They got up, paid their bill, and as they walked through the Calle de Caretas they entered another tavern for a couple of glasses more.
Stumbling against everybody they reached the Calle de Tetuán, where Jesús insisted that they have two more glasses. They entered another tavern and sat down. The compositor was consumed by a raging thirst: he slouched there, a pallid wreck. Manuel, on the other hand, felt that his blood was on fire and his cheeks darted flames.
“Come on, let’s be moving,” he said to Jesús. But the typesetter could not stir. Manuel hesitated whether to remain there or leave Jesús sleeping with his head fallen upon the table.
Manuel staggered to the street. The snowflakes, dancing before his eyes, made him dizzy. He reached the Puerta del Sol. At the corner of the Carrera de San Jerónimo he caught sight of a girl who was accosting men. At first he confused her with La Rabanitos, but it was not she.
This girl had a face swollen with erysipelas.
“Hey, what are you doing?” asked Manuel of her, bruskly.
“Can’t you see? I’m selling Heraldos.”
“And nothing else?”
She lowered her voice, which was hoarse and broken, and added: