The apothecary spoke angrily, multiplying instances, and exaggerating them in the telling, with the rage of the plebeian who eagerly seizes an opportunity to ridicule the poor aristocracy, relating anecdotes of everyone of the ladies and gentlemen—stories of poverty more or less skillfully disguised. Don Victoriano laughed, remembering some of the stories, now become proverbial in the country, while Nieves, her anxiety set at rest by her husband's laughter, began to think without terror, with a certain secret complacency, rather, of the episodes of the fireworks. She had feared to see Segundo among the crowd, but, as the night advanced and the brilliant colors of the booths faded into the surrounding darkness, and lights began to appear, and the singing of the drunkards grew hoarser, her mind became tranquil, and the danger seemed very remote, almost to have disappeared. In her inexperience she had fancied at first that the poet's arm would leave its trace, as it were, on her waist, and that the poet would seize the first opportunity to present himself before her, exacting and impassioned, betraying himself and compromising her. But the day passed by, serene and without incident, and Nieves experienced the inevitable impatience of the woman who waits in vain for the appearance of the man who occupies her thoughts. At last she remembered the ball. Segundo would certainly be there.
XV.
And she adorned herself for the town ball with a certain illusion, with the same care as if she were dressing for a soirée at the palace of Puenteancha.
Naturally the gown and the ornaments were very different from what they would have been in the latter case, but they were selected with no less care and consideration—a gown of white China crêpe, high-necked, and without a train, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, that fell in clinging folds, whose simplicity was completed by long dark Suède gloves wrinkled at the wrist, reaching to the elbow. A black velvet ribbon, fastened by a diamond and sapphire horseshoe, encircled her neck. Her beautiful fair hair, arranged in the English fashion, curled slightly over the forehead.
She was almost ashamed of having selected this toilette when she crossed the muddy plaza, leaning on Agonde's arm, and heard the poor music, and found the entrance of the townhall crowded with country-people sitting on the floor, whom it was necessary to step over to reach the staircase. On the landings ran the lees of the fair—a dark wine-colored rivulet. Agonde drew her aside.
"Don't step there, Nieves; take care," he said.
She felt repelled by this unsightly entrance, calling to mind the marble vestibule and staircase of the palace of Puenteancha, carpeted down the center, with plants arranged on either side. At the door of the apartment which she was now entering was a counter laden with cakes and confectionery, at which the wife of Ramon, the confectioner, holding in her arms the inevitable baby, presided, casting angry glances at the young ladies who had come to amuse themselves.
Nieves was given a seat in the most conspicuous part of the room, in front of the door. The whitewashed walls were not very clean, nor was the red cloth which covered the benches very fresh, nor did the badly snuffed candles in the tin chandelier produce a brilliant illumination. Owing to the large number of people present the heat was almost insupportable. In the center of the apartment the men stood grouped together—the youth of Vilamorta, visitors to the springs, strangers, gamblers, and the gentry from the neighboring country, mingling in one black mass. Every time the band struck up anew, deafening the ear with its sonorous strains, the indefatigable dancers would leave the group and hurry off in search of their partners.