It is true to say that Pepe had done admirably.
All that he had promised in a situation where he placed himself between life and death, had been executed with an address, an ease, a dexterity, and a grace, which had not been baffled for an instant.
For such a task it is necessary to have an energetic temperament and a daring courage, joined to a certain degree of self-possession, which alone can command twenty-four thousand eyes which observe, and twenty-four thousand hands which applaud.
CHAPTER XIX.
MARISALADA devoted all her time to perfecting herself in the art which promised her a brilliant future, a career of celebrity, and a position which, in flattering her vanity, would satisfy her love for luxury. Stein ceased not to admire the constancy of her studies, and was enthusiastic in his astonishment at her progress.
The introduction, however, of the Gaviota to the great world, had been retarded by the illness of the countess’s son.
From the first symptoms of his malady, the countess was forgetful of every thing around her, her reunions, her engagements, her pleasures, Marisalada and her friends, and above all, the elegant and young colonel of whom we have spoken. For this mother there was no longer any world but her son. She had passed fifteen days at his pillow without sleep, in prayers and tears. The teething of her infant did not progress; the gums were inflamed and painful; his life was in danger.
The duke advised this poor mother to consult Stein, and the skilful doctor arrested the malady by means of incisions which he made in the gums. From that moment Stein became the friend of that family. The countess folded him in her arms, and the count recompensed him as if he were a prince. The marchioness said he was a saint: the general avowed that there could be good physicians out of Spain.
Rita, despite her wildness, deigned to consult him as to her headache; and Raphael declared that some day when least thought of, he would break some of his bones to have the pleasure of being cured by the Grand Frederic.
One morning the countess, pale and feeble, was seated at the bedside of her sleeping son. Her mother occupied a low chair, and, as a precaution against the heat, she held in her hand a fan, which she used incessantly. Rita was engaged in embroidering a magnificent altar-cloth, which she was to make in connection with the countess.