Florinda, a creole, in the forties, tall and thin and decidedly plain, was married, and had a battalion of children whom she kept at the back of the house. The youngest was six months old. Her husband was obligingly unaware of his wife's occupation; and he was too prudent, "too good-natured," Florinda put in, to inquire as to the source of the money which supported him. He always left the house early in the morning and returned late at night. He loved and admired his faithful consort, model of wives and housekeepers, and always proclaimed her a "thorough lady." His own claims to distinction, a slow and pompous manner of speaking, exaggerated manners, constant praise of his wife's good qualities and his amazing physical beauty, attached her with unbreakable bonds to this ideal husband.
"Oh, you want to know something about Nacha, sir?" Florinda murmured, in her thin and somewhat sleepy voice. "Yes, I know her. Distinguished, isn't she? Always very correct, and very kind! I know her. I have the pleasure of her acquaintance, and I have always been very fond of her, for I know how to value people, and I always recognize good breeding. I can't bear people who are ill-bred. And I always say that breeding is something that can't be taught. You get it in your cradle. Good blood is the best certificate...."
The conversation went on at length. Torres always found this woman amusing. Now and then he produced a word or phrase of double meaning, whereupon Florinda would lower her eyes, and smile, looking like a plump, good-natured cat.
However, she did not know Nacha's lodging place, and had never heard of Eugenia. The two friends left, Florinda taking leave of them with a whole series of bows, pretty speeches, and every manner of courtesy.
"Now there's a woman who really thinks she's respectable and she sold her own daughter. Queer, isn't it?"
"We are all responsible for things such as that," Monsalvat exclaimed, as if thinking aloud. "In that sale, the man who bought the girl was guilty, and the parents and friends of the man to whom she was sold had their share of guilt; and the teachers who taught that man; and the authors of the books he read. For who of all these prevented that sale? And what law have the law-makers devised to abolish these evils? And weren't all those who looked on, and did nothing to prevent, accomplices?"
Torres did not accept this collective guilt. From his point of view the man responsible for a crime was the man who committed it or the man who helped directly. Society? Bah! What was society but an abstraction? Only the individual exists, and society is made up of individuals. Monsalvat took leave of the doctor because he did not want to discuss theories with him; he was in no mood for discussion. He affirmed, and roundly, dogmatically, sometimes with the ideas and often in the very language of the prophets....
Monsalvat, his list in his pocket, continued his journey next day through the regions of the accursed. Two days later, as his eye fell quite by chance on the police news in the morning paper, he learned of his sister's death. The item gave the drug addict's name, mentioned her career as a courtesan; and after thus delivering over to public ignominy a respected name, went on to moralizings of the kind always available in the make-up rooms of certain newspapers.
Eugenia's death, and under such conditions, was a heavy blow. Monsalvat suddenly grew ten years older. Now he was indeed alone. His attempts to find Nacha became frantic; failure exasperated him. No sooner was he out of his office in the afternoon than he jumped into a taxi and started off on his search; so all October passed.