Don Sergio brought forward his plans for regeneration, and was of the opinion that Paquita ought to get rid of Niña Chucha, whom the chalky old gentleman detested most cordially. But the baroness protested that she loved the girl as her own child—almost as much as, if not more than, the dogs, which were the very apple of her eyes.
The baroness suddenly sat up on the sofa.
“I have a plan,” she said to Don Sergio. “Tell me what you think of it. In yesterday’s Imparcial I saw advertised a country house in Cogolludo, with a garden and orchard, at fifty duros per annum. I imagine that it must be a pretty bad place; but, at least it’s a bit of land and a place to live, and even a tiny cabin is enough for me. I could be fitting up the cabin gradually. What do you think of the suggestion, Don Sergio?”
“But why should you leave this place?”
“I didn’t want to tell you,” answered the baroness. “But that fellow simply persecutes me with his insistent attentions.” And she related a heap of lies. The good lady solaced herself with the illusion that her cousin was pursuing her relentlessly, and all the letters that she had written to him she represented as having been written by him to her.
“Naturally,” she went on, “I don’t have to go to the end of the world to avoid that ridiculous troubador.”
“But there’s no train to Cogolludo. You’re going to be awfully bored.”
“Bah! I’ll simply shut myself up in my hut like a saint, and devote myself to watering my garden and tending my flowers ... but I am so unlucky that I’m certain some one must have rented the place by now.”
“No, I’m sure not. But I really don’t see the necessity of your leaving. The boy won’t be able to attend school.”