“Yes,” he said, “you are always the same. You do not change. One may come at any hour. But listen to me. You think I have come to reproach you. Why should I? I have fought bulls, but that does not teach men how to deal with women. I thought that, if a man gave you his soul and his life and the breath of his body, you would listen some day and let him think of you. You are a woman, and you are made to be loved; but there is something hard in your heart. You are proud of having mocked a man who was honest and loved you. But hear me: it is better, after all, to be less pretty and more a woman.”
He stopped an instant. She had changed her position, and stood by the jasmine, stripping the blossoms from it one by one. She began to smile and sing softly, as if to herself:
“Oh, bird at my window,
Sing but one song to me,
My lover who is light and gay.”
“And more a woman,” said Sebastiano. “It is women men want.”
Pepita looked up and laughed; then she sang again:
“Who stirs the blossoms in the night,
Who breaks the orange flower.”
Sebastiano made a swift movement and caught her wrists, his eyes flashing fire.
“That is nothing,” he said. “You are woman enough. The time will come. It will not be always like this. You can be made to love. Yes, you are one of those who must be made. Then you will suffer too, and it will be good for you. You will speak then.”
He paused a moment, and held her arms a little apart, looking at her with a sudden change to mournfulness.
“How pretty you are!” he said. “How little and how pretty! If you were good and gentle, and one might touch your cheek softly or stroke your hair, how one would love and serve you! No, you cannot move. I have not fought bulls for nothing. If I let you move you will struggle and hurt yourself. Listen. I am going away. I will trouble you no more now. I will wait. If one waits long enough, pain ceases and one forgets. It is so with a wound, why not with what one feels for a woman? I said you could be made to love; but let that be left for another man to do. I want no love like that. I want a woman. Some day you will not cast the devisa under your feet. You will take it and hide it in your breast. It will not be mine, but some other man’s who loves you less. I loved you, I was mad for you; but it shall cease. It is better to think only of the bulls than to play the fool for a woman who has no love in her heart. You are pretty, but that is not everything. You can work spells, but a man can break through them. There! Go!”