“He really is a most likable boy.”
And Escobedo, he of the black beard, who was present, added:
“He who triumphs is always likable.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE END
SIX years after, on the terrace of the Casino at Biarritz, Quentin was listlessly smoking a cigar. They were playing La Fille de Madame Angot, and the seducing music and the warm autumn air, made him sleepy.
Upon the table before him was the liste rose of an hotel; and among the names of dukes and marquises could be seen: “Quentin García Roelas, Deputy, Madrid.” This made Quentin smile as at the memory of a childish vanity.
Quentin’s face had changed, especially as to expression; he was no longer a boy; a few wrinkles furrowed his forehead, and crows’ feet were beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. For six years the quondam dare-devil had displayed a tireless activity. He went from triumph to triumph. During Amadeo’s reign, he had made his father a marquis; he had amassed a considerable fortune by his operations in the Bourse; and if his political position was not greater, it was because he was keeping quiet, waiting for an Alphonsist or Carlist situation.
And yet, in spite of his successes and his triumphs, his heart was empty. He was thirty-two years old. He could continue the brilliant career he had won for himself, could become a minister, and enter aristocratic society; but all this held no enchantment for him. In the bottom of his heart he realized that he was growing ill-natured. Biarritz bored him frightfully.
“Perhaps the best thing for me to do would be to take an extended voyage,” he thought.
With this idea in mind he got up from his chair, left the Casino, and went for a walk along the beach. He was standing near the Place Bellevue watching the sea, when he heard a voice that made him tremble.