“It was enough to arouse the curiosity of the statue of Mendizabal itself. That Artegui, who has never been known to make a slip.”
“An eccentric fellow, an eccentric fellow. Rich as Crœsus and he leads the life of a friar. If I had his money, his money—you should see!”
“But tell me, don’t you think there is something between Artegui and Lucía?”
“Pish, no,” said Perico, who, differing in this from his sister, was not addicted to speaking ill of people unless they had given him some cause of offense. “This Artegui has only milk in his veins, milk in his veins, and I am very sure he has not said as much as that to her!” and he snapped his thumb nail against the tip of his forefinger.
“The truth is that she has not a particle of style about her. But let us come to facts, Periquin; did you not tell me that she was greatly grieved and upset when he went away and Miranda came in afterward?”
“But put yourself in her place, put yourself in her place. Miranda looked like a scarecrow——”
“No, I should not like to be in her place,” exclaimed Pilar, bursting into a laugh.
“And then the idiot did what all coxcombs do when they are angry,” continued Perico, laughing in his turn. “When he ought to have tried to make himself agreeable, to say something to the poor girl, he launched into a philippic against her because she did not return to Miranda de Ebro, de Ebro, to take care of his dislocated foot. And then, it could have happened to no one but him to faint for a dislocation and neglect to telegraph to his wife to inform her of it. And he asked her with a tragic air, ‘Where is your attentive companion gone to?’ The man was heavenly.”
“You see, it is as I said, the husband is jealous. You are nothing but a simpleton.”
“Child, child, child! No one can deceive me in those matters! I tell you, I tell you, there was nothing between Artegui and Lucía, Lucía. I’d bet a hundred dollars this moment, this moment——”