At sight of this all the conspirators fled like a flock of birds. Rosa remained alone, let fall her broom and crossed her arms.
“Patience, Lord!” she exclaimed, after having done every thing possible to subdue her emotion. “I will support a sobriquet with resignation, as thou, Lord, supported thy cross; but I yet lack that crown of thorns. Thy will be done!”
Perhaps she might have decided to pardon Marisalada this escapade, but the adventure which soon after followed obliged her to send her away.
The son of the barber, Ramon Perez, a great amateur of the guitar, came every night to touch the chords of his guitar and sing amorous couplets under the strongly fastened windows of the devotee.
“Don Modesto,” said she to him one day, “when you hear this bird of night, Ramon, whose voice wounds your hearing, do me the kindness to go out and order him to carry his music elsewhere.”
“But, Rosita,” replied Don Modesto, “would you that I get on bad terms with this eccentric fellow, when his father (may God repay him!) has shaved me for nothing since my arrival in Villamar? And, see how it is. I like to listen to it, because none can deny that he draws from his voice and instrument modulations of excellent taste.”
“I congratulate you,” said Rosa. “It is possible that your ears are proof against a bomb-shell. If it pleases you, it is not convenient to me that he comes and sings under the windows of an honest woman. It produces neither honor nor profit.”
The physiognomy of Don Modesto expressed a mute answer divided into three parts. In the first place—astonishment, which seemed to say, What! Ramon make love to my hostess! In the second place—doubt; as if he had said, Is it possible? Lastly—the certainty embodied in these phrases: The thing is sure; Ramon is audacious.
After this reflection, Rosa continued:
“You might cool yourself in passing from the heat of your bed to the fresh sea air; you had better remain quiet, and it is I who will say to this magpie, Do you wish to divert yourself? then buy yourself a doll.”