“Move on, charlatan! It’s not you who wear the breeches!”
Armed with words and gestures, with cries, insults, and injuries, the two women hurled at each other all there was in them of soil and shame. All four talked at once, and in the multitude of words numerous verities were paraded in the light. If they did not hear all, the crowd of the curious did not fail to be diverted. They were looking forward to battle, but, unhappily for these amateurs of sport, the curate came by and established peace.
“Señoras! señoras! what a scandal! Señor alférez!”
“What are you doing here, hypocrite, carlist!”
“Don Tiburcio, take away your wife! Señora, restrain your tongue!”
Little by little the dictionary of sounding epithets became exhausted. The shameless shrews found nothing left to say to each other, and still threatening, the two couples drew slowly apart, the curate going from one to the other, lavishing himself on both.
“We shall leave for Manila this very day and present ourselves to the captain-general!” said the infuriated Doña Victorina to her husband. “You are no man!”
“But—but, wife, the guards, and I am lame.”
“You are to challenge him, with swords or pistols, or else—or else——” And she looked at his teeth.
“Woman, I’ve never handled——”