Momo was quiet, inwardly cursing old Pedro and his family. He commenced his journey in the company of the muleteers of the mountain of Aracena, who came to lay in a stock of fish at Villamar. He arrived at Valverde, and from there passed by Aracena, Oliva, and Barcarota to Badajoz, where he took the diligence for Madrid from Seville, and arrived at Madrid without stopping.
Don Modesto had written in big letters the address of Stein, which he had sent when he arrived in Madrid with the duke. Momo commenced to walk through the city with this paper in his hand, reciting for the benefit of the Gaviota a litany of imprecations always new.
We will leave him in search of his enemy, and come back to Villamar.
It was afternoon; old Maria, more grieved than ever, came from visiting Santalo.
“Dolores,” said she to her daughter-in-law, “Pedro is going. This morning he rolled up his sheet; that is to say, he made up his parcel for the journey from which he will never return, and our dog Palomo has howled the death. And yet these people do not arrive! I am on hot coals. Momo ought already to be returned. He has been ten days gone.”
“The road is long to measure from here to Madrid, mother,” replied Dolores. “Manuel assures me that Momo cannot be here before four or five days yet.”
What was the astonishment of the two women when they saw, all of a sudden, the frightened face of Momo himself, Momo dismayed, fatigued, and harassed.
“Momo!” both cried out at the same moment.
“Himself, in body and soul,” replied Momo.
“And Marisalada?” asked the old woman with anxiety.