“We shall see the streets, shall we not?” she exclaimed excitedly.
And as they went down the waxed and slippery stairs, she said, with a remnant of provincial scrupulousness and shyness:
“Of course, Señor de Artegui, my husband will repay you all you are spending.”
Artegui tightened his clasp on her arm with a smile, and they walked on through the streets of Bayonne, as much at home with each other as if they had lived all their lives together. The night was worthy of the day. In the soft blue sky the stars shone clear and bright. The gas-lights of the innumerable shops, which in Bayonne trade upon the vanity of the wealthy and migratory Spaniards, encircled the dark blocks of houses with zones of light, and in the show-cases gleamed, in every tone of the chromatic scale, rich stuffs, porcelains, curious bronzes, and costly jewels. The pair walked on in silence, Artegui accommodating his long manly stride to the shorter step of Lucía. The streets were filled with people who walked along quickly, with an air of animation, like people engaged in some business that interests them; not with the languid air of the southern races, who walk for exercise or to kill time. The tables standing in front of the cafés were crowded with customers, for the mild atmosphere made it pleasant to sit in the open air, and under the bright light of the gas lamps the waiters hurried about serving beer, coffee, or chocolate bavaroise; and the smoke of the cigars, and the rustling of newspapers, and the talk, and the sharp ring of the dominoes on the marble made the sidewalk full of life. Suddenly Artegui turned the corner of the street and led the way into a rather narrow shop, whose show-case was almost filled by two long morning-gowns adorned with cascades of lace, one of them trimmed with blue, the other with pink ribbons. Inside the shop were numberless articles of underwear for women and children, coquettishly displayed,—jackets with extended sleeves, wrappers hanging in graceful folds. The ivory white of the laces contrasted with the chalky white of the muslins. Here and there the brilliant colors, the silk and gold of some morning cap resting on its wooden stand, rose in contrast from among the white masses lying around on all sides like a carpet of snow.
The proprietress of the establishment, like most of the shopkeepers of Bayonne, spoke Spanish; and when Lucía asked her for two suits of linen she availed herself of her knowledge of the language of Cervantes to endeavor to persuade her to launch into further purchases. Taking Lucía and Artegui for a newly married couple she became flattering, insinuating, importunate, and persisted in showing them a complete outfit, lauding its beauty and its cheapness. She threw on the counter armfuls of articles, floods of lace, embroidery, batiste. Not content with which, and seeing that Lucía, submerged in a flood of linen, was making signs in the negative with head and hands, she touched another spring, and took down enormous pasteboard boxes containing diminutive caps, flannel, swaddling-clothes, finely scalloped cashmere and piqué cloaks, petticoats of an exaggerated length, and other articles which brought the blood to Lucía’s cheeks.
Artegui put an end to the attack by paying for the suits selected, and giving the address of the hotel to which they were to be sent.
This done, they left the shop; but Lucía, enchanted with the beauty and serenity of the night, expressed a wish to remain out a little longer.
They retraced their steps, passing again before the brilliantly lighted cafés and the theater, and took the road to the bridge, at this hour almost deserted. The lights of the city were tremulously reflected on the tranquil bosom of the Adour.
“How bright the stars are!” exclaimed Lucía; and suddenly pulling Artegui by the sleeve, to arrest his steps. “What star is that,” she said, “that shines so brightly?”
“It is called Jupiter. It is one of the planets belonging to our system.”