He was a tall, erect gentleman, of noble appearance, about sixty-odd years old; various times he had filled the office of Governor, thanks to his wife, a fine-looking female who in her halcyon days had been able to wheedle anything out of a Minister. Wherever this couple had passed through in the course of the husband’s official duties, not a nail was left in the wall.
Sampayo’s wife was very friendly with certain wealthy gentlemen, but in just reciprocity, so super-womanly and tolerant she was, she always picked out good-looking, obliging maids, so that her husband should have no cause for complaint.
And what a human spectacle their home presented! At times, when Señora de Sampayo returned somewhat weary after one of her little adventures, she would find her noble-looking husband dining hand in hand with the maid, if not embracing her tenderly.
The couple squandered their entire income; but Sampayo was so skilful in the art of making creditors and then fighting them off, that they always managed to raise a few coins.
Once when González Parla, who was in an ugly mood, and Fresneda, as amiable as ever, called on Sampayo, addressing him every other moment as the Director Señor Sampayo, and explained to him the dire straits in which they found themselves, the director gave Fresneda a letter to a South American general, asking for some money. Sampayo imposed upon his editor the condition that all over ten duros should go to the newspaper cash-box.
When the two editors reached the street, González Parla asked his companion for the letter, and the spectral journalist handed it to him.
“I’ll go to see this knave of a general,” promised González Parla, “and I’ll get the money from him. Then we’ll divide it. Half for you and the other half for me.”
The skinny editor accompanied the corpulent to the general’s house.
The general, a little Mexican, dressed like a macaw, read the director’s letter, looked at the journalist, readjusted his spectacles and eyed him from top to bottom, asking:
“Are you Señó Fresneda?”