Pimentel wiped his mustache with his napkin, turned his head toward me, and instead of answering me in an angry manner, smilingly agreed with me, saying:
“That is very true, Señor Meléndez. The tact of the Restoration in compromising with the revolutionary elements has rendered feasible that which under other circumstances—”
His speech was interrupted just then by the arrival of the Mayor of San Andrés, who was almost dragged in by the committee that had gone in quest of him at their young chief’s command. They must all have run up the hill, for they were dreadfully out of breath.
The Mayor was in a dripping sweat, and kept mopping his face with an enormous handkerchief. He stammered out that he did not consider that he was called upon to sit down at such a fine banquet; but Pimentel, as sweet as honey, seized his hand, found a place for him at his own side, and endeavored by every means in his power to gain the good will of his political opponent.
I should not be able to give the menu of that tiresome dinner. It seemed as though all the dishes enumerated in cook-books kept coming on the table, while the stupidity of the servants, and their inexperience in serving, prolonged the dinner indefinitely. The most difficult task of all would be to give a detailed account of the wines, the sweets, the liqueurs, the endless pastry, the coarse Pontevedra preserves, and the cakes sent by this or that neighbor, which, as the donors themselves were present, could not possibly be slighted.
I drank five or six glasses of champagne, but the only effect they had on me was to revive the belligerent spirit which had induced me to attack Pimentel. I felt quarrelsome, aggressive, quixotic, and desirous of pitching into everybody, right and left. And beneath that singular effervescence I felt the throbbing of a dumb ache in the depths of my heart, a sort of longing for something I seemed to have lost. I cannot define it for it was one of those subtle, vivid feelings which sometimes do not correspond to any deep mental need, but to certain fantastical whims thwarted by stern reality.
The bride, at whom I glanced furtively from time to time, had a dejected and weary appearance. This was very likely nothing more than the fatigue caused by the long time they were at the table, but I fancied that it was melancholy, the bitterness of the chalice she had put to her lips, the foretaste of the bitter draught.
And why not? Had I not overheard the conversation in the yew tree? Was I not positive that my uncle inspired her with an inexplicable feeling of aversion, and that only in order to perform a moral duty, the “categorical imperative” of her faith, had she drawn near to the altar, a veritable sacrificial altar for her? I wanted, at all hazards, to penetrate into the depths of her inmost soul, and read that gentle and suffering spirit. What could she be thinking about? What can she hope for? What can the fair bride be afraid of?
Meanwhile, the champagne, which had only quickened my imagination, began to affect the others more strongly, as was shown by their flushed faces, flashing eyes, somewhat obstreperous voices, unwarrantable and vehement loquacity, loud laughter, and silly effusiveness. Pimentel, although more decorous and self-possessed than the rest, became animated also, discussing with my uncle a grand project which would assuredly be an epoch-making event in the annals of the Sotopeña party; nothing less than to convert the procession in honor of the Virgin into an imposing political manifestation, Don Vicente himself to carry the standard, while all the people of Pontevedra and its vicinity, for seven leagues around, would turn out to furnish an escort of honor to their provincial divinities, the Virgin and their wonder-working saint. Some of the priests were listening to this project, and highly applauded it, exclaiming: “Excellent—give Catholic sentiment the first place; that’s the way!” Castro Mera was vehemently insisting on the excellency of law, a young man from San Andrés was challenging another from Pontevedra to see which could drink the greatest quantity of Curaçoa; the officer of Marines was disputing with the Mayor about the fishing tackle prohibited by law; Serafín was laughing convulsively because Viñal was maintaining with great energy that he had documents which proved that Tenero had founded Hellenes, and was even boasting that he knew the spot where Tenero was probably buried.
Don Román Aldao at last determined to make a move, telling the rest of the guests not to disturb themselves, for he was only going to show Pimentel the grounds and to take a little fresh air. The bride went off leaning on Pimentel’s arm, while her father and the bridegroom followed them arm in arm. As soon as they left, the rest became more animated, and the hullabaloo grew so loud that nobody could make himself understood. Some were disputing, others laughing loudly, others were arguing and pounding the table, already stained with wine and dotted with bits of cake and sweetmeats. Nobody was eating any more; they only kept on drinking, consuming an extraordinary amount of wines and liqueurs. The young gentleman from San Andrés, the one who had made the wager, had been obliged to go to the window to cool his heated brow, while the other one, from Pontevedra, was still unmoved in spite of the prodigious quantity of wine he had guzzled down, and was entertaining himself by teasing Serafín. He had already made him drink a quart of spirits, and now was amusing himself by pouring out sherry and Pajarete for him through a cylindrical bit of pastry, used as a funnel.