“Then he doesn’t belong to your family,” he exclaimed, “because every one of your family, beginning with you, is a fool.”
“Hush, buffoon, be quiet; I’ll warm your ribs for you if you don’t.”
This threat from the lips of the sickly octogenarian, was absolutely absurd; but the hunchback appeared to take it in earnest, for he began to make faces and grin in silence.
“Oh, Colmenares,” said the old man, “kindly call Rafaela, will you?”
“Very well.”
The hunchback went out, leaving the Marquis and Quentin alone.
“Well, my boy, I have asked your mother about you very often. She told me that you were well, and that you were working hard. I am very glad to see you”—and again he pressed Quentin’s hand between his own weak and trembling ones.
Quentin regarded the old man tenderly, without knowing what to say. At this moment, the hunchback returned, followed by a young lady and a little girl. The little girl was the one Quentin had greeted upon the stairs; the young lady was the same girl he had seen several years before—probably in that very same room.
Quentin rose to greet them.
“Rafaela,” said the old man, addressing the older girl, “this boy is a relative of ours. I am not going to recall incidents that sadden me: the only thing I want is that you should know that you are related. Quentin will come here often, will you not?”