“It only wanted this. You mock my brother. It seems to me that he will not lend himself to the joke. Go!”
“No, without doubt,” replied Raphael. “I respect and I esteem my uncle more than I do anybody in the world; and I know that his military virtues, pushed often to extremes, have drawn upon him the surname of Don Quixote of the army. But nothing in all this can prevent me from writing his history. Listen, then, illustrious doctor, to the history of my uncle—abridged. Santiago León Santa-Maria was from his birth destined for the noble career of arms, because he saw the light of day, or, to be more exact, the shades of night, when the drums, beating the retreat, passed before his paternal mansion. His entrée into the world, one might say, was made at the sound of the drum and fife.
“That’s true,” said the marchioness, smiling.
“I never lie—when I speak the truth,” gravely continued Raphael. “As a most certain sign of this predestination, he came into the world with a sword, color of blood, on his breast—a sword designed in most perfect form by the hand of nature; which made all the gossips salute the future general of the army of His Catholic Majesty.”
“There is nothing in all this,” interrupted the marchioness. “My brother had a mark on his breast, it is true—that of a radish, a simple longing of my mother.”
“Remark, doctor,” continued Raphael, “that my aunt depoetizes the history of her dear brother, and takes away all his prestige. A radish on the breast of a hero, in lieu of a military order! Go along, aunt, there is nothing more ridiculous.”
“What is there ridiculous in it,” said the marchioness, “to be born with a mark on his breast?”
“Raphael,” replied Rita, “I do not know all these particulars. Relate them without too much circumlocution.”
“Nothing obliges us to hunt after them, dear Rita,” replied Raphael. “One of our advantages over other nations is, that we do not live too fast. León Santa-Maria had scarcely accomplished his twelfth year when he entered a regiment as a cadet, and from that moment he held himself as straight as a gun: he became serious as a sermon, and grave as a funeral. He learned his exercise, and fought valiantly at Roussillon; then at last this dear uncle arrived at the age when the heart sings and sighs.”
“Raphael, Raphael,” cried his aunt, “do not relate things that should not be spoken.”