The waiter approached, his napkin thrown over his shoulder. He had a bronzed face and a soldierly air which accorded ill with the patent leather shoes, and hair flattened down with bandoline, which is the livery imposed by the public on its servants in these places. A broad scar, running across the left cheek from the end of the mustache down the neck, added to his martial appearance. The waiter stared fixedly at Artegui for a moment, then, giving a cry, or rather a sort of canine bark, he exclaimed:
“It is either he himself or the devil in his shape! Señorito Ignacio! It is a cure for sore eyes——”
“You here, Sardiola?” said Artegui quietly. “We shall have a good breakfast then, for you will see to it that we are well served.”
“Yes, Señorito, I am here. Afterward,” he said, laying marked emphasis on the word, and lowering his voice, “as I found everything belonging to me destroyed—the house burned to the ground and the field laid waste—I set to work to earn my living as best I could. And you, Señorito, are you going to France?”
“I am going to France, but if you keep on chattering we shall have no breakfast to-day.”
“That would be a pretty thing——”
Sardiola spoke a few words in the Biscayan dialect, bristling with z’s, k’s, and t’s, to some of his fellow-waiters. Breakfast was at once served to Artegui and Lucía, the man taking his stand behind the chair of the former.
“So you are going to France?” he went on. “And the Señora Doña Armanda—is she well?”
“Not very well,” answered Ignacio, the cloud deepening on his brow. “She suffers a great deal. When I left her, however, she was feeling slightly better.”
“When she sees you at home once more she will be quite well again.”