“And what nomme de théâtre has she taken?” asked the countess. “It will not do to call her Marisalada, I suppose. The name is pretty, but it is not sufficiently imposing for an artiste.”
“She will perform, without doubt, under that of Gaviota,” said Raphael: “one of the duke’s servants told mine that it was the name given her in the village. She might take the name of her husband.”
“What horror!” said the countess; “she must have a euphonious name.”
“She might take that of her father—Santalo.”
“No, señor; it must be a name ending in i; better still if it were d’i.”
“In that case,” said Raphael, “name her Mississippi.”
“We will consult Polo,” said the countess. “Eh, but where then is he hid, our poet?”
“I would willingly bet,” said Raphael, “that at this instant he is confiding to paper the poetic inspirations which the divinity of the day has born in his soul. To-morrow, without any doubt, we will read in ‘Il Sevillano’ one of those compositions, which, according to my uncle, if they do not raise up easily to Parnassus, they will infallibly precipitate into Lethe.”
The marchioness again called to Raphael.
“I am sure,” he said to his cousin, “that my aunt does me the honor to call me now to have the pleasure of scolding me. I see a sermon trembling on her lips: her knit eyebrows announce a terrible admonition, and the quivering nostril already sends to my ears the sound of harsh reprimand. But what lucky chance!—here is a shield,” and he glided his arm within that of the baron, and led him along with him near to the card-table. The marchioness, although furious, deferred her rebuke to a more favorable occasion. Rita felt a great desire to laugh, and the general struck the floor with the heel of his boot, which gave indication of his impatience.