Maria began to weep.
“Come!” replied Pepe, “dry your tears, the refugium peccatorum of women. You know the proverb which says, ‘Make a woman weep, and you vanquish her;’ but, my beautiful, there is another proverb, ‘Confide not either in the barking of dogs, or in the tears of women.’ Keep your tears for the theatre; here we do not play comedy. Look well to yourself. If you deceive me, you make me incur the danger of death; I do not prove my love by the recipes of the apothecary, nor by dollars. I am not satisfied with grimaces, I must have acts. If you do not come this afternoon to the bull-fight you will repent of it.”
And Pepe Vera went away, without even saying á Dios to his mistress. He was at that moment borne down by two opposite feelings which required iron nerves to conceal them, as he did, under appearances the most tranquil, under a countenance the most calm, and the most perfect indifference.
He had studied the bulls he was about to fight with; never had he seen any so ferocious. One of them strangely preoccupied him; as often happens to men of his profession, who, without caring for the other bulls, believe themselves saved if they can conquer the one which causes their anxiety. Besides, he was jealous. Jealous! he who knew only how to vanquish, and be cheered by bravos. He was told that they mocked him, and in a few hours he went to find himself between life and death, between love and treason. At least he believed so.
When he had quitted Maria, she tore the lace trimmings of her bed, unjustly scolded Marina, and shed abundance of tears. Then she dressed herself, called one of her maids, and went with her to the bull-fight, where she seated herself in the box which Pepe had reserved for her.
The noise and the heat increased her fever. Her cheeks, ordinarily pale, were inflamed, and a feverish ardor shone in her large black eyes. Anger, indignation, jealousy, offended pride, terror, anxiety, physical pain, combined in vain to force a complaint, even a sigh, from that mouth closed like a tomb. Pepe Vera perceived her: he smiled; but his smile in no way moved the Gaviota, who, under her icy countenance, swore to revenge her wounded vanity.
One bull had already bitten the dust under the blow of another toreador. This bull had been good: he had been well fought.
The trumpet again sounded. The toril[8] opened its narrow and sombre door, and a bull, black as night, dashed into the arena.
“It is Medianoche!” cried the crowd.
Medianoche was the bull of the corrida; that is to say, the king of the fête.