“Bega shouted out, ‘Help, help, come at once, friends!’ But the Spaniard answered his cry of distress with a bitter laugh.—‘Opium grows for all!’ said he.
“Having thus pronounced sentence as it were, the stranger pointed to the three other men sleeping soundly, took from under his cloak the arm of a woman, freshly amputated, and held it out to Bega, pointing to a mole like that he had so rashly described. ‘Is it the same?’ he asked. By the light of the lantern the man had set on the bed, Bega recognized the arm, and his speechless amazement was answer enough.
“Without waiting for further information, the lady’s husband stabbed him to the heart.”
“You must tell that to the marines!” said Lousteau. “It needs their robust faith to swallow it! Can you tell me which told the tale, the dead man or the Spaniard?”
“Monsieur,” replied the Receiver-General, “I nursed poor Bega, who died five days after in dreadful suffering.—That is not the end.
“At the time of the expedition sent out to restore Ferdinand VII. I was appointed to a place in Spain; but, happily for me, I got no further than Tours when I was promised the post of Receiver here at Sancerre. On the eve of setting out I was at a ball at Madame de Listomere’s, where we were to meet several Spaniards of high rank. On rising from the card-table, I saw a Spanish grandee, an afrancesado in exile, who had been about a fortnight in Touraine. He had arrived very late at this ball—his first appearance in society—accompanied by his wife, whose right arm was perfectly motionless. Everybody made way in silence for this couple, whom we all watched with some excitement. Imagine a picture by Murillo come to life. Under black and hollow brows the man’s eyes were like a fixed blaze; his face looked dried up, his bald skull was red, and his frame was a terror to behold, he was so emaciated. His wife—no, you cannot imagine her. Her figure had the supple swing for which the Spaniards created the word meneho; though pale, she was still beautiful; her complexion was dazzlingly fair—a rare thing in a Spaniard; and her gaze, full of the Spanish sun, fell on you like a stream of melted lead.
“‘Madame,’ said I to her, towards the end of the evening, ‘what occurrence led to the loss of your arm?’
“‘I lost it in the war of independence,’ said she.”
“Spain is a strange country,” said Madame de la Baudraye. “It still shows traces of Arab manners.”
“Oh!” said the journalist, laughing, “the mania for cutting off arms is an old one there. It turns up every now and then like some of our newspaper hoaxes, for the subject has given plots for plays on the Spanish stage so early as 1570—”