Another peasant came up.
“It’s decided, neighbor,” he said, “my son is to be a doctor.”
“A doctor! Don’t speak of it!” replied Petra. “There’s nothing like being a curate! He has only to make two or three turns and say ‘déminos pabiscum’ and he gets his money.”
“And isn’t it work to confess?”
“Work! Think of the trouble we take to find out the affairs of our neighbors! The curate has only to sit down, and they tell him everything!”
“And preaching? Don’t you call that work?”
“Preaching? Where is your head? To scold half a day from the pulpit without any one’s daring to reply and be paid for it into the bargain! Look, look at Father Dámaso! See how fat he gets with his shouting and pounding!”
In truth, Father Dámaso was that moment passing the children’s booth in the gait peculiar to men of his size. As he entered the other booth, he was half smiling, but so maliciously that at sight of it Ibarra, who was talking, lost the thread of his speech.
The guests were astonished to see the father, but every one except Ibarra received him with signs of pleasure. They were at the dessert, and the champagne was sparkling in the cups.
Father Dámaso’s smile became nervous when he saw Maria Clara sitting next Crisóstomo, but, taking a chair beside the alcalde, he said in the midst of a significant silence: