The fellow went through life wandering from tavern to tavern, reciting verses of Espronceda and Zorilla; sometimes between the madrigals and romances, he composed some terrible poems of his own in which he appeared as a ferocious person who cared for no liquid but blood, for no perfume but the odour of graveyards, and for no skies but tempestuous ones.
Cornejo was very popular among the workingmen, and he knew all the toughs and ruffians who swarmed in the taverns. The short, blond chap who accompanied him was nervous.
“This gentleman,” said the poet to Quentin, pointing to the little fellow, “is the printer. If you can give him something....”
“Very well. How much do I owe you?” asked Quentin.
“Here is the invoice,” said the little man humbly.
“Don’t bring any invoices to me! How much is it?”
“Forty dollars.”
“Good. That’s all right.”
Quentin filled a glass of wine, and the printer looked at him rather anxiously.
“How much do you need to assure the publication of the paper for three months?”