"And where's this Cuco's hostelry?" he asked.
"Over there near Las Yeserías," answered Manuel.
"Come along with me, then; we'll have supper together," suggested
Roberto.
"All right."
They both went on to the hostelry, which was situated upon a thoroughfare that was deserted at this hour. It was a large building, with an entrance-vestibule in country style and a patio crowded with carts. They questioned a boy. El Tabuenca had just come, he told them. They walked into the vestibule, which was illuminated by a lantern. There was a man inside.
"Does anybody live here by the name of Tabuenca?" asked Roberto.
"Yes. What is it?" asked the man.
"I'd like to have a talk with him."
"Well, talk away, then, for I'm Tabuenca."
As the speaker turned, the light of the oil lantern hanging upon the wall struck him full in the face; Roberto and Manuel stared at him in amazement. He was a yellow, shrivelled specimen; he had an absurd nose, as if it had been wrenched from its roots and replaced by a round little ball of meat. It seemed that he looked at the same time with his eyes and with the two little nasal orifices. He was clean-shaven, dressed pretty decently, and wore a round woollen cap with a green visor.