“And what do you say, countess?” asked the duke.
“I am of my mother’s opinion,” she replied.
“And besides,” said Rita, “he is in love with the dancer, Lucea del Salto; and thus, when even if he had been to my taste, I ought to have made him the same answer. I do not like to share, and, above all, with these señoritas of the green-room.”
CHAPTER XVII.
RITA was niece to the marchioness and the general. An orphan since her birth, she had been brought up by her brother, who loved her with tenderness; and by her nurse, who adored and spoilt her,—without which she might have made a good and pious young girl. The isolation and independence in which she had passed the first years of her life, had impressed on her character the double seal of timidity and decision. Slightly brilliant, because she detested noise and éclat, she was proud and at the same time good; simple and capricious, a mocker and reserved.
To this piquant character was added an exterior the most beautiful and attractive. She was neither too large nor too small; her form, which had never been submitted to the precision of the corset, had all the suppleness and flexibility which French romances falsely give to their heroines, fastened in by narrow strips of whalebone. It is to this graceful suppleness of body and of movement, united to that frankness of manner, so natural and enchanting when elegance and good nature accompany it, that the Spaniards owe their charming attractions, which we may call their distinctive characteristic. Rita had the tint of unpolished white; it was of the purity and regularity of a marble statue. Her admirable head of black hair, and those large eyes of dark brown, surmounted by eyebrows which seemed painted by the hand of Murillo, were most attractive. Her mouth, of extraordinary freshness, and almost always serious, opened from time to time to let escape, between her white teeth, a joyous burst of laughter, which her habitual reserve made her as soon take back; for nothing was to her more painful than to attract attention, and when by chance that happened she could not conceal her displeasure. She had made a vow to the Virgin of grief to wear a habit: it was for this she was always clothed in black, with a belt of polished leather; and a little golden heart, pierced with a sword, ornamented the upper part of her sleeve.
Rita was the only woman whom her Cousin Raphael seriously loved; not with a passion elegiac and weeping, which no way belonged to his character, the least sentimental the east wind ever blew upon, but of a true affection, earnest, sincere, and constant. Raphael, an excellent youth, loyal, judicious, as noble in manner as in birth, and possessed of a handsome patrimony, pleased in every way the family of Rita; notwithstanding, the young girl, spite of her brother’s surveillance, had surrendered her heart to another without his knowing it.
The object of her preference was a young man of an illustrious origin, a handsome boy, but a gambler; and that was sufficient for Rita’s brother to oppose her love, and he had forbidden her to see or speak to him. Rita, with her firmness of character and Spanish perseverance—which she could have better employed—quietly waited, without complaint, without sighs or tears, the attainment of twenty-one years of age, when she would have the right to marry whom she pleased, without scandal, and in spite of her brother’s opposition. During this time, her lover walked the streets, exhibiting to everybody his national costume of majo (gallant), and riding superb horses. It is useless to explain here that the two lovers had established between them a daily correspondence.
This evening, as usual, Rita had arrived at the reunion without making any noise, and was seated in her accustomed place, near to her aunt, to witness the card-playing.
Raphael glided behind his cousin, and whispered in her ear: