wonderful arcades which still seemed haunted by Rosalie's shadow, so vivid the impression she left behind her. It was one of the most striking bits of Gerona the beautiful, with its massive masonry and deep recesses requiring sunlight to relieve their mysterious gloom.
In a few moments we stood once more on the bridge, looking upon the remarkable scene. The demons were in full work down in the dry bed of the river; their altars threw out tongues of flame as wood, coal and braise mingled their elements, and the air seemed full of the scent of roasted chestnuts.
Those marvellous houses stood on either side with their old-world outlines and weather-beaten stains. Above them rose the towers of Gerona's churches, sharply cutting the grey sky. To our right, the boulevard stretched far down, with its waving, rustling trees. All the shows were in full operation; streams of people went to and fro; the booths were making a fortune; the Dutch auction was giving away its wares—if the auctioneer might be relied on.
We joined the crowd and presently felt a tug at our elbow. It was Ernesto with radiant face, his hands full of chestnuts freely offered and accepted. We found it easy to persuade ourselves the indigestible horrors were excellent.
"Ernesto, you are taking liberties," said his mother, as the boy took our arm to confide his purchases. A Rhine-stone brooch for the mother, which Mrs. Malaprop would have declared quite an object of bigotry and virtue; a wonderful knife for himself, full of sharp blades and secret springs. A purse capable of holding gold, and a pocket-book that would soon become dropsical with a boy's treasures. Finally, from the innermost recess of a trousers' pocket, he produced for an instant—a catapult; to be held a profound secret from the mother.
"It keeps her awake at night," he confided; "and when she does get to sleep she dreams of smashed windows and murdered cats. Now I never smash windows, though I do go for the cats when I have a chance. It does them no harm. If I hit them, you hear a thud like a sound from a drum—the cats are not over-fed in these parts—but instead of tumbling down dead, which would be exciting, they rush off like mad."
"Perhaps they die afterwards, Ernesto, of fractured liver or broken heart."