From this point could be viewed the entire landscape white under the snow, the dark groves of the Casa de Campo, and the round hills bristling with black pine trees. The pallid sun hovered in a leaden sky. Near the horizon, in the direction of Villaverde, shone a strip of clear blue sky in a pink mist. Profound silence everywhere. Only the strident whistle of the locomotives and the hammering in the workshops of the Estación del Norte disturbed that calm. Not a footfall resounded on the pavement.
The houses along the avenue displayed snowy adornments upon balustrade and coping; the trees seemed to flatten under that white mantle.
That afternoon Manuel returned toward the printing-shop, ventured inside and asked the pressman for Jesús.
“He got a fierce call-down from the boss,” was the answer.
“Did he fire him?”
“Maybe not! Go up now and take your medicine.”
Manuel, about to go up, paused.
“Has Jesús gone already?”
“Yes. He must be in the corner tavern.”
And he really was. He sat before a table drinking a glass of whisky. There was a sad, doleful expression upon his face. He was a prey to his sombre thoughts.