“I’ve known him for a long time; not that I am from Ecija exactly, for I come from a little village near Montilla; I don’t know if you’ve heard its name....”
“See here,” said Quentin, “I came here because I am a relative of the actor who takes old men’s parts, and I am interested in hearing the performance and seeing how he acts; if you talk to me, I won’t be able to hear anything.”
“Gonzáles? Are you a relative of Gonzáles?”
“Of Gonzáles, or Martínez, or the devil! Take another peseta, and leave me alone, for I’m going to see what kind of an actor my relative makes.”
“He’s a good comedian.”
“Very well, very well,” said Quentin, and pushing the garrulous usher into the aisle, he closed the door.
As there was scarcely any light up there, no one could recognize Quentin. The theatre was almost empty; they were giving a lachrymose melodrama in which appeared an angelic priest, a colonel who kept shouting “By a thousand bombs!” a traitor money-lender with crooked eyes who confessed his evil intentions in asides, a heroine, a hero, and a company of sailors and sailoresses, policemen, magistrates, and others of the proletariat....
While Quentin was being bored in his heights, Pacheco, leaning against the wall of La Aceitunera’s house, was awaiting the return of her carriage from the theatre.
He did not have long to wait. The horses stopped before the gate, and before it could be opened, the bandit approached the coachman and said:
“Hello, Señor Antonio!”