A Wedding Trip

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

Lucía’s eyes continued their mute questioning, more eager than ever. Sardiola continued:

“But what most pleased me was to live so near the Señorito——”

“So near?” mutely asked the shining eyes.

“So near,” he said in response, “so very near that—why it is delightful!—you have only to cross the garden there to reach his house.”

Lucía ran to the balcony, and, as pale as wax, looked with wild eyes at the building opposite. Sardiola followed her to the window and even the sick girl turned her head around with curiosity.

“Look there,” explained Sardiola. “Do you see that wall there and that other wall which joins it at a right angle? Well, those are the walls of the hotel. Now look at that other wall, which forms the third side of the square—that is the wall of Don Ignacio’s house; it opens on the Rue de Rivoli. Do you see those steps leading into the garden? You ascend by those into the corridor on the first floor, into which the dining-room opens—a very handsome room! The whole house is handsome. Don Ignacio’s father accumulated a great deal of money. Do you see that little tree there at the foot of the steps, that sickly-looking plane tree? That is where the Señorito used to take his mother to sit to breathe the air; she died of a disease the name of which I don’t remember, but which means—well, that the heart becomes greatly enlarged—and as she had dreadful fits of oppression at times so that she could scarcely breathe, just like a fish when it is taken out of the water; she had to be brought down into the garden, and even then there was not air enough for her, and she would sit for an hour trying to get her breath. If you had seen the Señorito! That was what might be called devotion! He supported her head, he warmed her feet with his hands, he kissed her a thousand times in an hour, he fanned her—well, it was a sight worth seeing! A purer soul God never sent into the world nor shall we see another like her in our time. After death the blessed saint looked so smiling and so natural and so handsome, with her fair hair! He it was that looked like a dead person; if he had been lying in the coffin any one would have taken him for the corpse.”

“Silence!” the eloquent eyes suddenly commanded.

And Sardiola obeyed. Duhamel, Miranda, and Perico were entering the room. Duhamel examined the apartment minutely and declared it, in his Lusitanian-French jargon, to be sheltered, convenient, not too high, yet well ventilated, and in every way suitable for the patient. Miranda and Perico retired to the adjoining room to wash themselves after the journey, and tacitly, without debating the question, it was decided that patient and nurse should room together, and that the two men should occupy together also the room in which they were. Miranda interposed no objection to this sacrifice on Lucía’s part; for Duhamel, calling him aside, informed him that the disease was rapidly nearing its fatal termination, and that he thought the sick girl could hardly live a month longer, in view of which fact Miranda silently resolved to depart with his wife in eight or ten days’ time under some pretext or other. But fate, which had ordained that these events should have a very different dénouement, disposed matters in such a way, employing Perico as her instrument, that Miranda very soon began to find himself contented, diverted, and happy in this Parisian Babylon; this gulf among whose reefs and shoals the artful Gonzalvo piloted him with more skill and dexterity than singleness of purpose.

“What the deuce, what the deuce are you going to bury yourself in Leon for now?” exclaimed Perico. “You will have time enough, time enough to bore yourself there! Take my advice and avail yourself of the opportunity. Why, you are well enough now! Those waters have made you look ten years younger.”

The sly fellow knew very well what he was about. Neither her father nor her aunt had manifested any very great desire to come and take care of Pilar, and he foresaw that on him would devolve the disagreeable office of sick nurse. His mind, fertile in wiles, suggested a thousand artifices by which to charm Miranda in that magical city that of itself turns the heads of all who set foot in it. Lucía’s husband made acquaintance with the refinements of the French cuisine in the best restaurateurs, (close your eyes, ye purists!) and the experienced gourmet of middle age came to take a profound interest in the question as to whether the sauce Holandaise were better in this restaurant or in the one two doors below, and when the stuffed mushrooms had their richest flavor. In addition to these gastronomic enjoyments he took pleasure in frequenting the variety theaters, of which there are so many in Paris. He was amused by the comic songs, the contortions of the clown, the rollicking music, and the airy and almost Eden-like costumes of the nymphs, who went disguised as saucepans, violins, or puppets. It is even stated—but on evidence insufficient to establish it as a historical fact—that the illustrious ex-beau sought to recall his past glories and to refresh his dry and withered laurels, and selected for his victim a certain proscenium-rat, in the high-sounding language of the stage, called Zulma, although every one was well aware that in less exalted regions she might be called Antonia, Dionisia, or the like. This creature sang with inimitable grace the refrains of certain chansonnettes, and it was enough to make one split one’s sides laughing to see her when, with her hand on her hip, her right leg in the air, a wink in her eye, and parted lips she uttered some slang expression—a cry from the fish-stands or the market, repeated by her rosy mouth for the delectation and delight of the audience. Nor were these the only graces and accomplishments of the singer, for the choicest part of her repertory, the quintessence of her art, she kept rather for her hours of dalliance with those fortunate mortals who succeeded in obtaining access, well-provided with gold-dust, to this Danaë of the stage. What feline wiles did she employ with her adorers; calling grave men of sixty her little mice, her little dogs, her little cats, her bébés, and other endearing and delightful names, sweeter to them than honey. And what shall I say of the incomparable humor and grace with which she held between her pearly teeth a Russian pipe while she sent into the air wreaths of blue smoke; the contraction of her lips, accentuating the curves of her retroussé nose and the dimples of her puffed-out cheeks? What of the skill with which she balanced herself on two chairs at once without sitting, properly speaking, on either of them, since her shoulders rested against the back of the one and her heels on the seat of the other? What of the agility and dexterity with which she swallowed in ten minutes ten dozen of raw oysters, accompanied with two or three bottles of Rhine wine, so that it almost seemed as if her throat had been annointed with oil to let them slip down smoothly? What of the smiling eloquence with which she proved to some friend that such or such a diamond ring was too small for his finger while it fitted hers as if it had been made for it? In short, if the adventure that was then whispered in the corridors of a certain variety theater and at the table d’hôte of the Alavesa seems unworthy of the traditional splendor of the house of Miranda, at least it is but just to record that its heroine was the most entertaining, cajoling, and dangerous of the feline tribe that then mewed discordantly on the Parisian stage.