“Then how am I to get out?”
“We’ll have to call the watchman.”
They walked out to the balcony; the night was cold, the sky studded with stars. They waited for the watchman’s lantern to appear.
La Justa nestled close up to Manuel; he placed his arm around her waist. They spoke no more; they closed the shutters and hastened through the darkness toward the alcove.
They must accept things as they came. Manuel promised La Justa that he would find some honest means of earning a modest living, and that he’d take her out of this life at once. La Justa wept tears of deep emotion upon Manuel’s shoulder. Despite the fascinating plans of regeneration which they formulated that night, Manuel made no efforts whatsoever; the one thing he did was to come and live with La Justa. At times the couple were filled with deep repugnance for the life they led, and would quarrel and hurl insults at each other upon the slightest provocation; but they made peace directly after.
Every night, while Manuel slept in that hole after many hours at the gambling den, La Justa would return exhausted with her round of the cafés, restaurants and houses of assignation. In the livid light of daybreak her checks were of a filthy hue and her smile was the essence of sadness.
There were times when she fell staggering into the room, dead drunk; as she entered the house and stumbled alone up the stairs, she was filled with a haunting fear and deep remorse. Dawn brought to her, as it were, an awakening of conscience.
Reaching the room, she would open the door with her latch-key, enter and lie down beside him, trembling with the cold but careful not to waken him.
Manuel grew quickly accustomed to this new life and the new friendships it brought; he was too lazy and too timorous to make any attempt at changing. Some Sunday afternoons La Justa and he would go for a stroll to the Cuatro Caminos or the Puerta de Hierro, and when they did not quarrel they discussed their illusions,—a change of luck that would fall into their laps without any effort on their part, as a gift from Providence.
During this winter the proprietors of the Círculo installed upon the lower floor, which was formerly occupied by the café, a new venture,—the Salón París; upon the list of the sensational beauties who would grace the salon appeared dancers and singers of the most widespread reputation: the Dahlias, Gardenias, Magnolias, and so forth. In addition, as a special attraction, there was announced the début of Chuchita, the daughter of the Colonel’s wife. Both as mother and as impresaria she was doing her best to exploit her child. On the day of the child’s first public performance the mother distributed the claque over the whole house. Vidal, the Cripple and Manuel, in their capacity as chief claqueurs, occupied one of the first rows of seats.