“It must be the French opinion you mean, sir; for you cannot be ignorant that Thiers was a——”
I purposely made a pause, during which my adversary looked at me with some anxiety.
“Thiers was a Frenchman.”
The priest from San Andrés timidly ventured to say, from his corner:
“Of course he was a Frenchman, for it was he who restored peace to France after the Commune.”
As I looked around to observe the impression my words had made, I noticed that Don Román’s face expressed disapprobation and surprise, while my uncle’s was flushed with anger, and Father Moreno’s lighted up by a roguish smile.
Pimentel replied, somewhat confused: “Of course he was a Frenchman; we were not speaking of that, I believe. We were discussing English public opinion,—for, there is no doubt about it, England is the land of self-government, as the renowned Azcarate proved so conclusively,—while we—our idiosyncrasy—it will not do to implant here what in other nations more—it will not be feasible; because every ruler has to consider the inherent tendencies of the race.”
“That is all talk,” I argued; “generalities, which prove nothing. Let us come closer to the point, if you please. We have nothing to do with races. We are talking about the Spanish Republic, to which all those who are in authority to-day, big and little, had committed themselves, but which they betrayed for thirty pieces of silver, like Judas. Would they do the same by the Restoration, if it had not given them full swing with the Government’s salary-list?”
I did not perceive the insolence of my attack, until I heard Serafín exclaim in his harsh voice, clapping his hands:
“That’s it! Go on, that’s where the shoe pinches.”