“Well, I don’t like it a bit.”
“Are you so prosaic that you are not enchanted by the thought of meeting soon a young, good-looking, respectful abductor who offers you his heart and life?”
“No, I am not enchanted. What is more, if I could send that abductor to prison I would do so with much pleasure.”
“You know that love is intrepid and....”
Quentin was silent. He thought of the poem written by Cornejo for La Víbora.
“I don’t know why,” said the woman at length, “but it seems to me that I am beginning to realize who my abductor is. It strikes me that he is a half-relative of mine who dislikes me very much. A waif....”
“I think you are getting warm, my lady.”
“Who writes insults and calumnies about a woman who has never offended him.”
“You are not quite so near the point, there. Listen: The day before yesterday, that relative of yours was rushing madly about these God-forsaken streets, hounded by a dozen men; on a night that was as cold as the devil, he was on the point of throwing himself into the river and scraping an acquaintance with the shad that live in it.”
“So you are Quentin?”