The capataz grinned savagely. "Do you believe that?" he asked ironically.
"What matter?" the Tigrero muttered.
"Grief makes you egotistic, Don Martial," the other replied; "but I forgive you on account of the sufferings I have most unluckily caused you."
He broke off, poured out a glass of sherry, swallowed it, and sat down again on his butaca.
"He would be a bad physician," he continued, "who, having performed a painful operation, did not know how to apply the proper remedies to cicatrize and cure it."
"What do you mean?" the Tigrero exclaimed interested, in spite of himself, by the tone in which those words were uttered.
"Do you believe," the capataz continued, "do you believe, my friend, that I would have inflicted such great pain on you if I had not possessed the means to cause an immense joy to succeed it? Tell me, do you believe that?"
"Take care, señor," the Tigrero said in a trembling voice, "take care what you are about, for I know not why, but I am beginning to regain hope, and I warn you that if this last illusion which you are trying to produce were to escape me this time, you would kill me as surely as if you stabbed me with a dagger."
The capataz smiled with ineffable gentleness. "Hope, my friend; hope, I tell you," he said, "that is exactly what I want to bring you to; for I wish you to have faith in me."
"Speak, señor," he replied; "I will listen to you with confidence, for I do not believe you capable of sporting so coldly with agony like mine."