I hesitated about entering the tent. I no longer desired to interrupt a dialogue that had caused me such supreme pleasure; and yet I yearned to proffer my devotion—to stand once more face to face, and eye to eye, with the beautiful Jarocha.
In any case I could not continue to play the part of an eavesdropper. I could now perceive the indelicacy of the act—especially as my satisfied heart no longer needed soothing.
I must either enter, or withdraw. I decided upon entering.
But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head, drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most captivating curl.
I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, “handsome young officer,” applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left nothing undone to deserve it.
Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before the lovely Lola—an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her brother.
Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I stood before them both—the sister and brother—with a conscience not clear. At that moment—I confess it to my shame—I had no other thought than that of trifling with the affections of the beautiful Jarocha.
She was but a peasant—one of a race, it is true, to whom the appellation is somewhat inappropriate—a people, though poor, elegant in person, graceful in deportment, highly gifted with the savoir faire, as it relates to the ordinary intercourse of life—at the same time a people in whose pantheon the divinity, Virtue, finds but an inconspicuous niche.
Neither the first nor the last of these reflections may be deemed an excuse for my conduct. I do not offer them as such, though both serving at the time to satisfy my conscience.
Its scruples were not difficult to subdue. Its still small voice was unheard, or rather unheeded, under the promptings of a powerful, but unholy passion, of which Lola Vergara was then the object, and as I hoped, afterwards to become the victim.