“Good-day, my linnet,” said Stein, who, on hearing Marisalada, entered the court.
“She is beautiful, this linnet!” growled Momo, in his fit of coughing; “she is the most hoarse magpie which has sung this summer.”
“Come, Maria,” continued Stein, “come write, and read the verses I translated yesterday.”
“I do not remember them,” replied the young girl. “Were they not of that country where grow the oranges? These trees do not grow here; or they have withered: brother Gabriel’s tears are not sufficient to nourish their vitality. Let the verses go, Don Frederico, and play me the nocturn of Weber which these are the words of: ‘Listen, listen, my beloved! the chant of the nightingale is heard; on each branch flourishes a flower; before the nightingale ceases to sing, before the flowers wither, sing, sing, my best beloved.’ ”
“What ugly words,” murmured Momo, “this Gaviota remembers, and which are to her like bon-bons to a clove of garlic.”
“After that you have read, I will play thee the serenade of Carl Weber,” replied Stein, who by this single recompense could compel Marisalada to learn that which he would instruct her in. The young girl took, with an irritated gesture, the paper which Stein presented to her, and read it fluently, although with a bad grace.
“Mariquita,” said Stein, when the young girl had finished reading, “you who do not know the world, you cannot appreciate what grand and profound truth, what philosophy there is in these verses. Do you remember that I explained to you what philosophy is?”
“I recollect,” replied the Gaviota, “it is the science of happiness. But in that, señor, there are neither rules nor science which can constitute it: each one is happy after his own manner. Don Modesto places his happiness in possessing cannons in the fort as ruined as himself; brother Gabriel, to see return to the convent the holy Prior and the bells; the good Maria, that you do not quit her; my father, to take a corbina; and Momo, to do all the evil he can.”
Stein laughed, and placing affectionately his hand on Mariquita’s shoulder, “And you,” said he to her, “in what do you make happiness to consist?”
Mariquita hesitated an instant before finding a reply, raised her large black eyes, and looked at Stein; then her eyelids fell, and her glance rested on Momo; the young girl smiled to herself at the appearance of those ears which were redder than tomatoes.