“Then you may say,” he went on, “that you know the worst scoundrels in Madrid. Mingote is at present with Joaquina la Verdeseca. They run a high-toned house of assignation. Women come there and leave their photographs. It was Mingote who organized that celebrated ball. It cost a duro to get in, and at the end they raffled off a woman: the daughter of Mingote’s mistress.”
A few days after this conversation Manuel, leaving the Círculo and coming upon Vidal, felt the need of confiding to his cousin the dissatisfaction he felt with this sort of life. That night Vidal was in a gloomy mood himself and confided several sad tales to Manuel, too.
They went to a theatre, but there was no audience to speak of; they entered a café, and after spending a terribly cold night Vidal suggested that they go to La Concha’s, on the Calle de Arlaban, for a bite.
Manuel was averse, for he felt neither like eating nor like doing anything else. He tagged after Vidal, however. It was very warm inside; they took seats and Vidal ordered a couple of whiskys and cutlets.
“A fellow must forget,” he said, after giving his order.
Manuel made a gesture of displeasure and emptied a glass of wine that Vidal had poured out.
Then he told the story that El Garro had related to him. His cousin drank in every word.
“I didn’t know Calatrava’s life history,” he confessed, after Manuel had finished.
“Well, tit for tat,” answered Manuel. “You tell me, now, who is this Master?”