“He goes about the city with toreadors and horse-dealers. He has separated from his wife.”
“Did he marry again?”
“Yes; the second time, he married the daughter of an olive merchant: a beautiful, but ordinary woman who is giving the town a lot to talk about. Since he is a fool, and she a sinner, after two or three years of married life, they separated—throwing things at each other’s heads. Now he is living with a gipsy girl named La Mora, who relieves him of what pennies he has left. The girl’s brothers and cousins go into retirement with him in taverns, and make him sign papers by threatening him with violence: why, they haven’t left him a penny! And now that he has no money, they no longer love him. La Mora throws him out of his house, and I believe he crawls back to her on his knees.”
“Meanwhile, what about his wife?”
“She gets worse and worse. She has been going about here with a lieutenant ... she’s a wild hussy.”
The gardener took his spade and made a pile of earth in a ditch to keep the water away from a certain spot. While Juan worked, Quentin turned his ambitious projects over and over in his mind.
“What a superb stroke!” he was thinking. “To marry the girl, and save the property! That surely would be killing two birds with one stone. To have money, and at the same time, pass for a romantic chap! That would be admirable.”
“Here come the young ladies,” said Juan suddenly, looking down the corridor.
Sure enough; Rafaela and Remedios, accompanied by the tall, dried-up servant, appeared in the garden. The two girls were prettier than ever in their mantillas and black dresses.
“See how pretty they are!” exclaimed Juan to Quentin, arms akimbo. “Those children are two slices out of heaven.”