“Didn’t the family ever have any relative clever enough to save it from ruin?”
“Yes; the Marquis has a brother called El Pollo Real; but he is a selfish sort who doesn’t want to mix in anything for fear they will ask him for money. Have you never seen him?”
“No.”
“Well, El Pollo Real has been a Tenorio. Now he is a half paralytic. They say that he is devoting himself to writing the history of his love affairs, and has hired a painter to paint pictures of all his mistresses. He’s been at it for years. The first artist he had was a friend of mine from Seville, and he used to tell me that El Pollo Real would give him a miniature or a photograph for him to enlarge, and then he would explain what the subjects looked like: whether blondes or brunettes, tall or short, marchionesses or gipsies.”
“Do you know Rafaela?”
“Do I know her! Rather! Poor little girl!”
“Why ‘poor little girl’?” exclaimed Quentin, feeling cold from head to foot.
“The girl has had hard luck.”
“Why, what happened to her?”
“Oh, affairs of a wealthy family, which are always miserable. After she was thirteen or fourteen years old, Rafaela was engaged to the son of a Cordovese count. It seemed as if the two children loved each other, and they made a fine couple. They were always seen together; going for walks, and in the theatre; when it began to be rumoured that the Marquis’ family was on its way to ruin. Then her sweetheart went away to Madrid. Month after month went by, and the lad did not return; finally some one brought the news that he had married a young millionairess in Madrid. Rafaela was ill for several months, and since that time she has never been as well or as gay as she used to be.”