His father's wife had never been kindly disposed toward him, had in fact injured him in every way she could. Determined that her daughters should know nothing of their father's illegitimate family, she had never permitted him even to meet his half-sisters. They had been led to believe that Fernando Monsalvat was a distant relative. The letter itself remained unanswered; but its recipient sent back a fifty peso bill. Money meant nothing to Monsalvat and, always slow to perceive bad intentions in others, he did not catch the offensive tone of the reply. On the contrary, he acknowledged the remittance in cordial fashion, and felt quite happy about having received it. He purchased a few articles of clothing, paid his rent, and rewarded Moreno for his services. During the next month he lived on the good will of Moreno's wife, who let him stay on without paying, telling the landlord that the room occupied by her protégé was without a tenant. She also saw to it that he had something to eat, giving him whatever was left over from her own table; and that was little enough.
Meanwhile he wrote articles and sent them out to newspapers and periodicals. He was convinced that he now had something to say, and decided henceforth to give his energies to writing. One review accepted an article, sending him thirty pesos, which he at once handed over to his protectress.
Two months passed, two strange months during which he lived indoors, entirely shut up within himself, far from everyone and everything. Often he spent the day in bed, talking only to Moreno, who frequently came to provide him with conversation. More than once the man recalled Irene's tragic story; but Monsalvat listened to it with interest every time, stirred by the curious spectacle of this father, who in telling of his daughter's sufferings, lost something of his absurdity; and not unmindful of the part he himself had played in the girl's unhappy life.
According to Moreno, Irene had fallen in love with someone who could not share her passion; as a result she had for several weeks been crazed with grief. At the slightest provocation she would fly into a rage, threaten her mother, insult Moreno, attack the children. Then a suitor presented himself, a young man who worked in a barber-shop near by. He was an ugly, dark-skinned, almost grotesque fellow; but Irene accepted him, no one knew why, for plainly she cared nothing for him. However, someone in the neighborhood told her that her betrothed had a mistress. As a matter of fact he had put an end to these relations; but Irene, humiliated, hurt and angered by the deception, went out of her head, called a man in from the street, told him what had happened, and offered herself to him. Her suitor heard gossip of the incident, rushed to Irene's room, and tried to shoot her. He missed his aim, was arrested, tried, and imprisoned. Then Irene ran away. All that Moreno could discover about her after that was that every week she visited the fellow at the prison. How she made a living, he did not know.
"She's lost, doctor, lost!" Moreno would sob. "The flower of the family! So good, and such a worker—as pretty as they make them! And to think that I am the guilty one, I, most contemptible of drunkards! There you see the consequences of vice—for my poor little girl is the child of alcohol! That's why she turned out as she did—my fault!"
And he covered his unwashed face with his two hands, and occupied Monsalvat's only chair while the latter dressed.
One day Monsalvat decided to go out. He had just put on a summer overcoat—directly over his shirt, for his jacket and waistcoat he had pawned—when Moreno's wife came in to announce some ladies who were asking to see him. He looked sternly at the woman. He was sure she had reported the sad case of "the poor fellow starving on the top floor" to some charitable society! He went out to the patio resolved to pay no attention to the ladies.
Noisy outcries were coming from one of the rooms—a woman's voice cursing these charity visitors who had refused her any help, because she had a child and wasn't married, and screaming denunciations of charity organizations in general and of the poor wretches who toadied to these fine ladies so as to get money out of them. The visitors seemed neither angered nor intimidated. Evidently they were accustomed to such scenes.
"Is what that woman says true?" asked Monsalvat.